Extreme Czar of Special Days

Dear Trigger-happy-Facebook-sheep who re-post anything and everything,

I have a bone to pick with you that goes something like this… EVERY day can’t possibly be Mental Illness Day, Special Needs Day, Autism Awareness Day, ADHD Awareness Day and Every Other Cause Under the Sun Day.

It just can’t.

This unnecessary grassfire of confusion is total bullshit.

Someone grab the BS extinguisher and douse the ignorance inferno already.

Each cause is entitled to an allotted day, month or whatever.

Fair enough.

I totally respect special cause days. Awareness and education are key in promoting support and acceptance.

My point is simply… the verbiage is all WRONG.

Let’s get it right people, because the inconsistency hurts my brain.

Think of it this way. How outrageous would you be if someone posted, “TODAY is Mother’s Day. Repost on your wall for 30 minutes if you love your mother” on ANY random day in July and December and wheneverthefuckever… over and over again?

It’s ludicrous.

Everyone knows Mother’s Day is in May.

So when this crap pops up repeatedly in December, your brains like “WTF man? Stop messing with me.”

The brain can only be pushed so far before you can fry an egg on it, like in that very famous this-is-your-brain-on-drugs commercial.

This is your brain on Facebook.


So, get your shit together people.

On a completely different, yet worthy note I’d like to officially hose down those lame bully tactics daring you to re-post or share if you’re not embarrassed or ashamed of the said cause or what-not.

Screw you, Facebook bullies. You’re not the boss of me. I’m a rebel who will re-post nothing when manipulated or threatened.

No can do.

Bite me.

Obviously, Facebook could use some sort of official calendar czar to sort through and regulate this ridiculous chaos.

Clearly, people are confuzzled over what-in-the-hell day it REALLY is and I fear that soon they’ll be stuffing chocolate bunnies into red fuzzy stockings waiting for the ADHD Fairy or Temple Grandin to leave them a shiny red choo choo train filled with common sense.

It’s very similar to the wise familiar tale, “The little boy who cried wolf.”

Let’s face it, when something shows up in your newsfeed every single damned day, the BIG event is reduced to background noise when it finally rolls around. It’s SPECIAL is kaput.

It’s kind of like the repetitive movie Groundhogs Day, which quite frankly makes me want to swan dive off a tall building directly into Rodney Dangerfield’s stinky golf bag.

I’m so confused.

This insanity just can not continue.

Here it is in OCD order. An incomplete listing of the days that seem to get the most Facebook air time, screen time or whatthehellever you prefer to call it.

January is Birth Defects Prevention month. (not to be confused with World Prematurity Awareness month which is actually in November and not January)

The March of Dimes who’s mission is to prevent birth defects holds their annual fundraising campaign Walk for Babies sometimes in August, September or October, which is why I diligently listed this cause on our very precise calendar.

Pencil that in.

February is African-American History month not to be confused with Martin Luther King Day which is in January. It’s also American Heart month and Women’s Heart Health month.

Women’s Heart Health month??

Let’s just chill the F out ladies. It’s already Heart Health month. Stop being such attention whores and just share the month with the men. THIS is exactly the sort of thing that gives women a bad name. JC on a stick. Just stop whining. Pretty soon you’ll be demanding your own planet. No wonder you have heart problems. Y’all are self righteous spoiled brats looking for an injustice to bitch about. Bitching raises your blood pressure and will eventually kill you.

Just chill the F out.

March is my birthday, Developmental Disabilities Awareness month and an excuse to drink green beer and kiss midgets. Go figure.

April is Autism Awareness Month. Did you read that? It says APRIL. Pack your Autism decorations away in a trusty Rubbermaid tote, so you may hang them appropriately in April.

Clarification- I post informative autism related information ALL of the time, because I have a son with Asperger’s so pretty much every day is Autism Awareness Day for me. The difference is, I’m not posting some dumb shit that says, TODAY’S Autism Day, so pass it on… every single day.

From hereon in, we’ll all KNOW that World Autism Awarness Day is April 2nd, so we’ll be ready to hang our Autism stockings by the fireplace and decorate our Aspie tree on cue… in APRIL.

In May we recognize Law Enforcement Appreciation, Teacher Appreciation, Nurses Appreciation and Mother’s Day. Under-appreciated service vocations or messy jobs month apparently.

I didn’t say Dirty Jobs you guys. Mike Rowe’s birthday happens to fall in March, same as mine. Lucky coincidence. Some day we’ll toast one another with warm tankards of Guinness and he’ll clean the green stuff outta my fridge.

A girl can dream.

June is Gay Pride month and Father’s Day. Don’t confuse these two. Not all dads are fond of rainbows and not all gay men like neck ties or maybe that’s multicolored rainbow designs on neck ties?


If your dad is gay, you can kill two birds with one stone, which is awesome if you’re a multitasker. (unless of course, your dad is straight and has incredibly poor aim. In which case, you can disregard everything)

September is ADHD Awareness month. Right in time for back to school. Perfect.

Was that a squirrel?

I repeat, “September is ADHD month.”

October is Aids Awareness, Breast Cancer Awareness, Domestic Violence Awareness, Downs Syndrome Awareness month and Fire Prevention month.

*Note- there’s way too much going on in October. Spread that shit out. There are 12 perfectly good months on the calendar to choose from you psycho nut jobs. You’re like bratty little kids fighting over the only blue Popsicle. Someone’s going to have to chose a different month. I’ll just sit here and wait while you sort it out amongst yourselves.

Also, enough with every Tom, Dick and Harry cause having their own ribbon color. Aids started it and everyone had to be a copy cat. Originality is dead.

You need an answer key to figure out which color belongs to whom.

November is Lung Cancer and Diabetes Awareness month. Diabetes, really?? The same month that the Thanksgiving cornucopia’s overflowing with chocolate pudding and whipped cream. Who’s in charge of these things anyway, Homer Simpson?

Incidentally, the Great American Smoke-out also takes place on the third Thursday of November.

How convenient.

Grab a piece of pie to tame your craving and end up with dia-fucking-beet-us.

I’m calling Wilford Brimley to tattle on you.

Last but not least…

December is Political Correctness Awareness month. Seriously? You cannot make this stuff up. Which supports my point that PEOPLE (whomever the officials are) will declare just about ANYTHING worthy of having it’s own recognition month.

Appropriately enough, it’s the very same month people max out their credit cards like gypsies on crack, eat and drink themselves silly and overindulge in any and every possible way. All in the holy sacred name of Jesus???


Our society has successfully managed to reduce the once holy Christmas season to a batshit crazy stressful time measured in profit margins and sales. It’s the time of gimme gimme gimme.

I’m not a fan of the C holiday.

There’s no Christ in Christmas anymore. We may as well change the verbiage to Merry Cha-ching.

Christmas and political correctness share a common denominator in that they’re both equally out-of-control train wrecks caused by too much interference.

Some things should be left alone.

If it ain’t broke…

But, THAT’S a completely different post.


Twas the First Day of School…

‘Twas the first day of school and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring…

Not even a mouse?

But, not because ThatGoddamnedCat was diligently guarding his post.


ThatGoddamnedCat is never around when you actually need him, which is partially how he earned his fitting name ThatGoddamnedCat.

Not a creature was stirring, becauuuuse…

Stewart-the-stupid was camped out in the bottom of the family toaster gorging himself on bread crumbs and chocolate Pop tart sprinkles.

Why didn’t he just eat off the floor where there’s almost always a generous buffet containing three square meals?

My extreme theory is this- he must be a teenaged mouse, because everyone knows teenagers are know-it-alls who don’t listen to their elders, which in this case happens to be Mr. & Mrs. Little. (who, incidentally, are most likely still ALIVE, simply because they know enough to stay the-hell outta the toaster)

Unfortunately for their son Stewart-the-stupid, Diva #13 happened to be in the mood for TOAST on this particular dismal morning.

On a similar note, yet completely off on a tangent- one Easter morning, Diva #13 was in the mood for cinnamon buns and turned on the oven where the dumbass Easter Bunny had recently hidden her brothers Easter basket.

The dumbass bunny even saw her do it, but wasn’t caffeinated or conscious enough at the time to process, let alone react to the situation.

By conscious, I mean the dumbass bunny’s body was standing in the kitchen but her brain was still in REM sleep most likely having a Channing Tatum-dipped-in-chocolate-wearing-bunny-ears dream.

And, yes the bunny still hides my kids Easter baskets even though the eldest is 20, because it’s FUN for her, THAT’S why.

Anyway, back to this episode called… Of mice and hungry-girls-in-the-mood-for-toast-on-the-first-day-of-school.

Enter Diva #13.

“Mommmmmmmm!!!!! I think there’s a mouse behind the toaster… I heard a SQUEAK SQUEAK!!”

BEHIND the toaster would’ve been a semi-acceptable location for a mouse, says my half-asleep brain.

I grab my mom cape and fly into the kitchen where I immediately smell burn.

The electrical kinda burn.

I’ve put out at least one of every imaginable type of appliance fire, so my nose knows.

The example below was called the French fry incident of  2012.

“Pheeeew!!” says my brain assuming the dumb furry golf ball sized intruder gnawed through the cord that’s on the OUTSIDE of the toaster.

My mom vision diverts to the toaster.

It’s in the DOWN position and it’s still toasting away.


I quick unplug it with my Inspector Gadget mom arm and NOTHING scurries out.


Double-triple-quadruple SHITTTTT!!

I just KNOW.

Diva #13- Ohhhhh my God… Did I toast the mouse???!!!

Me- No No No!! (fibbing to spare her from certain emotional turmoil)

Enter #16- Oh my God… she toasted a mouse!!!! Noooo waaaay!!!!

Me- No, he just got… stuck (giving him the evil mom eye that says STFU and walk away. He knows that look)



The crisis has been averted temporarily.

Toaster unplugged… check.

My brain flashes back to- it’s the first day of school and we’re already going to miss the damned bus.

Bus missing happens to be the story of our life, minus today’s very acceptable excuse of having a fuzzy morning intruder stuck in our toasting appliance.

Quick run outside and take a few token first-day-of-school pics where hopefully nobody’s facial expression will look anything like the SCREAM guy.


I generously allow (Big Kahunna’s) #16 to drive my van to school for the first time, so my expression probably does resemble the SCREAM guy.

My nerves say so, anyway.

Diva #13 takes the bus.

Status- Two off to school ON TIME.

Life is good, right?


Now it’s time to deal with how-bad-is-the-carnage-in-the-toaster? situation.

Did I already say SHITTTTTTT!!!!!???

I know I have to, so I insert new batteries into my CSI wannabe flashlight (that’s actually just a regular flashlight owned by people who are me and usually love solving a good mystery, except for when it happens to involve crispy rodents) and examine the scene.

My conclusion- Stewart-the-stupid rodent…. in the far right toaster slot…. smooshed by up&down mechanism…. by Diva #13.

It would appear that the roasting occurred after Stewarts demise, therefore enhancing the dismal scene with aromatic extra crispy dumbass mouse, which by the way, ABSOLUTELY multiplies the ICK factor by like a gazillion.

The moral of the story- always check the toaster before you pull the trigger.


I’ve made you paranoid for life.

I’m sorry and you’re most welcome.

Ps- Just so you know my level of dedication, I spent 99 cents on an app to turn Channing into a chocolate dream bunny.


For driving stories involving Big Kahunna’s #16- click here…




For mouse stories involving ThatGoddamnedCat- click here…







Password Hell

I’ve had it with passwords.

Hell NO, I don’t want a reminder to change my password every 30 days.

Just let me keep the same predictable password for life.

I’ll take my chances.

My brain can’t possibly hold any more useless data.

The NO VACANCY sign is flashing upstairs or perhaps it’s a neuron short-circuit extravaganza.


There comes a time when a person has used up all variations of their own name, kids, pets and initials combined with date of birth, age, graduation and miscellaneous anniversaries.

What else is there?

Just this week I was rudely locked out of two of my accounts and prompted to reset my password.

I decided to go with my REAL feelings on this matter, so I chose FuckyouOldNavy2013 and GmailBlows666 …or something to that effect.

I may remember these, but probably not.

This has been an Extreme Mom snippet.

Short but not necessarily sweet.

Predictable and Painful Facebook Statuses

I’m in a snarky mood, so I felt compelled to spiff up an old rant post I had written on Facebook Statuses.

You’ve probably been guilty of posting one or two of these fb statuses yourself.

Everyone has… so loosen-the-hell-up and embrace a sarcastic giggle, you uptight troll.

Here goes…

PICK your own Facebook status-

*FML- Murphy’s Law was named after ME. My name is Murphy and my pitiful life sucks way worse than your life. Does toooooooooo!!!

*I’m pulling a knife out of my back, because clearly I walk around with a bulls eye on the back of my shirt and continue to supply the repeat offenders with sharp cutlery for stabbing.


*Here are ALL 3,000 photos of my family vacation including duplicates, duds and indistinguishable images. I don’t want you to miss a single moment! Also, I’m trying my best to clusterfluck up your newsfeed and annoy the hell out of you. You are welcome.

*My kid made the honor roll again, which somehow makes ME awsum, even tho I can’t spell awesome or though.

*Going to the gym…. I do this ONCE a month and I thought the fb world should know. You may now appropriately categorize me with health conscious buff people who are clearly superior to ordinary couch sloths, who don’t go to the gym… ONCE a month.

*This is your daily picture of ME. I’m wearing a different shirt. Duh. Please tell me I’m pretty.

*I lost 2 pounds on the lettuce and broth diet. Please validate my awesomeness with a LIKE, so I won’t be compelled to squirt ketchup on the dog and take a honking bite out of him.

Note- Quit smoking posts are EXEMPT…because I said so, that’s why. In my experience, they’re usually making a serious honest effort, as opposed to their dieting counterparts who are full of shit 99.9% of the time.

Admittingly, a good majority of my own blog posts start out with, “I hate it when I wake up and I’m fat.” These are what I call being-fat-sucks posts not to be confused in any way with I-care-enough-to-diet posts. Big difference.

Moving right along…

*This is ME in a bar with an alcoholic drink in my hand laughing and having fun. I am absolutely in no way experiencing mid-life crisis or soliciting attention.

*Cleaning up my friends list. Be very afraid. In fact, keep your fingers crossed and pray to God, Allah AND Morgan Freeman. It also wouldn’t hurt to send me a gift.

*I’m eating THIS. (and you’re not)

*I love my daughter/son/embryo/mom/dad/husband/wife/EVERYONE/pet worm/cousin’s box turtle/grandma’s parakeet.

*I hate cancer, enemas, root canals and when pianos fall on my head.

*Happy Birthday to my Fb friend who NEVER interacts with me. Ever. (Note- I see you logged in at the same time. The cat must have bitten your commenting finger) You would probably duck if you saw me in Walmart.
•NOTE- when I see my Fb friends in public, I usually bear hug them even if they can’t figure out who I am. This is SO much FUN. <–I really do this. If you’ve slipped through the cracks, I apologize. I either didn’t see you or didn’t recognize you. Kindly wear a name tag next time. I pretty much love everyone.


*I’m posting this grotesque pic of a mutilated dog, because I’m an animal lover who enjoys terrorizing your timeline with horrific unforgettable shit that’s certain to give you nightmares. Note to my Fb friends- STOP. This freaks me right-the-hell out and is the fastest way to get unfriended.

*I’m deactivating my fb account, because you insensitive trolls suck eggs and I’m totally NOT a drama queen. YOU’RE the drama queen. If 50 people LIKE this, I’ll reconsider.

*Repost THIS in 30 seconds or the trap door will be activated and you’ll be dumped directly into the fiery pits of hell. This includes but is not limited to photos of angels, money and Jesus holding bags of money with his arm around Bill Gates. I NEVER repost e-chain mail out of general principle. It’s actually not that bad down here in hell, y’all.

*This is me and if you didn’t notice, these are my bOObs… Proud and Peacock. Maybe, if I get one million LIKES, my self esteem will rise and I’ll put a shirt on. Maybe.


Please SHARE and maybe TOGETHER we can save Fb from certain damnation.


The End.


The Essence of Facebook…

Any Facebook relationship status that reads- complicated is a RED flag. Cut your losses and run like hell.

Pa-leeeeeeeeeese do not insult my intelligence with another diet you’re trying. AFTER pics or it didn’t happen.

Political debates on Facebook lead to NOWHERE except… unfriend, block, delete.

Just stop. The least you can do is photoshop the camera out of the photo. Tacky.

Let’s play… Is it karaoke or a suicide note? Not cool.

Because… you’re a Facebook Rock Star and everyone wants YOUR autograph.


In three, two, one…

Christmas is in DECEMBER dammit


Where I come from we get something like three-ish months of summer, which equates to MAYBE a meager 30 days of warm sunny weather- picnics, watermelon, fireflies, swimming and sandy flip flops.
In short, we have ONE summer month and… the REST of the year.
Eleven months of the grey season, which includes but is not limited to rain, drizzle, snow, ice and every other possible form of precipitation currently known to man.
 So yes, when people (lets call them psycho-holiday enthusiasts) try to contaminate our sacred sunny month with Christmas pollution we tend to get a bit crabby.

Justifiably crabby.

I for one, happen to be a solar powered individual.
I get my energy from the sun and my reserves happen to be dangerously low these days.

The makers of Prozac can only do so much.

They’re like, “You’ve reached your limit lady… our hands are tied.”

“Go get some mood enhancing sunshine.”

And, so I do what I can. I soak in every single moment of summer.
The problem with winter-related holiday nonsense (no, I will not say the C word again) is that it’s like kryptonite for us who reside in the grey area.
The mere mention of the dark side during our sacred sunny sabbatical is enough to boot us out of our happy place clear into the fiery pits of hell, except in OUR hell, it’s snowing.

Resisting winter is a northern defense mechanism that’s been etched in our brains since the ice age.

To top it off, we broke records for cold AND snow in 2013.
I think we did. It felt like it anyway.
That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
It sucked Frosty’s longest hardest icicle if you get my drift, then to top it off, we shattered all previously set rainfall records.
It felt like it anyway… the record breaking part.
 We did, however experience actual flooding.
Also, we made the big time meaning we were featured on The Weather Channel.

 It was definitely a How-many-Yeti’s-can-you-fit-on-Noah’s-ark? kinda year.


 Nobody really cares what the answer is.

The point is- when Yeti’s and Noah’s ark are mentioned in the same sentence you’re clearly fucked and there’s not a damned thing you can do.

Mother Nature is one moody bitch.

As a result, my people (those of us who reside in the grey area of CNY) have morphed into foul-weather warriors who’ve proven again and again that we can tough that shit out.
However, uninvited winter holiday hoopla in July tends to drive some of us right. over. the. edge.
For the publics safety we’ve established guidelines called…

The Northern Survivalist’s STRICT Winter Holiday Timeline.

Halloween– the fright fest officially begins Sept 30, although mums and pumpkins may be put out any time after Labor Day. (Note- generous leeway given, because I happen to be a mum fan)
Thanksgiving shall occupy the time period between Halloween and the C holiday.
The C holiday– not one bell shall jingle or hallway be decked prior to the conclusion of turkey day feasting.
This means the dishes are washed, dried and put away. Also, the turkey carcass is gone. I freaking hate the turkey-beast carcass with ever fiber of my being.
I would rather get a root canal than harvest meat from the leftover turkey any day of the week.
Make that two root canals and a pap smear.
(I threw that thing in there about the dishes, because I don’t care for the C holiday and I’m trying to keep it away as long as possible. Scrubbing a zillion dishes gives me a little breather)

Let’s call this- living in the goddamned moment.

Quit racing around like blind mice on meth preparing for the next three-ring circus that’s six months away.




If you must shop or bake cookies in July, that’s your business. Just keep that premature holiday pollution off my facebook.
Also, I’ll be happy to taste your cookies.
I’m generous like that.
I may be a holiday bitch, but I’m an excellent taster of cookies.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about greedy in-your-face retail peddlers who prematurely puke holiday what-nots throughout the land.
Winter holiday whatchamafuks will start polluting stores in August.
It’s the devils way.
Not only do I look the other way. (and say bad words) I also refuse to buy anything.
They’re not getting one premature cent from me until The Northern Survivalist’s Strict Winter Holiday Timeline says it’s time.
When I wander into Home Depot on August 15th in search of charcoal briquettes and get blindsided by a 12 foot blow-up of Frosty-the-freaking-unwelcome-snowman, I will breathe fire.
 This actually works out, because then I dutifully scoop Frosty up in a plastic cup and have something to chase my chocolate vodka with.

Hence, the only acceptable snowman in August is the one you drink.



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Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat- Meet Max

There’s red splatter all over the family room carpet and it doesn’t remotely resemble anything I’ve served in the kitchen over the past week.
All clues point to ThatGoddamnedCat.
If you’re new here, I affectionately refer to my cat as ThatGoddamnedCat, because he’s earned that title at least 100 times over.
Plus, I thought That-mutherfuckin-cat was a bit too abrasive.
I rescued ThatGoddamnedCat from the woods of no-mans-land Pennsylvania something like seven years ago.
His blood is feral and he’s a killing machine, which would be all well and good if he didn’t bring his trophy’s in the house.
Especially when they’re undead and able to run around and reap havoc.
Sometimes ThatGoddamnedCat actually has the audacity to leave his live conquests under the sofa while he catches some zzz’s.
Cats are rude.
I surmise he’s saving it for later, which by the way is absolutely forbidden by household law.
Household law clearly states- No playing with your food and absolutely no saving shit for later that still has a heartbeat.
Just no.
If you want to run around like a saber tooth tiger from the prehistoric era, you will do it outside, mister.
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I’m not entirely sure how to calculate cat years, but I do know they tend to outlive dogs by (sometimes) up to 10 years.
That’s an entire lifespan for a dog and totally unfair in my dog-loving opinion.
I’ve never actually had a 20 year old cat, but apparently it’s possible (and it would be just my luck <– I said that part under my breath, which is why it’s in parenthesis)
Of course I love my psycho feline beast. I really do.
He’s different just like everyone else in this family, so he’s the perfect misfit.
Believe it or not, ThatGoddamnedCat has some positive attributes.
Like, he doesn’t require a litter box. That right there is a BIGGIE.
He takes care of business almost exclusively outside.
I said almost because last winter was a bitch, so we were forced to bring the litter box inside.
*By bitch, I mean the snow was so deep he couldn’t navigate further than the front porch.
Although, he did try.
Bonus points to ThatGoddamnedCat for trying.
No litter box is a big selling point for a cat. It almost gives them almost human-like self sufficiency.
The other perk is that he’s not a picky eater. In addition to bird, rodent and squirrel he eats mostly dry non-stinky food.
No nasty cat food cans is a another BIG plus.
I have one of those ginormous feeders that are meant to be used when you go on vacation and leave your cat to sulk and act out.
I call it the lazy feeder because you only have to tend to the cat like every 10 days or so.
Best. invention. ever.
So, ThatGoddamnedCat isn’t all that bad.
If only, he had more useful skills like folding laundry or cleaning up his own bloody messes…

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Cruisin in the Jesus-mobile


If you think your 16 year old has the smarts NOT to put the pedal to the metal on a flooded street… think again.

Yes, he did.


I guess it’s entirely possible my good catholic boy thought we were driving the Moses-mobile and the flood waters would part for us… or perhaps he had it confused with the Jesus Grand Caravan that floats on water.


I’m not quite sure, but he knows now, because I yelled “HolyHELL! and GODdammit!”

Among other things.

Also, I think my head spun around 360 degrees.

Luckily, nothing green came shooting out of my mouth on account of I didn’t eat any green veggies at dinner, because sometimes (every day) I skip the green group entirely.

A definite perk to eating whatever-in-the-hell you want.


This, of course, does not include green M&M’S.

Love those.

The moral of the story-  take NOTHING for granted when your 16 year old is driving.

Apparently, they have the same skills and mentality as a two year old driving the self-propelled Fred Flintstone car.


Also, it wouldn’t hurt if the car seats doubled as floatation devices in the unfortunate event of a water landing and for my sanity and reassurance.

Dear God,  I took the liberty of tagging you, just in case you’re busy attending to some sort of important Godly business and miss this post.


Also, you  probably need to authorize overtime for his guardian angel. That feathery-winged patrol officer certainly has his hands full with this one.


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Animal Carnage Rating System… for the Weak and ME

I’ve always been a National Geographic and Animal Planet junkie.
Technically, it started with Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom back in the 70’s, around the same time I was lovingly nurturing my warm fuzzy pet rock.
What were we even thinking?
I love animals and I’m admittedly addicted to animal documentaries although there’s one HUGE thing that gets under my skin, and it’s called… violent carnage scenes.
Vanna, I’d like to buy a word.
I’ll take a… NO.
Make that a… Hell NO.
Of course I have a solution.
A carnage rating system should be implemented so that people could make a more informed decision as to whether to watch a particular episode or not.
The carnage ratings would go something like this-
OK+ … No beast is harmed or killed.
EHH+ … Mild to moderate casualties, but dinner gets away safely.
OHSHIT! … Dinner’s served… Close your eyes.
FUCKINRUTHLESSCARNIVORES … Baby animals… It’s WHAT’S for dinner. Run outta the room and grab a sedative and a bottle of Jack.
This seems like a logical solution, as animal lovers who happened to be middle-aged women-who-cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat, may be tuned in.
I’m speaking for my people, here.
I’d personally appreciate it a great deal, as would the person who’s paying my therapy and pharmacy bills.
It could potentially save so much cashola, that insurance companies would be wise to lobby in behalf of this very logical rating system.
Another alternative would be to fast forward through the entire chase-kill scene to the victorious animal belching loudly with a bib around it’s neck.
That would work for me.
Moving right along…
I have a message for the camera person, who stands by idly and watches babies being eaten.
Pack your summer wardrobe and SPF 3 zillion, because you’re going straight to Hell for being a spineless observer.
Put the stinkin camera down and chase the bully cheetah with a broom.
That’s what I would do.
Most definitely.
The cheetah would be like… “Oh shit, she’s got a broom… Run!!”
I would probably be called Broom Hilda- Protector of Baby Animals or something like Dat-Crazy-White-Bitch.
There’s also that prickly sore spot with me, when the narrator says in his drone voice, “The  BABY lion cub has wandered away from the pride. He’ll surely starve within days or become an easy target to predators.”
I know BABY and CUB are the same thing. I like to accentuate to support my point.
I said accentuate not exaggerate.
Why not scoop up the innocent little guy for Gods sake and ship him to the zoo where it’s SAFE??
Better yet, Justin Beiber might like to adopt him and take on full responsibility for his oral hygiene.
Of course, I understand natural selection, survival of the fittest and all that UNhappy horse shit, but I don’t have to LIKE it.
If the sadistic camera person had a compassionate bone in his body, he’d bring a Santa-sized sack of Big Cat Chow and spread it around the African plains in cute little dishes, so animals wouldn’t be forced to eat one another.
Seems like a win win situation to me.
One more beef.
Excuse the pun.
It makes no sense whatsoever that commercial sponsors on the very SAME TV network  are lobbying to end animal cruelty.
I’m perplexed by THIS.
It’s like a vegan hunting channel.
I’m so confuzzled.
Put that shit on a different network.
People who make animal documentaries totally suck and their motives are very shady. Perhaps they’re politicians in training.
Note- The above does not include Steve Irwin. I loved that guy.
He will always be the supreme ruler of the animal kingdom.
He taught me how to catch snakes with a bushy stick. A skill that’s come in handy time and time again. No, I’m not afraid of snakes.
RIP Steve Irwin.
You’ll always be… da man.

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Miss Freakazoid USA


There was a time when I was able to digest beauty pageants without having to chug an antacid straight from the bottle, but that time has long passed.


 I caught a glimpse of the Miss USA contestant mannequins on the news yesterday.

 What began as an all-around competition in beauty, talent and intelligence has evolved into something completely unnatural and more notably, unachievable for the majority of the female population.

 It feels all wrong to support this tomfoolery.

 The contestants are mutant women for Gods sake.

 It would better be depicted… Miss Potato Head USA.

 It goes something like this.

 Your starter kit contains a perfect medium sized potato (the genetic lottery probably drops one in every couple of hundred-ish. I don’t know what the actual statistics are, but let’s face it, you’re either born with it or you’re not) boobs, lips, eyelashes, brows, perky noses and cheekbones.


 From there, the contestant is to acquire as many upgrades as possible and subsequently diet and exercise until they wither down to the size of a small French fry.

 Not just a regular straight-cut fast food fry either. We’re talking crinkle cut with the curves and indentations in all the RIGHT places.

 When did beauty queens begin to resemble low end body builders?


 It’s been a long time since I’ve paid attention to this hoopla, so it’s all new to me and quite frankly, it gives me innnn-dig-estion…

 What used to be a perfectly natural 10 has evolved into a perfectly enhanced 20.

 Who looks like this?

 Well, yeah THEY do and so does Barbie.

 The point is… this package doesn’t occur spontaneously in nature.


 It’s painfully altered.

 I’m not discrediting women for being in pristine athletic condition, but add various facial reconstruction, fake boobs so on and so forth and you have something that’s entirely enhanced and unreal.

 My biggest beef (the kind that’s dripping fat and melted cheese) is that we as society are promoting unrealistic role models.

 It’s just TOO MUCH.

 Girls have enough pressure these days without society constantly manipulating and rising the bar for perfect.

 Yes, I aspire for my daughters to be beautiful, intelligent, educated, poised, physically fit women… but not all of the above… at the same time.


 Just Hell no.

 Intelligence is good enough.

 Educated is good enough.

 Physically fit for your body type is good enough.

 Graceful confidence is good enough.

 Compassionate and caring are good enough.

 You are good enough.

 Girls should be encouraged to celebrate who the ARE and what they’ve accomplished without having their self esteem BEAUTY-CROWN-BLOCKED by continually revised over-the-top standards.

 That’s the equivalent being cock blocked except we’re referring to ones self esteem.

 I threw that in there so you’d pay attention.

 Cock blocked. <-There it is again.

 I guess you can safely say that I’m not a fan of beauty pageants.

 I also happen to think the whole Toddlers and Tiara’s charade borders on child abuse… in the mental sense, but that’s an entirely different post.


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Utah is near Jupiter… I think


Poor poor Miss Utah.

I can totally relate to opening my mouth without asking the brain permission first.

Except, not in front of a zillion people.


Like the other day when I was bike riding with my hubinator, he said “It’s cool when you can see the moon during the day.”

The moon was indeed visible and it was lovely.

So my mouth BLURTS out- That’s not the moon, it’s Jupiter!!

My brain was like- w. t. f ???



Where do you even come up with these things?

Then brain then concluded that the mouth meant Venus and then the brain and the mouth laughed and laughed and laughed…


It’s an awesome state to be in when you can entertain yourself.

Some people also refer to that gift as ADHD.


People from Jupiter are not necessarily stupider.

Dear School- I Can’t Hear You!!!


EEEEHHHHTT!!!  {{buzzer}}

Times up.
School’s over people.
Return to sender.
Notta my problem-o.
It’s not like I don’t care, but okay… I don’t care.
I’m over this school year. It’s done… fini… caput… It’s history, man.
Dear School,
Please don’t bother me with mundane details. If my kid failed a class, just cut the bullshit and send me the registration for summer school.
Thank you.
Ps- You may not realize this, but this happens to be a very PROUD year for me.
This is the first year since junior high that my spirited lad has NOT received a mandatory invite back to the school for summer detention.
There was the bra episode, the smoke bomb, the locker room escapade, water balloons, the yearbook graffiti… to name a few.
I’m rejoicing.
I can’t believe you school administrative people don’t give out bumper stickers for this amazing feat.
“My kid’s an HONOR student!” blah blah blah…
Well lah-tee-dah….
“My kid evaded summer detention this year!”
Check mate.
Let’s PAR-TAH!
Schooooooooooool’s out for summer!!!

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Captcha Codes Suck Robot Balls

Captcha codes make me want to smash my computer screen with a sledge hammer.
On average, it takes me three to four tries before I finally solve the almighty puzzle that was ironically intended to prove I’m an independent thinker and not a smart-ass computer bot.


This makes no sense to me, as it’s no secret that computer bots whoop our mortal asses regularly at pretty much EVERYTHING.
I’ve concluded that these eye-stabbing codes are actually the workings of wiseass robots sitting around a board table smoking weed taking bets on how many attempts it will take us before we finally crack.
 I also suspect there’s a padded room full of captive toddlers and illegible script writing physicians, who do nothing all day but write captcha codes and drink vodka out of a straw.
I wouldn’t be surprised if we the victims (and the butt of their jokes) were being recorded for an episode of reality TV in the bot world.

“Hahaha!! That man is on his 92nd attempt. Taking bets that he self destructs before he gets to 100!!”


Having been recently tortured by this riddle-type nonsense, I was inspired to jot down a list of things that would be easier and considerably less painful than cracking a typical mind numbing captcha code-

*Solving a quadratic equation in your head after drinking a pint of Jäger
*Shaving a female Bigfoot of Italian decent
*Writing a best selling novel… in German after consuming a case of Heineken
*Removing a steak from the jaws of a hungry female sabertooth tiger with PMS
*Giving a badger a pedicure- complete with pretty little recreations of the Sistine Chapel on each toe
*Recreating the Mona Lisa on an Etch-a-sketch blindfolded
*Getting my kids on the school bus peacefully… on the Monday following a holiday weekend
*Flossing Jaws teeth (the shark or the gnarly beast character from the James Bond movies- you pick)
Certainly there are more efficient, not to mention less excruciating methods of determining that a person is not in fact a robot.
Perhaps, a simple check box.
My race can be best described as:
American Eskimo…Asian…African American…Caucasian…Latino…Native American…ROBOT

I’m pretty sure robots can’t lie because duh, they’re robots.

Everyone knows robots are trustworthy.
Highly intelligent and evil, but nonetheless… trustworthy.
All in favor of a check box…
image image image image image image image

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