Hardly Evil at All

I bet if you took all the evil people in the world and laid them end to end (but not in any dirty kind of way), you would be surprised to find that not one of them was Me.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Happy New Year! *2013*

Goodbye, Twelve,
You hateful whore!
You ain't welcome
'round Us no more!

Take your lies,
And spies, and games,
Burn all your "lists"
the ones with our names.

Here's to Us,
You, me, and we.
Don't know how,
But here we still be!

You fought dirty.
We fought hard.
Truth is our weapon,
Praise the Lawd!

BUT if Lucky Thirteen
just falls slap apart,
Fourteen's soon to bring
a whole 'nother new start!


Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The New Queen of King Cake is... wait for it...ME!!!

Pedro claims that what I made was NOT king cake at all.  I contend that since I'M the one who spent (literally) HOURS researching king cake before I began, that I am far more qualified to speak as to what does, and what does not, constitute king cake.  The only absolute requirement is that it must be in a ring shape, and mine was.  I was forced to omit the (only OTHER requirement) step of piling symbolically colored sugars on top, but that's because I HATE the taste of food coloring and what if someone in my household turns out to be allergic to it, huh?  Then I just potentially saved their lives.  Plus, I don't like regular, store-boughten king cake, so there was no incentive for me to try to replicate it.

Pedro refuses to taste my king cake, on principle, or possibly out of fear (it's hard to know for sure), but that just leaves more for me! I don't mean to brag, but my first king cake was the kind of accidental masterpiece one might expect to inspire a new Food Network show:  Accidental Masterpieces, and the People who Love the People who Make Them!  It could also be called: Accidental Masterpieces and the People who Claim to Love The People who Make Them,  yet Refuse to Taste Them, on Principle or out of Fear!

Pedro claims my filling the king cake with chocolate and then topping it with Oreos crushed into MORE chocolate, and further adorned with Oreo pieces turned a would-be cake into an abomination.  He says it's borderline blasphemy, and he's refusing to be anywhere in my vicinity during any inclement weather, because he doesn't want to be caught in the crossfire of lightening intended for ME.

Pedro also says I should be stripped of my Southern Borned and Bred Certification, and specifically deprived of the right to say y'all and ain't whenever I feel like it.  I can live with that, as long as nobody tries to take my cake away.  Because I ain't even studyin' offering none o' y'all any of it nohow!

P.S. #PedroAin'tTheBOSSofMe.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Thomas, the Word Problem

Remember "word" problems?
Doesn't the very name suggest dilemmas that might arise in classes teaching grammar, LANGUAGE, punctuation, and even the appropriate use of CAPITALIZATION, rather than something that would force countless innocent schoolchildren to worry needlessly about exactly how fast they MIGHT be going when the train they're (hypothetically) on CRASHES into another train?  Or, provided with the speeds, exactly how much time they will have, once they have boarded the ill-fated train, to get their affairs in order before meeting their certain doom?

What kind of math sadist and/or "educator" came up with THAT?  Not that Montessori lady or Albert Einstein, I'm sure.  That man had crazy hair, but he had kind eyes.  So, who would be evil enough to design this level of torture?  Maybe Stalin.  Old Joe Stalin.  Or Hitler, he was nothing but pure evil, too.  But NOT Einstein.  You leave Einstein out of all this, okay?

Maybe it was someone just as evil, but not "outed" as such.  What about the person who came up with the lyrics: "Two hearts beat as one"?  Because, although it's a catchy, "we're so in love" kind of song, the math is irresponsible.   It is mathematically, as well as biologically, impossible to share a working human heart.  Unless you're part of a set of specifically designed Siamese twins, which I doubt the lyricist was, making his song, as well as his math, politically incorrect!  Please disregard my accusation and subsequent character assassination if one or more conjoined twins DID indeed write that song, as since revealed during an episode (that I missed, obviously!) of VH1's highly rated investigative series: Late Night Pop-Up Videos. 

I maintain my opinion that the Siamese Twin Theory of Math is politically incorrect, if not mathematically so, except as in the aforementioned case of conjoined twins.  The TITLE is not PC, I mean, not conjoined twinnage- the concept.  The CONCEPT of willingly sharing one human heart (NOT over a candle-lit dinner- do NOT even start the "but what about Hannibal Lector" debate with me again!) is just about the most awesomely perfect, selfless act I have ever heard of!

Imagine if, instead of waiting for a compatible donor TO DIE (what a dismal, ironically kind of optimistic way to live), compatible, LIVING, donors could be CONJOINED, using all the scientific research that already exists on healthy conjoined twins!  NOBODY has to die for Duck Chainey to get a new heart!  (It was just plain bad luck that the first guy he shot in the head was not a compatible donor, but mightn't such "accidents" be prevented if the Conjoined Donor Project were perfected?) 

At this point, it would be completely understandable if you need to go lie down for a while.  It's a LOT to process, I know.  Particularly for those of you who may have started reading this expecting a whimsical story about a cartoon train with a sparkling personality and fun, but SAFE, adventures in math, and ALWAYS happy endings (not dirty happy endings, you pervs!  Why do pervs read my blog?  Go away, pervs!).  Sorry about that.  Best let your mom screen all your reading material in the future.  Unless your mom is ME, in which case, I feel EXTRA sorry for you.  Good luck with that, girls!

Now that I have single-handedly SOLVED the problem of Human Organ Donation Shortage (ya'll welcome!), I need to finish my point about word problems so that I can get to work on my Nobel Prize acceptance speech!

I imagine the pool of potential train company employees is TINY because of "word" problems.  Exception:  human resources department.  Because THEY know THEY don't have to get ON a train, EVER.  Their H.R. to WORKER ratio is the highest of any industry or vocation in the world, unless you count President of the United States, and the Queen of England, neither of whom are required to use either math OR trains.

Work-related Hypothetical Pre-Event Stress Disorder (HPSD) has been identified as the primary cause of incapacitating mental illness of railroad industry employees, department and specific job description not withstanding.  This makes perfect sense once you realize that these employees have absolutely NO navigational control of the vehicle whatsoever, have probably watched Unbreakable (the heart-breaking documentary starring the incomparable Bruce Willis and THE Samuel L. Jackson) more than once, and they are aware that trains have loooong break-to-stop times.  They don't have STEERING WHEELS, or joysticks, or ANYthing!  Most of them are triple wrapping their entire bodies in bubble wrap and riding in a large appliance box duct-taped into the previously determined "safest" spot in the middlest boxcar during their two-weeks notice resignation period, IF they are coherent enough to provide notice, or speak or write at all by that point. 

In fact, it IS possible to SLIGHTLY change course, by having someone get out and "throw" the switch, but it takes a LOT of advance planning, choreography, and practice drills (none of which are provided by their employers) to achieve that level of precision.  Lacking that training (accidental pun which I'm leaving in because it made me giggle inside for a second), once they see another train heading straight for them, all their other job training is instantly nullified, and their minds are taken over as all those word problems from long ago come flooding back in, causing acute, REAL, panic attack producing flashbacks to hypothetical memories that were forever seared into their subconscious during their formative years.
 
At this point, sheer terror takes over, and they are as frozen as deer* caught in the brights, until the other train passes safely by, ITS schedule having allowed for one of its employees to be waiting to flip the switch at just the right moment, causing the other (completely NON-hypothetical) train to veer slightly, onto the other set of tracks, preventing an otherwise dramatic, possibly dangerous, potentially lucrative screenplay based on a Real Life Tragedy!  There are TOO many victims to count in this scenario, unless you are one of the lucky negative 23% of the 4 out of 3 people who are GOOD at math!  And you AREN'T, are you?  It's okay.  No one else can tell, really. 

If you are an American adult, the famous Bill of Rights protects you from being forced to consent to random math ability assessments.  Don't be afraid to assert your 7/8th Amendment Rights.  After all, that's what our fourfathers fought and died for.

*Deer do NOT necessarily freeze in the presence of headlights, or any other kind of lights.  This is an old redneck wives' tale that considered only the behavior of experimental deer raised by depraved Wildlife Engineers (game wardens).  But,  that's a whole 'nother discussion.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Things I'm afraid (or worse) of:

1.   Snakes
2.   Rabid animals
3.   Being wrongfully convicted of a crime
4.   ALL REAL LIVE monkeys (including chimps, gorillas, orangutans, and even the small standard cheap monkeys that zoos have thousands of, and even the baby monkey offspring of any of the above).  Someday, you may get to know the origin of this very real fear. 
5.    Animals I don't know personally, because they might be rabid (see #2)
6.   Seagulls, because they poop right on you, especially if you feed them
7.   Insomnia and/or nightmares
8.   Touching my food unless I'm at home, no matter how clean I know my own hands are.
9.    Being hospitalized (see #10)
10.  Becoming so used to dealing with acute on chronic bouts of severe pain that I could develop sepsis or other irreversible conditions by waiting too long to seek treatment.
11.  Developing dementia
12.  Worsening of Acute Adult Onset Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
13.  Losing the Love of my Life (today, tomorrow, OR even when we're old)
14.  Cancer (this one's universal, I would think)
15.  STDs. This is the topic of my upcoming, not at all controversial, educational program directed to pre-pubescent children, and continuing through high school and college. 
Working title: STDs*
Put DOWN that penis!
Seriously, Put it down.  You DON'T know WHERE-ALL it's BEEN!
16.  Drowning.  I canNOT swim at all, so it wouldn't take much water. (Editor's note to potential bloggerssassins: THIS one is a carefully contrived LIE, intended to mislead you.) (Blogger's note to potential bloggerssassins:  EDITOR is a filthy liar, and SHE's the one who actually CAN'T SWIM!  Plus, she told me she hates you!)
17.   Driving off a bridge or getting caught in flooded road and floated to larger body of drowning-water (see #16)
18.  VOMITING
19.   Developing Dementia
And last, but not least:
20.   Worsening of Acute Adult Onset Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
21. And SNAKES!


Sunday, January 13, 2013

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Hair Bows, or MORE!

I had to cut that hair to get it out of her eyes at only 2 months!  No hot-gluing bows to bald headed babies in my house.  Somebody sure made some $$$ in those days selling double-sided tape to people who, for reasons I never quite understood (even BEFORE I had an infant of my own who appeared at times to be inexplicably wearing an Elvis wig), REALLY felt a NEED to have something super-girly adorn the heads of baby girls back then (Pain, Expense, and Inconvenience be damned!).
I would've thought that the widespread prevalence of ruffled Jessica McClintock prairie frocks and staunch commitments to dress girls only in varying shades of pink would be enough.
 
Dear Christopher Lloyd and Michael J. Fox,
Please Delorean-deliver the following message to "those" parents asap, meaning approximately twenty years ago.

Dear Mothers of Bald-Headed Baby Girls borned in the late eighties and early nineties,
It's what INSIDE that counts, you idiots!  Infancy is waaaaay too early to give your daughters the message that they need to go to extremes, and alter their appearance, in intricate, even painful at times, ways in order to be accepted, ESPECIALLY by her PARENTS!
Now, go take a good long look at yourownself in the mirror.  Are you satisfied with what you see there?  Did you answer YES?  You did?  Good.  I just wanted to establish that you are in fact a LIAR, and your pants, if you're wearing any, are likely to be ablaze.  Dial 911, if it has been invented yet.  Either way, Stop, Drop, and Roll IMMEDIATELY so as to protect the rest of your family, belongings, home, and neighborhood.
If you are not ONE HUNDRED PERCENT pleased by the reflection in the mirror, haul out your ridiculous collection of baby head glue, tape, and ornaments and apply them to your OWN head until satisfied that you are looking mighty good.
Have someone take a picture of you like this.  Then take (or mail) that roll of film for processing.  In 2 to 4 weeks, when the pictures are developed and returned to you, see if you STILL think you looked awesome.to the max.  If you TRULY DO, then proceed to decorate your infant in any manner you like.  But, if not, give that poor baby a break, and stop taping and gluing things to it!
Thank you,
The Future
P.S. why don't you take up doll-making or some other crafty pastime?  After all, a baby is a baby only a while, but a DOLL (and that picture of YOU, unless you destroyed it!) is FOREVER.

Friday, January 11, 2013

As We Prepare for Empty Nest-dom...

Let us take (somewhat smug) comfort in the knowledge that some of our oldest (meaning longest-having; they're basically our same age!) friends are starting their baby years NOW.  Therefore, in the (crossing my fingers, toes, eyes, bra straps, every cross-able item in my reach and control, AND chanting fervent prayers right now!) somewhat, and by somewhat, I mean VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY DISTANT future, WE (almost Empty-Nesters already!) will be out with our grandbabies, with our friends, with their OWN young children in tow.  Once it's established that OUR little ones are our GRANDS, our friends will naturally be assumed to be grandmothers, too, and will have to correct people all the time (that's the unfortunate price they'll have to pay for hanging with us!).  Whereas, WE are gonna get positively sick and tired of CONSTANTLY hearing:  Oh, you are FAR TOO YOUNG and beautiful to be a grandmother!!! ALL the time! 
Unless, in my case, the Botox I intend to get for migraine prophylaxis leaves my face partially frozen in a blank,  Parkinson's type stare that, while smoothing out the wrinkles, leaves me looking distant, and bored, and possibly makes strangers too uncomfortable to approach me to tell me how totally HOT I am, especially for a GRANDmother, for goodness sakes!
If I'm doomed to look distant and bored all the time, I'd rather be looking so in a hammock on an island somewhere.  An island with air conditioners, wifi, and Netflix.

As Sigmund Freug says: Sometimes a Sock is JUST a Sock!

One of my children (who shall remain mostly nameless here) used to wear mismatched socks (who DOESN'T, right?), which was fine by me, because I pretty much don't care what ANYbody wears, as long as all the pertinent body parts are covered appropriately, and there are NO reading materials placed across said pertinent parts to draw attention to them.  Whoever first started putting words, ANY words, but especially suggestive words like sexy, cutie, hottie, etc., across the backsides of clothing marketed to females, particularly to little girls, was a giant pervert who, if not a pedophile himself, undoubtedly made a lot of pedophiles VERYHAPPY and should have been punished harshly and made an example of.  But, that's really a whole'nother subject, a whole'nother soapbox, for a whole'nother day!*

Oh, yeah, SOCKS!  She didn't like to limit her individuality by following the masses and wearing socks that matched EACH OTHER (we had literally hundreds of socks, most of which DID have matches, somewhere in the house!), much less the assorted clothing items she might choose to wear on any particular day, and so she routinely wore two different (sometimes VASTLY different!) socks. 

No problem.  She is kind to others, sticks up for the underdog, makes the highest grades in class, and has never been "to the Principal's Office" for anything negative.
Imagine my horror when I learned that, when asked about her socks, instead of taking the time to explain that she preferred to not be constrained by mundanity (it is entirely possible that I just made up that word- mundanity, because my phone didn't recognize it, and I was waaaay too lazy to find a dictionary), she told people that she didn't have any CLEAN,MATCHING socks to wear!!! (True Story!)

I did NOT revoke the right of self-expression through dress at that time.  The minor (and adult,  actually) occupants in our household retain, as always, the privilege of expressing themselves through dress and/or fashion, so long as it fits MY (oft-described as OLD-fashioned) definition of decent.
However,  I DID threaten (*Whodunit KNEW it was an empty threat- she's been here with us long enough to know that we don't hit children!) her with her very life if she EVER again told ANYone that she had NO CLEAN (insert: any clothing item you can possibly think of) to wear, even if sometimes it might be true!!!

P.S.  The unidentified person was * Whodunit!
I checked my own policy (Is it weirder that I MADE such a policy in the first place, or that I FORGOT I had already done so?) on protecting the anonymity of any Real, Alive, people in my life who might pop up in some form or other in a blog post.  The policy is to assign and use an ALIAS (such as *Whodunit) for each individual.
(Yes, there's an ACTUAL file, a list that I update regularly and keep securely password protected.  Who knows?  YOU may be on the list already.)  One's ALIAS is NOT to be confused with one's NICK!  Unlike Aliases, Nicks may be used in ordinary conversation, fb posts, etc. 
Your Blogalias may be released to you upon our receipt of either your written request or a court order.

P.P.S.  I think BLOGALIAS might be a brand-new word, too.  Quick- Somebody dig up that Webster dude, and ask to borrow his dictionary!