The Life Skill of Proper Cursing

Few things bring joy to a mother's heart like when she sees her young child learn some invaluable life skill. A tears comes to my eye every time I think of my children's first steps, their arms waving erratically for balance, bobbling back and forth as they moved toward me. The bittersweet journey that turns them from infants totally dependent upon you into grown people bound for adventures of their own is marked with these milestones.
Well, friends, I got to experience one today, perhaps the greatest thus far. As I was driving down the road, my oldest boy randomly spouted, "Son of a bitch!!"
Half shocked, I turned back to see what had happened. Apparently his water had spilled on his shirt, which he clearly found displeasing.
"Ridge," I said, "that's a naughty word. You aren't suppose to say that."
The car was filled with an awkward pause as he absorbed my chiding. After he had thought about this for a moment, he explained, "Well, Momma, I just like to say naughty words, just like you do."
At first I was shocked by being outsmarted by a 4-year-old yet again. But, then I realized that I had taught my child a life skill, one he'll actually use. I mean, how often do any of you use sign language. There's no doubt that has made the world a more functioning place for millions of people, but most of us don't have many situations where it is needed. Proper cursing, on the other hand, is priceless. To understand the proper place in a sentence to insert a good "shit" or "hell" is something he'll actually use.
Now, give me my Mother of the Year prize, please!

Come On Baby Light My Fire

After spending a few hours running errands and talking to friends on Thursday, the time to scuttle home came. I loaded up Ridge and pointed the Explorer, away from Elk City and toward our life on the open range in Cheyenne. The trip started out uneventful, as they do every Tuesday and Thursday. I decided to drove home the back way, through winding county roads, rather than the highway. I don't know why I do, I just like the scenery I suppose.
Not far outside of Elk City, a utility pickup was stopped in the middle of the road. The air on the sides of the truck was in that blurry wave that frequents the sides of charcoal grills and, I don't know, most other kinds of FUCKING FIRE. Just as I stopped, two guys bailed out and hustled to the back for a fire extinguisher. Clearly something in the back of their truck was ablaze. Before these two could get the extingusher going, a fiery bit of debris flew onto the dry, brittle grass of the nearby pasture. The two men dropped their fire extinguisher and ran quickly to the expanding flames, trying in vain to stomp it out. With Oklahoma in the middle of a
drought, these two thinking this would help is like thinking a b.b. gun can stop a freight train. Needless to say, it was fucking on.
I immediately got out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1 and, before the dispatcher could patch me through to the fire department, the fire had burned at least two or three acres. I mean, this bitch was up in smoke like a hay stack.
After the sea of flames had spread like rapid flood waters over the pasture, the two men gave up their defeated campaign of stomping it out. They walked quickly away from the blazing truck and the even hotter field. I pulled my car around, rolled down the window and told them I had already called the fire department.
And that's when I realized that this was one of my old friend's big brother. I've known this guy most of my life and, bless his heart, his life has always been some bizarre mix of a reality television show and one of those skit comedy shows. In other words, you just never know what the hell is gonna happen in any day in the life of Bobby.
After I told him I made the emergency call, he thanked me. Because Ridge was in the backseat, overrunning with the pure excitement only a near disaster can bring an adventurous 4 year old boy, I felt like staying at a wildfire would just be, I don't know, bad parenting. Bobby agreed that I probably should get out of Dodge since the welding equipment that had started the fire in his truck were still in it. I asked Bobby if he and his co-worker wanted me to take them somewhere, perhaps a place not going up in smoke. But, he was shackled to the responsibility of staying out there with his work truck until the fire department arrived. I tried for a moment to persuade him, but he was staying the course.
So, as I turned around, I hoped the fire department would get this under control faster than some other wildfires that have raged in Oklahoma under these dry, dusty conditions. But apart from my concern, I couldn't help giggle at the thought of Bobby, with all his many mishaps, had in part started a wildfire right in front of my disbelieving eyes.

'Til Your Untimely Death At The Hands Of Meltdown Do We Part

A few days ago, that witty Lindaloohoo over at wheresmydamnanswer asked me of all freakin' people to submit a post to their rather awesome site. I won't be posting it here, so if you want to read it (and I know you do), you are gonna have to to wander over there and have a looksie. Here's a little preview for your reading pleasure:
My two darling children have reached an age where they are constantly curious about what their father and I are doing at all times. And while their desire to be around us is heart-warming, it has also lead to many a situation that will most assuredly cost us a small fortune in therapy bills if you're picking up what I'm laying down. Pssstttt....they caught us having s-e-x. Now click here and go read the whole story.

Well, now that I've directed you to that post, I guess I should stop neglecting my own site and actually write something here. The downside to this laziness that has me posting only once every two days is that by the time I get back here, so much unbelievable shit has happened around this zoo I call home, I have a hard time deciding just which one to write about.
I'm sure if you've been to The Cowboy Chronicles more than once, you've already observed that I am a bit unbalanced. And by a bit, I actually mean to a spectacular degree. Just go through my blog archives and, after about ten minutes of reading, you'll be like, "Dude, somebody order a straight jacket in this lady's size." Well, when you team my distorted brain chemistry with my ornery, wise ass husband, you get a situation ripe with the constant potential for a bloody homicide.
Take for example the ridicules argument Rowdy and I had this weekend. A few days prior, I had made chicken fried steak sandwiches for him. Now, I don't eat these and the boys would be just as content with the easy-schmeasy peanut butter and jelly, so all the breading and frying and hot grease scorching my skin just to make a sandwich was all done for the pleasure of my husband. In light of that, you might think that he would be, I don't know, fucking appreciative of the fact that he isn't subjected to prepacked turkey, that his attentive wife drags all that extra shit out, thus making a huge mess, just to make him a freakin' sandwich. Well, if that's what you thought, you would be wrong.
In one of Rowdy's numerous attempts to push me over the edge and into some frizzy-haired, flipped out tirade, a few days after I made him this meal he gave a full blown lecture about how I put cheese on his sandwich, which is clearly some crime against chicken fried steak sandwiches everywhere and would only be done in some passive aggressive jab at the recipient of the said sandwich. Now, never mind the fact that he could have built the damn thing himself and thus avoided this cheese injustice. Apart from that, since I know he still has use of his freakin' pointer fingers, I also know he could have just picked up the bread, plucked off the cheese and went forward into his otherwise happy life. Needless to say, this conversation ended with me pacing in circles while I mumbled about shanking him in his sleep.
We awoke the next morning and all the unpleasantness from the stupidest argument in the history of mankind was gone. We drove through pastures and checked cattle together and had steaks for lunch. I made Stromboli, these crab roll wontons Rowdy loves and potato skins for the SuperBowl. And as the closely played game had my sports-loving husband's head damn near spinning in circles, I cleaned the kitchen and timed the coffee pot for the next morning.
Now, for those of you who don't know about the timed coffee pots, listen up. A few years ago I started making Rowdy's coffee the night before and setting the timer so that it will just be done brewing as he gets out of bed, which turned out to perhaps be one of the dumbest things I have ever done. You see, if I happen to forget to do this, he then feels all neglected and mistreated the next morning when he has to make his own and then, in turn, apparently thinks I'm being mean to him. During this fateful week that had already seen that menacing cheese on the steak sandwich, I also forgot to pre-make his coffee. As I was loading the dishwasher Sunday night, I remembered and got his stuff all ready for the next day.
So, when I got home on Sunday night, Rowdy pulled me close to him, kissed me on the cheek and said, "That was a nice way to say you are sorry for the cheese on the sandwich. I accept your apology."
With my head tilted like a dog looking at his owner, I spouted off something along the lines of, "What choo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"
Rowdy then went to explain when he awoke Monday morning to an already brewed pot of hot coffee, he decided to forgive me for the whole cheese incident because I got back on the coffee duty. And, just like two days before, I threw a few obscenities around while I muttered about the day I was gonna snap and start putting antifreeze in that pre-made coffee while he literally laughed until he cried.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I snorted. "First of all, I have nothing to apologize for. You are acting like putting cheese on a sandwich is equivalent to draining our bank account without your knowledge or giving a handjob to the pool boy."
And, spoken like a true smart ass, he was all, "We don't have a pool boy, Shonda. Hell, we don't have a pool."
"That's beside the point, Rowdy. What isn't, though, is that the world will keep turning if you happened to have one harmless slice of American on your steak sandwich. And I made the coffee because I remembered to do it, not because I wanted to find some gesture to say I'm sorry for something I'm not sorry for. Jesus effin' Christ, I just know I'm gonna end up knifing you in the gut before this marriage is over."
While I am throwing my hands in the eye and twitching around like I'm having a seizure, his rolling laughter continues to grow louder. That's right, he was so proud of his comical triumph that he actually had tears rolling down his giggling face, which I don't think is too smart considering the crazy woman spinning into slobbering episode right in front of him.
The remote control is another source of near violence for me. It does not matter what I am watching or how long I've been watching it, when Rowdy comes in at night, he grabs that bitch and gets to flipping. Most evenings I just sigh and get to the dishes or chasing our lawless monkey children around the house. But, every great now again, I'm really interested in the program and then I have to freak out a bit. Last night was one of those nights. As I was frying fish and listening to Free Speech TV, I turned around to see my independent news source gone, only to be replaced with the poor acting of Arnold Schwarzenegger in Conan the Destroyer.

I'm sure my eyes were as big as half dollars when put one hand on my hand as I snapped my fingers and said, "Oh no you di'nt! You turned off my news to watch this bullshit."
I mean, the only thing that would've pissed me off more is if he would have found some Steven Seagal flick, but anything that involves the Arnold dressed up in a leather bikini while carrying around some stick that looks an awful lot like a meat tenderizer as he gives a rather poor portrayal of some ancient warrior is a close second to the greasy-haired Seagal.
As I was going into my foul-mouthed fit, Rowdy was just chuckling away as he always does when I'm ranting around the house, freaking out like guests of the Maury Show. And that's when Rowdy came up with perhaps the greatest idea he's ever had. Don't get me wrong, it took him like two whole minutes to tell me the whole thought since he was still struggling to hold back his rolling chuckles. But, once he got that bridled a bit, he suggested that I start making a list on this blog about, well, all the shit that does that makes me want to kill him. Don't get me wrong, I love him. I love him a lot, in fact, and thank God that. It has been that love that has kept me from going all O.J. on his ass.
So, anyways, at my brilliant husband's suggestion, I am going to periodically have this ongoing post about the most recent shenanigans he's pulled. Of corse, he says that he wants me to do this for all the laughs it will earn, but I kind of think he might want it all documented here for the prosecuting district attorney who will be seeking the death penalty in the event that he finally pushes me over the edge with all this cheese on the steak sandwich, pre-made coffee, Conan the Destroyer bullshit.

No, My 2-Year-Old Isn't Talking About That......

Well, letting my youngest boy follow in his Thomas the Train-obsessed older brother's footsteps has turned out to bear more damage than just the cheeky little engine further dominating my life and starting up more than one brutal battle between the brothers. It is now leading to more embarrassment than I already face when taking my children out in public.
When young children first start verbally communicating, the general public normally can't understand them for several months. To everyone but their parents and perhaps a few grandparent-types, their mumbled words are gibberish. No two children have the same language. But, to the parental figures of these children, this special language is crystal clear.
As Rolan's infatuation with the Thomas and Friends has grown, he has found his favorite train -- Percy. Maybe that is because he has been strictly forbidden from ever touching some of the others by Ridge the Toy Cop. Either way, Percy is the train of his little heart. He carries a Percy toy in his hand as he darts about the house chanting his name.
But, here's the thing with the chanting. As Rolan delightfully bellows Percy's name, he leaves out a very important part of it, the part that keeps it from sounding like, er, the nether regions of female porn stars. Simply put, there is no "ER" sound, just a PU followed by SEE.
As I was pushing him in the shopping cart a few days ago, his kung foo grip on his Percy toy loosened for just a second, long enough for him to accidentally drop the green train as I pushed forward. I was so focused on my ass-kicking coupons that my frazzled mind simply did not register his frantic screams until several other shoppers had already taken notice to my boy.
"PU-SEE</span>!" he yelled. "I WANT PU-SEE! WHERE'S PU-SEE?!?!"
I backtracked through the aisles, my eyes darting under displays and around carts. With each step, Rolan continued his loud chants and the eyes of many, many others were on me. And just as I was thinking to myself that his echoed words didn't really sound that bad, a rather witty friend just happened to stroll by.
"Hey, so what's that your boy is asking for?" she quizzed with a smirk on her face.
"His train, Percy," I replied. "He dropped him and we are looking for him."
"So, you're sure it's the train he wants?"
"Ummmm.....yes."
"Really? Because it sounds like he is saying something else."
"Oh yeah. Just what is that?"
"Well, I'll just say it sounds like the apple did not fall too far from the tree. Tell Rowdy I said that."
"You're an asshole. Do you think that's what everyone is thinking, too?"
"Oh," she giggled, "definitely."

On a different note, I hope none of you hope for me to love you as much as I love Chris right now. Don't get me wrong, you are pretty rockin' awesome, too. But, Chris has definitely figured out the way to my heart. Sure, he called me a good writer and I do love him for that, but when he complimented by skills at, well, bitching, he won my heart. Check out his site.

All My Bags Are Pack And I'm Ready To Go

Rowdy went on a "cattle buying" trip last week, which is basically code talk for "you and the two kids we have are driving me nutso, so with the added children I think this is a good time to let our cattle buyers in East Texas take a break for day." Don't get me wrong, Rowdy loved having the Webb children with us, but when both they and our two spawn started puking, he was all, "Peace out, Bitch."
Now, the reason that this is important to what I am about to tell you about is that he rode to East Texas in a cattle truck that was hauling our recently bought cattle to us here in Western Oklahoma and Rowdy decided to hop on board and let that be his transportation. And, unfortunately for me, as he was heading out the front door, he mentioned to our oldest boy Ridge just where he was going -- A SALE BARN. Now, I realize that many of you don't fully know just what that is and that those of you who do don't understand why my son would be so freakin' excited about it. So you know, a sale barn is basically what it sounds to be, a barn where cattle and other livestock are, well, sold. And to my boy Ridge this is fucking Disneyland.
After the extremely traumatic experience of his father not only riding on a cattle truck without him, but also going to his beloved sale barn without him, Ridge was on high alert for this sort of underground behavior. He was suspicious and trusted no one, particularly not his mother and father.
So when they cattle truck pulled down the drive way two days ago and backed into the shoots, Ridge immediately went into action. Rowdy, of course, was down there unloading the truck and I was in the bathroom with Rolan, working on the potty training. Like a swift gust of wind, Ridge yanked a suitcase from the closet and threw his clothes in it. Before I finished in the bathroom with his brother, he had shimmied the front door open and was dragging his packed luggage down the driveway.
He was off, a free man ready to ride the open road and see where the road took him. As much as I tried to convince him his father was, in fact, not leaving on that cattle truck, he was steadfast in his disbelief. Eventually I called Rowdy and asked him to come home in order to end the rather annoying protest that was taking place at the front door. Rowdy's skeptic paranoia subsided a bit then, but still lingered some.
Since then, Ridge has insisted on only wearing clothes that come from his suitcase. But, not only that, clothes that he himself actually physically removes from it. For example, I can't go yank something out of there for him to put on, even if it is in front of his own compulsive eyes.
So, yeah, not only did Rowdy get his little trip, but now I will forever have to deal with Ridge darting out of the house, blubbering and screaming, when a cattle truck unloads two or three times a week, but I will also have to adhere to him only wearing clothes that have been prepacked.
It's like I'm God's comedy.

Just A Talk Among Friends

Dear One Hour Photo Place,
Hi, How are you today? Me? Well, I'm not well, not well at all. You see, I don't feel like I'm the asshole for assuming that you'd have my photos finished within an hour. That is, after all, directly in the name of your business. It's how you advertise. The three words "One Hour Photo" are displayed all freakin' over your store. Now, because the last four times I've developed with you it has taken at least three hours for you to get my stuff done, I knew when I started uploading my photos that it'd take awhile. I was fine with this. I still had to pack up my scrapbooking supplies and drive the 30 minutes on over to Elk City and then unload my boxes. Sure, the other ladies would have a jump start on me, but I would at least get to hear the sailor talk from a bunch of 30 something mommas. Really, no one does pervy quite like my friends.
Since it was 7 pm when I sent the photos to you, I figured I would run up to your store right before you closed at 10 to pick up my stuff. I mean, that's triple the one hour promise. So, you can imagine my complete and utter fucking shock when you told me that they would not be finished until 1 pm today. Seriously, you open at 8. I realize that I did send almost 200 photos. That's a lot, I get it. But, assuming that you are part of a nation wide chain and that the big dicks in your corporate office are pretty obsessed with the now-elusive profit, I would think you probably have to be equipped to print that much relatively quickly. I mean, "One Hour Photo" is all over your store, surely you would be prepared to handle more than one customer in that hour.
Naturally, I would like to ask you if this is some sort of joke. I don't fucking want to be on Punk'd, Ashton. But, since I know in my heart that you are rather serious, I need you to explain to me how the hell it takes you 8 hours to develop 158 pictures. I sincerely think you should change the name of your service to "One Day Photo." Sure, we crazy old ladies in the scrapbooking posse would all be less inclined to use your business, but I also wouldn't be a big bag of swinging hormones wrapped into a ball of pissed off when I did.
So, even though I wanted to spend my time scrapbooking my family's more recent activities, I guess I will just do some random photos from the early part of last year. Having Christmas done by January would have been awesome, it would have. And, if I would have sent my photos to the OTHER "One Hour Photo" place like Miss Smarty Pants Mollie so wisely did, I'm sure I would have got it done. But, I didn't. Quite ignorantly, I held out faith this, this would the time you got it done in a responsible amount of time.
Suck it, assholes.
Love,
Shonda

Dear One Hour Photo Place (again),
Okay, so maybe I'm the asshole. I don't know why I thought I ordered like 158 photos. Somehow I got that first 1 confused with a 7. My bad. Remember that cluttered mess that was your college professor's desk? Yeah, that's my head.
I'm sure you are a little pissed about all that dry sarcasm in the last letter. Man, I was kind of a dick. You see, I haven't been able to scrapbook the last two times the ladies got together because I was photographing weddings. I still have freakin' t-ball to do from this summer. So, I'm gonna blame my nasty behavior on my motherhood insanity. My boys' books are getting kind of behind and I just can't let them grow up without all the shenanigans being well documented, you know, in case I need to use the whole, "Look at what you boys put me through" to keep my old ass out of a third world nursing home because I don't want to forget a moment.
The young girl who was working last night was not nearly as helpful as you, hard working manager. I'm really sorry that I said I was going to the other place. You know I could never leave you. You guys really do take good care of me and I hope you except my sincere apology. I can't believe you are going to have almost 800 photos done by 11 am. WOW!
So, please, don't suck it. I'll suck it. I'm totally the asshole.
Love,
Shonda

What If?

This week's Spin Cycle topic is >What if? You know, as in, "What if I had gotten that promotion," or "What if I had gone on the that blind date." It is the never ending question swirling around our minds about the life we could be traveling down if we'd only have taken a different turn.
When I saw this subject on Sprite's blog, I got really excited. After all, for the past several weeks, my mind has been plagued with thoughts of just how great things could have been had only one little tragic misstep happened. I've kept it pushed down deep inside, scared to death that once I let it out, there would be no taking it back. Like a festering splinter, this icky subject has continued to rise to the surface.
Okay, I'm just gonna do this, put it out there quickly, like I am ripping off a Band Aid. Here goes:
What if Grey's Anatomy star Katherine Heigl hadn't slapped the show's writers in the face by declining her Emmy nomination last because she felt she was "not given the material this season to warrant a nomination?"
Whenever she withdrew from the award process last year, I was as shocked and stunned as everyone else. I could just see the team of Grey's writers snapping their fingers as they hissed, "Oh no she di'nt."
But then the show let out for its summer hiatus and we forgot about all the Emmy drama. Well, when I watch the show each week and her character Izzy falls deeper and deeper into what has to be the most ridicules plot line I've ever watch disastrously unfold, I think the writers must not have forgotten it after all.
I mean, seriously, what other fucking explanation could there be for these highly talented writers to create and continue this fiasco? If Izzy were just stumbling all over Seattle Grace talking to a non-existent ghost, I would perhaps think it was a silly notion, but it wouldn't make me consider stop watching the show all together. Really, I could handle that.
No, the part where it goes from being a little misguided to just out and out absurd bullshit is when Izzy and her dearly departed old flame Denny start getting it on. I want to be clear, I think Denny (played by the super fly Jeffrey Dean Morgan) is about as hot as they make 'em. I really wouldn't mind living in a haunted house if he was the one doing the haunting. I'm glad that while the Grey's writers are turning this hit into a third rate soap opera, they are at least improving the scenery. But, even with all Denny's hotness, I do not think this storyline can be saved. They need to have an exorcism and bury this shit once and for all.
So, if you are a Grey's fan and, like me, have been thinking that maybe everyone related to the show has developed some terrible acid addiction that is preventing them from realizing just how fucking insane this entire plot line is, that is the best explanation I've come up with.
I think the Grey's writers were like, "Let's watch you turn down an Emmy you aren't nominated for in the first place, bitch."

Christmas Must've Come Early....More Nixon Tapes Released

I promised my homeboy over at godfatherblog.com that I would fulfill my bloggy obligations to receive the award he's so graciously laid at my feet. There's a whole list of shenanigans I have to pull to get the badge of honor, apparently including saying something nice to my husband with absolutely no motives of my own which is about as foreign to me as turning down a beer at 2 in the afternoon. I really, really intended on doing it today. That is, until I logged onto msn and saw that the National Archives decided today to release another batch of those fucking fabulous Nixon tapes.
Now, if you have been following this blog at all, you already know that I freakin' live for all things Nixon. Not because I think he was a good president, that's not it at all. Richard Nixon was one of the worst, most fantastically corrupt assholes ever to call that desk in the Oval Office his.
No, the reason I love Richard Nixon is no one, I mean fucking no one, does crazy like he did. Of course, his corrupt crown jewel was that list, The Nixon's Enemy List, he scribbled down on a piece of paper and then carried around in his coat pocket just in case he forgot for a second just who he wanted to "use the available federal machinery to screw." Now I'm sure you are thinking he at least put folks on the list like McGovern who ran against him in 1972. Well, you would be wrong. Let me tell you who did make the list, the late, great Paul Newman. On many occasions, Paul would say that, of all the blockbusters and success in his dressing business, he considers making the original Enemy List as the biggest success and his proudest moment of his life. He said it made him feel like he was doing something right.
I know you are probably dying of suspense. Come on with it, Shonda, whip out the new Nixon batshit crazy gems the National Archives gave us today. Oh, and by the way, in the off chance that you have gotten me a Christmas present, take it back. There is absolutely no way your gift will warm my quirky little heart like this shit did. Okay here goes:
-- On July 1, 1971, Nixon instructs Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman to have someone break into the Brookings Institution in Washington, D.C.:

"I can't have a high-minded lawyer ... I want a son-of-a-bitch. I want someone just as tough as I am. ... We're up against an enemy, a conspiracy that will use any means. We are going to use any means... . Get it done. I want it done. I want the Brookings Institution cleaned out and have it cleaned out in a way that has somebody else take the blame.

Or:
-- On April 4, 1972, Nixon discusses the press with Haldeman:

NIXON: “Return the calls to those poor dumb bastards ... who I know are our friends. Now do it ... We made the same mistake [Dwight] Eisenhower made, but not as bad as Eisenhower made, because he sucked the Times too much ... Goddamn it, don't talk to them for a while. Will you enforce that now?'
HALDEMAN: "I'll try."

Or this little pearl:

-- On May 18, 1972, Nixon talks to Henry Kissinger about the National Security Adviser's meeting with Ivy League college presidents regarding the war in Vietnam:

NIXON: "The Ivy League presidents? Why, I'll never let those sons-of-bitches in the White House again. Never, never, never. They're finished. The Ivy League schools are finished ... Henry, I would never have had them in. Don't do that again ... They came out against us when it was tough ... Don't ever go to an Ivy League school again, ever. Never, never, never."

And one more for the road:

-- On Nov. 14, 1972, Nixon talks with his aide Charles Colson about his landslide re-election victory over Democrat George McGovern:

NIXON: "What in the hell did you think of McGovern's statement on the election? Wasn't that the sour grapes crap again?”
COLSON: “Well, it's unbelievable, the arrogance of the guy ... God, what a bad man. Just awfully glad we got him buried and put away for good. I think he is.”
NIXON: “Oh, he's buried. He's buried."

Jesus, I am getting misty-eyed nostalgic, so much so that I looked up the obituary, if you will, that one of my favorite writers, the late, great Hunter S. Thompson, penned after Nixon finally went the way of all evil Bond villains when he died in 1994. Hunter always said not making Nixon's Enemy List was his life's biggest disappointment. And as you read this, I want you to remember that not long before he died, Hunter said that George W. Bush makes Nixon look fun.

As a farewell to his old adversary, Hunter wrote this:

Richard Nixon is gone now and I am poorer for it. He was the real thing--a political monster straight out of Grendel and a very dangerous enemy. He could shake your hand and stab you in the back at the same time. He lied to his friends and betrayed the trust of his family. Not even Gerald Ford, the unhappy ex-president who pardoned Nixon and kept him out of prison, was immune to the evil fallout. Ford, who believes strongly in Heaven and Hell, has told more than one of his celebrity golf partners that "I know I will go to hell, because I pardoned Richard Nixon."

I have had my own bloody relationship with Nixon for many years, but I am not worried about it landing me in hell with him. I have already been there with that bastard, and I am a better person for it. Nixon had the unique ability to make his enemies seem honorable, and we developed a keen sense of fraternity. Some of my best friends have hated Nixon all their lives. My mother hates Nixon, my son hates Nixon, I hate Nixon, and this hatred has brought us together.

Nixon laughed when I told him this. "Don't worry," he said. "I, too, am a family man, and we feel the same way about you."

It was Richard Nixon who got me into politics, and now that he's gone, I feel lonely. He was a giant in his way. As long as Nixon was politically alive--and he was, all the way to the end--we could always be sure of finding the enemy on the Low Road. There was no need to look anywhere else for the evil bastard. He had the fighting instincts of a badger trapped by hounds. The badger will roll over on its back and emit a smell of death, which confuses the dogs and lures them in for the traditional ripping and tearing action. But it is usually the badger who does the ripping and tearing. It is a beast that fights best on its back: rolling under the throat of the enemy and seizing it by the head with all four claws.

That was Nixon's style--and if you forgot, he would kill you as a lesson to the others. Badgers don't fight fair, bubba. That's why God made dachshunds.

And as I read this, I also realize that someday, some spectacular day, the National Archives will start leaking the Dubya tapes. Will they be as good as Nixon's? Will they be better? I guess only time will tell. In fact, I am going to use this, living long enough to hear the Bush II tapes, as my New Years motivation to take better care of myself. I know, I know, it should be living to see my boys all prosperous and successful. Don't get me wrong, that's a big perk. But, I must admit, I'll be pissed if I miss out on this, I will be pissed. Until then, on this fantastic day, I miss Richard and Hunter and all the devils and angels from a different era.
If you want to read more of Hunter's obit, read here.

PS-- I promise not to write about politics again for a long, long while.

Fuel For Fantasies

Well, Readers, today has been a long, chaotic day. I had this whole blog planned out in my mind, but you'll have to somehow park your eager anticipation and sleep through the night. It will be here tomorrow, though.
But, until then, I leave you with this, something to get you by. This is a little convo I had with my brother in law Chad last week. To fully appreciate it, you need to know before hand that this wife Jennifer can definitely be described as straight laced.

CHAD: Holy cow, did you see that gas fell below $2 gallon?

ME: Yeah, I saw that. It's crazy.

CHAD: I thought I'd have a threesome before I saw that shit again.

The Sushi Haunts My Dreams

The first beams of the day's light slid through our bedroom blinds as Ridge pulled me from my fleeting slumber, his small hands pressed upon my cheeks. Ready or not, the day had begun.
"Momma, I'm hungry AGAIN," he whisper with a heavy emphasis on the last word of his declaration. Like a bear in a preparatory binge for winter's hibernation, Ridge has been on an almost never ending eating spree in the last few weeks. I know he'll sprout like corn toward the sun before too long.
"Momma, I need some sausage," he impatiently sighed. "I'm really, really hungry AGAIN."
After the boy complied to my demand for an energizing kiss, I pulled my dragging ass from bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, nagging aches trickled from my shoulders to my toes. The night's rest provided no rejuvenation, none at all.
Since I started that marathon reproductivity campaign a few years back, this shit has taken a more regular occurrence than my much less rested years of my booty-shaking youth. Now, don't feel too sorry for me, crippled old lady that I am. Most mornings I leap from bed like a Spring chicken. Well, maybe an early Autumn chicken, if there is such a thing, but nonetheless I normally feel better than I deserve considering how I've treated my body. And when I do creek from bed like rusty old doors on a forgotten barn, I figure I did something to encourage it and just chalk it up to the rather fantastic years of beer drinking.
However, on this back-throbbing, knee-knocking morning, I knew it wasn't the good times of yesteryear that painfully plagued my quite sizable rear. Nope, that wasn't it at all.
Now, before you go suspecting Rowdy of spousal abuse and, Lord knows, it's a wonder he hasn't taken up that honored pastime yet, let me tell you that I already know the culprit of this crime. It's sushi!
Yes, you read that correctly. It is mind-numbing, almost-as-good-as-sex sushi. When I say it haunts my dreams, I mean that as literally as it can be taken. Damn that sushi, I tossed and turned all night long as visions of salmon and eel danced in my head. I envisioned ingredients from my favorite rolls merging, thus creating the Elvis or Einstein or whatever icon you happen to worship of Japanese cuisine. Sushi ran through my mind with such vibrant dominance that my body simply didn't recharge as it was suppose to. It was as though I was unsuccessfully seeking shelter from a sushi tsuanami, forceful waves of sticky rice and postachios beating against the helpless levees of my willpower. And I know I will have no peace until my taste buds are satisfied.
Because I live in a region of the country with more cows than people, as you can imagine, we are kind of in short supply of sushi-serving restaurants. Otherwise you can bet your sweet ass that I would have probably eaten $50 worth for lunch. I text messaged almost every person I know to see if they were in Oklahoma City or had any possible reason to go, hoping I could bribe them in bringing some back for me.
So, if ANY of you are going to Oklahoma City for any reason, you can overtake the loving part of my heart generally dominated by my darling children if you will just bring me the freakin' sushi. If you need something from the city, but can't go, please push your need upon me so I can have an excuse to make the journey. I mean, seriously, show your compassion -- GIVE ME THE FISH! As you know, this would typically be where I made some awesomely randy joke about the female anatomy that would make any teenage boy proud, but I just can't. My mind is too sushi-consumed to even do what comes naturally to it.
So, if you have never tried this addictive goodness, DON'T! It will take over your life like a ruthless crack habit. For those of you who have, hook a sister up. GIVE ME THE FISH!

The Hat Came Back

With the first gusts of the blistery cold each year, Rowdy breaks into the same annual panic. Just like the year before, his ridiculously hideous Elmer Fudd/WWII pilot's cap is missing. Panicked, he searches in feed pick-ups and barns. He yanks coats out of closets, scouring through their empty pockets to no avail. After a few days, he surrenders the battle, heartbroken at the thought that THIS is finally the year that his beloved hat is lost to him in the vast oceans of our random junk.
As Rowdy mourns the loss of this eyesore, I relish in the hope that this ridicules hat is at last gone from our lives. Secretly I celebrate its due departure. Now, I know my man works hard out in the frigid Oklahoma elements, so I buy him some attractive replacement.
But, just like each year before, the brown furry nightmare returns. It is like the Henry Houdini of winter accessories. I think it is finally gone and then, BAM, out of nowhere it reappears.
And so goes the story of this last week. We looked for the hat unsuccessfully. I delighted in its death. Five days later Rowdy comes in for lunch with it fastened upon his head. That's right, fastened! Did I mention it has a chin strap that Rowdy proudly ties around his mug? Well, it does!
When I was a little girl, there was this brief cartoon that came on Nickelodeon in between shows about a relentlessly annoying cat whose hapless owner couldn't be free of, no matter how hard he tried. With each attempt, a song played in the background.

The cat came back the very next day. The cat came back, thought he was goner. But the cat came back, he just wouldn't stay away.

Throughout the cartoon, this poor, grumpy old man simply wants peace from this nagging, irritating cat. No matter what he tries, his attempts are fruitless. I never knew how much sympathy I had for his plight until now. Damn cat, damn hat!

When Rowdy walked in this weekend with his unholy trophy, that song ran through my hopeless head. He can look for that damn thing in every possible place he can think of with absolutely no luck. And just when the search party is abandoned, it show up. Every.single.time.
It's like magic.....horrible, unbelievable, pain-in-my-freakin-ass magic.

Just in case you still aren't understanding my torture, I'm gonna go ahead and post the "Cat Came Back" so perhaps the extent of my plight will be seen.

8 Reasons Lists Are For Sissies

For the past two days, Anna has been totally pimping out her plan for world domination, which is, simply put, list-making. She says it makes you look more legitimate and God knows I am in dire need of that.
So, I have decided to jump on her awesome bandwagon and make my own list. So, pay attention, kiddies. Here goes.

Shonda's 8 Reasons She Thinks Lists Are For Sissies
1. I want to remember the wildly important shit I need to do solely on the superb power of my brain. I mean, sure, I'm gonna totally drop the ball at times. For example, I've been twisting my mind in knots for weeks to muster up the memory to renew my license so I don't have to take the whole freakin' test again. I thought about putting it on a list, but lists are for pussies, right. So, I wandered down to the tag office today after weeks of the information pinging around in my skull to complete the quest.
They were like, "Dude, this expired a month ago."
And I was all, "Ummm....a month minus one day."
Then she was all cleaver and said, "We don't have a grace period."
And I was like, "Shit, do I have to take the test? I barely passed it the first time and even then it was just by the grace of being a skinny, flirty 16-year-old and striking the good fortune of getting a slightly pervy driving instructor who was slap dab in the middle of his midlife crisis. I mean, I don't think a fatass housewife in gray t-shirt will have the same postive effect twisting her gum and batting her eyelids."
And then the super cool lady eased my concerns by saying, "You don't have to take the test. You just have to have your birth certificate."
So then I blurted, "Well, hell, that's even worse. I live 30 miles from here and tracking that bitch down will be harder than finding an American bank with money left to lend."
And that's when it hit me.....my birth certificate was in my car, where it has been since we went on our cruise in May. Like once a freakin' week I've seen the damn thing and thought as I stuffed it in the crevice beside my seat how taking it in the house and putting it with all the other "properly-filed" important paper work inside the house was the responsible thing to do. But, I would leave it, you know, 'cause I like living on the edge.
I ran out of the tag office and went straight to the birth certificate in my car. So, my inefficiency and supreme unorganization totally paid off, bitches!
Oh, I forgot to mention, though, that the license making machine broke on the girl right before me, so I spent 30 minutes sitting at the kiddie bench staring at a list of the presidents for nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, I do think I have all their middle names memorized now, which should come in handy when I chant them in question form at Alex Trebek while my two sons stare at me as though my hair is on fire.

2. If I started making lists, the polar ice caps would most certainly melt into a rushing universe of water. Now, I know you are probably thinking, "Geez, Shonda, I think your wacky liberal mind is finally eating itself. One list won't rise the temperature of the earth by 20 degrees."
Well, perhaps, ONE list wouldn't. But, in order for the purpose of list-making to be realized, you must actually arrive at the desired location with the aforementioned list. Since I would have to make a list about the list and, in order for it to work, I would have to repeat that process so many times my fingers would bleed from all the rapid writing, at least 8 trees would have to meet their chainsawed end for the mission to met success.

3. I am not Go Go Gadget. Shocking, I know, but I am not. So, for a list to exist (rhyme time, bitches), I would have to figure up a way to transform my finger into a pen. Although my house is a virtual ocean of pens, they all have a use.....one use.....the same use. And, what is this vital purpose, you ask?
Ummm.....to hold my stringy hair out of my face. I have a few mere drops of sanity left and they all depend on my hair staying out of my hair and off my neck. If, for some reason, Operation Keep My Shitty Hair Away From My Skin fails, I fear I will storm into some random barber shop and violently perform the Britney Buzz upon myself. Sadly, I don't possess Brit's class and charm, so I just don't think I could pull the 'do off like she did.
Before all my damn hair ties mysteriously evaporated into the great nothing, our household pens were allowed to be used for other purposes, you know, like writing. Or as medieval weapons in the Great Battles of the Little Brothers. But, for several months now, each and every hair tie I own has vanished. Wait, I take that back. I have one that is broken in the middle so I have to twist it around my hair like 14 times for it to hold up a pony tail and then the wrap is so tight it makes my temples throb, but still, my hair isn't touching my damn neck.
I have intended for a long time to splurge the $3 for the package of 30 hair bands, but I just never remember when I am at the store. If I made lists, I would totally put that shit on it.

4. Shopping without lists turns the boring, drab experience of household duty into a sport. Seriously, I think Las Vegas bookies should make odds on it.
"Hey Moe, Susie Homemaker's got a big birthday party this weekend, plus her diabetic father-in-law is spending the weekend. She has 22 items to buy at the grocery store, 17 to buy at Wal-Mart, plus she needs to have the propane filled in the guest house. I will lay you 4 to 1 odds that she forgets at least 9 things."

"Well, Lucky, let's make it a parlay. I'll say she does remember the propane, but that she forgets to buy the anti-allergic soap her mother-in-law needs at the health food store. Plus, my money says she remembers the kid's cake, but forgets the candle and that she forgets at least 11 items at the grocery store."

"You're on, bitch."

5. For chronic underachievers such as myself, the rare shopping success is an absolute self-esteem boost. When you realize that your outting was victorious, you can relate to Alexander the Great when he conquered the world. Well, the part of the world that they knew existed at the time. Alex can't be docked for the regions he didn't know about just like I can't be punished for not being aware that Rowdy ate his last pickled jalapeno. I don't eat them, I don't like when my bottom burns like a peeing sailor with the clap. Therefore, I cannot be held responsible for replacing them unless Rowdy directly tells me that ass-burning pickled jalapenos are gone.

6. 'Cause I like to party. I realize that has absolutely no relevance to this particular discussion, but I giggle like a school girl every time I get to that part in The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. My sister always busts that out at random times. I find it humorous each time she does, but I bite my lip to strangle the laughter. I mean, seriously, she can't be the pretty sister AND the funny sister. That funny shit is mine. I only let her be the pretty one because I think beauty is for vain people. Well, that and I'm too cheap for plastic surgery.

7. Because I can't find one of those chalkboard necklace contramptions to wear around my neck. Now, if I could hunt down one of those awesome jems, I would make lists for the sole purpose of making my poor husband shake his head and continue to wonder out loud just how many different types of Mexican date rape drugs I slipped him on a daily basis until I lured him down the aisle. Seriously, I should write a book titled, "How To Get Any Man To Marry You Before They Realize What A Thorough, Batshit Crazy Wackjob You Really Are."

8. Well, I'm only to number 8 and I'm out of aimless ramblings to add to this list. I think that only furthers my argument that I am a bad list maker and should just never, ever have to do it. Plus, lists are for sissies.

Grocery Store Prices, Just Makin' It Up As We Go

In order to fully appreciate this little conversation I am posting below, you need to know that I was at my local grocery store and literally standing in between the clerk and the assistant manager as they shared this exchange.

CLERK: She got some of that iced coffee, but it's not scanning. Do you know how much it is?

ASSISTANT MANAGER: Ummm....no I don't.

(brief pause, then clerk just pounds in a few numbers,)

ASSISTANT MANANGER: Just charge her 99 cents.

CLERK: I just charged her $1.99.

ASSISTANT MANAGER: Great, that'll work.

Then I'm just standing there, mouth gapping open in shock, looking at the clerk then back at the assistant manager. As soon as the assistant manager, the clerk had the same look and whispered to me that she would just charge me the 99 cents.
In spite of that, I was still shocked. And not because I mind paying the extra buck. It is, after all, just a buck. But, shocked because the assistant manager is just ballparking prices and willing to accept charing a customer, I don't know, DOUBLE. So, readers, tell me what you think about this.

Real Cowboys Don't Pay Entry Fees

I was already about half-sick when I was driving through Elk City, taking Rolan to the doctor's office today when I saw the signs of the inevitable. This is Elk City's Rodeo of Champions weekend. Each year I feel the same dreadful pit in my stomach when I first spot the red, blue and white banners. Like a cramping period, you can do nothing but grit your teeth and push through it. I am a well-documented fun hater and I'm sure you think this is just more evidence to that fact. Trust me, it's not. Just ask any of my former co-workers. (For further evidence of my fun hater status, click here or here.)
Now, I know that many of you locals are already all up in my arms by my last statements. I know because I've mentioned my pure disdain for this ridicules bullshit to some of you businessmen and, with your eyebrows scrunched all disapprovingly, you scold me for lack of loyalty to the town.
"Don't you know how much extra business this thing brings in for the town? they ask.
Well, fuck yes, I know this brings extra business to town -- a shit ton of unmanageable business. And, do you know how I know that it brings in a shit ton of business? Well, let me tell you how.
For ten years, I hustled and grunted through the swarms of descending "cow"boys, packed 10 to a dozen in each booth that typically seats four at the Pizza Hut. Then the parade would start, that motherfucking parade, and the Pizza Hut parking lot would get so damned full with onlookers, totally spellbound as though they've never seen a shitting horse or a high school marching band, that our delivery drivers would have to park two blocks away to come in and get another round of deliveries.
And, yes, the Pizza Hut made some sweet profits each of those years I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off, explaining to one drunken "cow"boy after another that I would serve them a beer, just not Coors Light. We didn't carry Coors Light. And every other damned week of the year this wasn't a problem. But, on Rodeo Weekend when everyone is a bonafide, true blue cowboy, they cannot be expected to demean themselves by drinking Bud Light. So, while the restaurant I was working my dog ass off for was clearly some bank, I never made any extra money. Sure, there were a swelling number of tables, but they were generally bad tippers. Plus, I would spend half the damn day scrapping horseshit out of the carpet because you know each parent let their children run into the road to pick up parade candies they could buy 50 fucking pieces of for $1 at the dollar store. As Little Johnny or Little Suzy would bend down to snag their sugary prize, you could bet a million dollars their adorable boots with the waffle soles would land smack dab in the middle of a fresh turd. After the parade, they would mosey into the Pizza Hut where each one of the little bastards would brush their new boots off on our floor.
In between dealing with the hurricane of poo and the belligerent Coors Light loyalists, I would periodically have to lock myself in the walk-in to keep from laughing in the faces of local business people. I would see these folks on a regular basis throughout the year in their polo shirts and Gucci shoes, all combed and slick for a day of commerce. But, when the rodeo rolls around, you can bet your sweet ass they are dressed up like Pecos Bill.
Now, you are probably thinking, Shonda, I thought you dressed your kids in Western clothes all the time. I thought you married a cowboy and together you run like 7,000 head of cattle each year.
Well, you would be correct on all that. My husband is the quisessential cattleman. He ropes steers off a four-wheeler, chasing cattle down dusty lanes, lives half his life riding around in pick-ups taking head counts and patching fence and the other half doctoring sick ones and shipping off the ones ready to sell. And yet, with all this cowboy-esque duty, he manages to do it without looking like an extra in the Tombstone movie. Sure, he sports Wranglers and a pearl snap, sometimes even with a flower print, but he leaves the chaps at the house.
But, for these people on this weekend, it is like Halloween for adults. The more gaudy cowboy accessories they can pile on, the happier they are about it. As I would serve them pizza, just during this solitary week, they'd wink and say, "Why, Thank ya, Ma'am."
Then I would walk off, shaking my head at the bizarre alternate universe we will embark to once a year.
Now, I have to say that I really respect the hard work of the ten men on the rodeo board. They spend most of their year working hard to bring a professional level event to our tiny corner of the world. If half the community didn't go ape shit crazy during Rodeo Weekend, it probably wouldn't aggravate me a bit. In fact, I don't remember harboring all these volatile feelings about the thing until after I went to work for the Pizza Hut when I was 14ish. But, after slaving through that first year with barely a bump in pay, I knew this damn rodeo would forever be my arch nemesis.
So, listen up, folks. Take your kids out to the rodeo, I really hope you do. It's good family fun and I am all about supporting the community. In fact, my boys are getting old enough that I am sure I am going to have to end my protest and take them. But, if you wear Levis or Dockers for the rest of the year, by all means, wear them to this. If you let your children rush into the street during the parade, for God's sake, brush off the shit from their shoes BEFORE you take them into a restaurant.
However, if you are really wanting to witness some real life, crazy cowboy shit, come on out to our place. I think Rowdy has to rope a few steers later on this evening. After you see him drive his four-wheeler with one hand, zooming by at 30 miles per hour as he ropes a 900 pound steer, you'll nod your head and agree that that is a show. As I've always believed, Real Cowboys Don't Pay Entry Fees.

Hay is for Horseshit, Hickman City

As I drove to my aunt's restaurant a few weeks ago, cell phone glued to my ear as always, I came upon a big black man in a turquoise western shirt, galloping on his gallant horse upon the paved city road. Before I even saw his face, I knew who it was -- my father's lifelong friend Ricky. When I say big, I mean BIG, well over 6 foot and built like a concrete refrigerator. And, when I say turquoise, I freakin' mean turquoise, blind-you-in-the-dark turquoise. I'm sure the sight of a man no smaller than the average NFL linebacker riding his horse all over town has made many a passer-by stop and gander throughout the years. But, Ricky has been riding his horses in town for as long as I can remember and he is far from alone in that. Just off the top of my head, I can think of a handful of families who do the same. Yes, periodically you might stumble upon a little horseshit in the roadway, but that seems to evaporate into nothingness after a few vehicles have driven over it. The rear-end exhaust may smell a little worse than that of a Chevy Trailblazer, but it's much better for the environment. Plus, it gives the feel of the Wild, Wild West and God knows we are all about that.
So when the headline "One Horse Town Squabbles Over Banning Horses" on msn.com, I clicked on it figuring it was set in some suburb cresting upon a booming metropolitan. But, holy shit was I wrong.
Yes, apparently the city council of some Nebraska community called Hickman City (for real? Hickman? Not even a great fiction writer could make this up) voted last night to keep an ordinance that bans all horses within city limits.
For me, this would be no problem. I haven't ridden a horse since I got bucked off this wild bastard owned by a local attorney in 1995. The mishap resulted in a concussion and, much to my ornery husband's disappointment, I haven't been on one since. Oh wait, that's a lie. I did get on one 5 years ago at Packsaddle long enough to have a full blown panic attack. But, I don't think that counts.
Anyways, the article on msn will definitely pluck your heartstrings. A 76-year-old Hickman resident Harley Scott (awesome name, right?) and his 32-year-old horse Peter Rabbit are at the center of the controversy. If the ordinance remains in tack, Peter Rabbit will be forced to leave the farm he was born on over 30 years ago or Harley will face a fine of $100 a day.
So, good luck to you, Harley. And Hickman City Council, chill out, bitches. You may or may not have noticed that this Hickman City isn't a big tourist trap. The glitterati isn't descending to your non-existent resort in swarms. In fact, your "western" charm has probably been the only draw you've had and now you are biting the hand that feeds you. Oh wait, that's the wrong pun. You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink. Is that it? Or is it, don't look a gift horse in the mouth? Screw it, you know what I mean.

Self-Celebrating Day Drinking: I love BIRTHDAYS!

Oh, birthdays, the one day a year when self-celebrating naricism and mid-morning day drinking is A-okay! How I love you, birthdays.
Ridge and I have already gotten into a jaw-locked battle of wills over one of my birthday prizes. Aunt Lyndi sent me a box full of goodies, including Burt's Bees, Jelly Bellys and this finger-lickin' Ghardi (or however the hell you spell it) caramel-filled chocolate.
Ridge cried for like 20 minutes, whaling, "No, it's not your birthday. It's my birthday. Don't eat my chocolate! Don't eat my candy."
And I was all, "Back off, punk. This shit is mine."
And then I slowly sucked all the sweet caramel goodness out in front of him and he flopped around like a protesting fish out of water. But, I didn't care because he's not getting my birthday. I don't care how cute he is.
So, happy birthday to you, Shonda. I only have one more year until I celebrate my first 29th birthday. My Grandma Nita tells me the third 29th birthday is really the best, but I still have a few years before I am there yet.

Catholic Nuns Gone Wild: Miss Sister 2008

As the old saying goes, sex sells and it looks like one particular Catholic priest wants to cash in on the booty train.
As you know, I love the internet. In between snooping on myspace and shopping sprees on amazon.com, pure bliss is always just a keystroke away. And when I stumbled upon this saucy story on msn.com this evening, my filthy heart went pitter patter. I mean, I love sex jokes and I love religion jokes, so finding this article is like hitting a pop culture jackpot.
Apparently this Italian priest and theologian Antonio Rungi is organizing an online beauty pageant for nuns because he feels their reputations as ruler-toting sadists or ancient, old hunchbacks just isn't fair. He wants the Catholic Church to recognize them as the hot pieces of ass they clearly are. My guess is now, with Rungi's assistance, they will.
Since setting up a blog is so simple (I think the existence of my blog is ample evidence of that), Rungi plans to start the contest through a blog he will run, of course, thus allowing nuns all over the globe to participate in "Miss Sister 2008." Once the Battle of the Biblical Beauties kicks off, Rungi wants us to "vote for the nun they consider a model."

"Ummmm....Sister Mary, the orphans are starving. Could you please bring more bandages?"
"Chill, Sister Rose. I'm uploadin' my pics to www.pimpanun.com."

OR

"Word up, Mother Superior."
"Word up, my child. Have you decided what platform you will be discussing in the pageant?"
"Like, totally, I'm talking about modesty."

OR

"Sister Teresa, I need to tote some bling during the evening wear. Do you think I should wear the crucifix or the rosary?"

OR

"I'm, like, totally stressin' about the pageant, Sister Katherine. What do you think I should do for the talent portion, feed the poor or treat the dying?"

Okay, I'll stop. I could seriously go on forever.
So, when any willing nun finds free time from, I don't know, serving the Lord, they can log onto Rungi's site, whatever that might be, and fill out a profile about themselves. A photograph is required. Naturally, they will be able to pose with a traditional veil or their hair uncovered. I mean, this is all about freedom.
As one would imagine, some of the Church's higher ups are already protesting the pageant. I doubt any of these upstanding folks are the same ones who shuffled dirty priests from one parish to another. I think their indignation is totally legit. Totally. What will the Baptists and the Methodists think, Father? Jeez!
Then again, maybe the nay-sayers are being holy sticks in the mud. Rungi has, after all, given his good word that this isn't going to exploit the nuns in any way. Religion? Exploitation of women? Never!

"We are not going to parade nuns in bathing suits," Rungi said by telephone from his town of Mondragone. "But being ugly is not a requirement for becoming a nun. External beauty is gift from God, and we mustn't hide it."

Don't you want to serve God, sisters? Hike up your robe, girls. Your hot legs are an instrument of the Lord. I feel an 11th Commandment coming on.
Thou Shall Flash Thy Boobs.
Now, jump in the jacuzzi. That's just bubbling Holy Water, girls.

An Economy-Size Pain the Foot

Dear Reader,
I write this to you for your own good. Heed my cautious warnings.

As you know, I am lured into savings like trailer-dwellers into a flea market. That's a lot. Do you know how I know? Because I live in a trailer and nothing warms my heart more than a plastic Jesus with the Ten Commandments written in Spanish. Any place with multi-colored cotton candy and every design conceivable on Zippos is a tropic resort in my mind.
Focus, Shonda. Your readers need you.
Okay, I know it's hard to resist a good deal and, normally, there's few bad things that result in a little extra jingle. However, no matter what you do, DO NOT BUY THE ECONOMY-SIZE SHISH-KA-BOB SKEWERS.
Strolling through the Sam's Club about a year ago, the package caught my eye.
1,000 little sticks for, like, $2.
That's what I spent on a measly 100 not long before that.
I couldn't pass this up. That's like (let me do the math in my head) 900 free. Just imagine how handy that would be if I needed to torture, I mean use "enhanced interrogation tactics," on Rowdy. In case you've never submitted to a totally accurate allergy test before, those little prickly sticks can inflict as much pain as a leather bull whip. Trust me, you'd rather sneeze.
Even though I only make shish-ka-bobs and tempura 12 times a year, at the most, I just couldn't walk away from this bargain. Throwing the skewers, which were in a clear bag as round as a Pringles can, into my basket, I envisioned all the grilled delights I would serve with my nearly endless supply of, well, supplies. I brought them home, stuck them in my cookbook basket and they've rested peacefully there until last month.
Almost magically, Rolan became an adventurous, strong-willed explorer on his second birthday. He is literally everywhere. He's like the wind, like the destructive, giggling wind.
As he was crawling over the kitchen counter (and don't you know that I just freakin' love that he's crawling on the counter), the industrial-size package of shish-ka-bob skewers caught his attention. While most folks see culinary materials, Rolan saw a stockpile of drumsticks. ONE THOUSAND LITTLE MUSIC MAKERS, PERFECT FOR HIS TINY HANDS. And, of course, the metal legs striking out from his high chair chime when the skewers are struck against them. With a powerful tug from his strong little arms, the plastic bag was torn and wooden skewers flew all over the floor. They rolled under the stove and whisked into the living room. They were everywhere!
So, when you stroll past the skewers at the savings club at a price that completely disorients your reasoning, just move past 'em. Leave 'em alone. Trust me, Readers, there's few things more painful than a wooden lance piercing the skin of your unsuspecting feet as you stumble to the coffee pot.
So, Reader, I pray you listen to my advice. I only want what's best for you
I Love You,
Shonda

PS-- Please ignore the messy, cluttered kitchen in the background. It's really not always that way. Well, that's a lie. It is always that way.

Now You See Me, Now You Don't, Bitches!

The boys and I were acting out The Pirates of the Caribbean, their old plastic baby bathtub serving as Captain Jack's ominous pirate ship when Rowdy barreled through the front door.
As you know, I've somehow become a total disgrace to my gender and forfeited control of the...hmmmmm.....lovin' to my man, so I promptly jumped vessel when Rowdy summoned me to the bedroom. I know I've betrayed you, ladies. I'm sorry. I don't know how it happened. He seized the flag and I can't recapture the citadel. I promise I won't let him tell the others. What if they all knew they, too, could control the marital relations like a ruthless puppet master, yanking the powerless strings of his captive doll? Seriously, who wants to vote when you can't manipulate your man through lengthy deprivation of sex?
As Rowdy and I were walking down the hall, he informed me that he was going to Woodward for the night to make sure the 500 head of cattle we shipped arrived as expected. All nonchalantly, he then informed me he would return home sometime tomorrow afternoon.
I'm sorry, what? You're coming in here, throwing together less luggage than I'd take to the grocery store and telling me you are going on a mini-holiday two hours away.
Now, you know I like that his mind's on the money and the money's on his mind. Me and Snoop Dogg, we are one in the same. But, just popping this on me last minute only further lets me know this asshole isn't nearly as scared of me as he should be. God, if I was only in control of the intercourse.
Then, surfing the internet, I found the answer to my prayers, my stalking-Rowdy's-every-move, watching-his-every-breath prayers.
It's not available just yet, but according to the scientist at the University of California, Berkely, I may soon be able to hunt Rowdy totally undetected. Apparently these scientists and researchers, led by Xiang Zhang, are nearing the development of materials that will render people and other objects invisible, a dream come true for insecure folks like yours truly.
One step forward for man, one leap forward for stalkerkind.
I have LuLu-drops dancing in my unbalanced head.
If I could only get my hands on these "metamaterials--artificially engineered structures created at a nano scale that contain optical properties not found in nature," I could slather myself in, well, whatever the hell that is and monitor Rowdy's every move. I could be sitting in his hotel room as I type. Remember that movie When A Stranger Calls Back when the super creepy ventriloquist paints himself like the brick wall and then pounces on the unsuspecting woman. Except I wouldn't have to find some starving artist with a stomach strong enough to paint me in the buff. I could just lather myself up in this invisible psycho juice and monitor Rowdy's move like Big Brother. It would be his Orwellian nightmare. I don't think he knows who Orwell is, but with that kind of Godly power, I'd make 1984 feel like Sesame Street.
According to this article on msn.com, these recent findings by the University of California, Berkley and Zhang were funded in part by National Science Foundation's Nano-Scale Science and Engineering Center and, of course, the U.S. Army Research Office. The findings, which will be in this week's Nature and Science, "could have broad applications, including for the military," the piece explained.
I wonder if this means someone will finally find Osama bin Laden. Clearly sniffing out the kidney dialysis center he's receiving treatment from will never produce the beanstalk terrorist, so perhaps if we were invisible, we could sneak up on him.
This new revelation is a little frightening. Turn on your tv. Now flip to CNN. Are they talking about the Olympics? I figured. Okay, wait a few minutes. Are they talking about Georgia yet? No, not Ted Turner and the Braves Georgia. I mean, Russia invading it's neighbor Georgia. Now, just imagine if all the tanks were unforeseen by the naked eye. The ability for mankind to fly below the radar, for any object to exist as though it's ghost, will have the same lethal effect as the atomic bombs we dropped on Japan. In the short-term, the impact could very well end a war, though their existence will likely lead to many more.
But, did the atomic bombs ever let me hide inside them to hunt down my man? No. Now that's a disaster.
You're going down, Rowdy!

Brent Rinehart Doesn't Speak (OR DRAW) for Oklahoma!

Before you read any further, let me warn you: there are going to be a lot of cuss words. This post should have been filed under the Complaints and Grievances tab, but I'm so pissed that I couldn't run the risk that some of you might miss it back there.
When the hate-filed products of a hidden camera at a fund raiser for Sally Kern, the prune-faced Republican Representative to the Oklahoma House, were leaked to youtube, I was mortified. Although much of my shock stemmed from her insane charge that some invisible gay agenda was penetrating (I picked that word on purpose...What up!) our public schools, I found it even more alarming that the entire country knew this crazy bitch served in Oklahoma's government. Now, Oklahoma is definitely a conservative state. We haven't given our electoral college to any Democrat since Kennedy, but we are also a state of loving and intelligent people. I know it is very unliberal of me to say that while I disagree with some of my conservative friends, most of them are good people at heart. Perhaps the most offensive allegation was that this "homosexual agenda," which is in a full-swing recruiting period according to Sodomite Sally, poses a bigger danger to the American public than TERRORISM. Re-read that sentence. Seriously, terrorism. Sally's not a native Oklahoman, so perhaps that is why she would compare, I don't know, the second largest terrorist attack on American soil, the Murrah Building bombing on April 19, 1995, with tax-paying, law-abiding and often God fearing Americans seeking equal protection under the law. As this letter to Sally from a young many whose mother died with 168 other innocent people that day proves, this isn't the right place to be watering down the impact of terrorism. We know all about it and it wasn't some Middle Eastern fundamentalist who unleashed all that blood mayhem upon the Oklahoma City Federal Building. Rather, it was a Middle AMERICA buzz cut country boy with militia delusions who ended many lives and damaged even more.
But, as outraged as I was at this Oklahoma move-in Sally Kern and her ridicules bullshit, that pales in comparison to the out-right anger I'm feeling toward Oklahoma County Commissioner Brent Rinehart. Like I said before, as pissed as I am at Brent's homophobic insanity, I'm even more pissed that these two nut jobs are solidifying the rest of the world's poor opinion of Oklahoma, the state of my heart.
Brent's been no stranger to inflammatory comments about homosexuals, but he's kicked it up about a million notches. Earlier this week, a comic strip dreamed up by him and drawn by some asshole named Shane Suiters was leaked via email. See the full comic here. Of course, Brent apparently plans to mass produces them, so we would've seen it one way or another.
The motivation for this outrageous comic isn't just to draw attention through some twisted shock and awe tactic Brent must've picked up in the military, but also because he is facing felony campaign finance charges, alleging Rinehart and his former campaign manager illegally funded the 2004 campaign for county commissioner. A trial has been scheduled for September, which is after next week's primary. One donor, Jerl Methvin, has already plead no contest to one count of making a contribution to a political candidate in excess of $5,000. He was given this week a six-month deferred sentence, ordered to pay court costs and will testify against Rinehart and others implicated in the scheme.
So, I guess to weaken the creditability of these charges and Oklahoma Attorney General Drew Edmondson, a comic foe of superhero Rinehart, Brent got drunk on crazy juice and hatched this plan. Apparently, he thinks that Oklahoma voters are so stupid that we would get our hands on this poorly-drawn piece of shit and then believe that he must be innocent.
On page seven of this garbage, the two fictional Oklahomans, one imaginary neighbor explaining to another just what a servant to the good Oklahoma principles Ole' Brent is, the balding dude says to the big haired woman,
"The last big gun the Good Ol' Boys could fire at Brent was to get a Democrat and homosexual advocate Attorney General Drew Edmondson to file campaign charges against Brent at a time that prevents Commissioner Rinehart from clearing his good name."
Then some stiff in glasses, who I assume represents Rinehart's attorney or maybe some other lunatic helping him further this madness, explains to the two comic neighbors,
"He is innocent and will be proven so in September, unfortunately after the primary. But that's part of their plan to defeat Brent."
There might be Oklahomans who carry these homophobic regards, but again, no one likes to look stupid. Thanks, Brent! Not to mention that, Drew Edmondson may be a Democrat, but he is far from a liberal. I think Brent is also a bit willy nilly with "advocate." Yes, Drew has vocalized his belief that homosexuals shouldn't be discriminated against in the work place, but he hasn't gone out and campaigned for any radical social reforms, either. But, I think Brent's loose definition of advocate probably includes people who don't have wet dreams about cracking open skulls outside the Copa Cabana.
As I scanned through the 16 paged masterpieces (seriously, 16 pages of CRAH-ZAY!), I was bewildered by a cocktail of emotion. On one hand, I was enraged by this asswipe trash. On the other, it is soooo over-the-top that I couldn't help but giggle. In all seriousness, I hate that each gay friend that I have started their week here in Oklahoma worried that this incendiary bullshit might inflame some rage-consumed homophobe who might use this as justification to hurt them. But, still, it's hard not to laugh at this.
As fantastically crazy as the entire thing was, the best part came from two supporting roles: Satan, who naturally supports gays AND any political adversary of Brent's, Republican or Democrat, and an angel, an avid Rinehart supporter, of course. Truthfully, I'm awe-struck that this blasphemous asshole didn't roll out the big guns with a flying Jesus. I suppose this where his finely-tuned editing eye came in.
Poking his pitch fork toward a frumpy mother grasping her potato-head son, Satan says,
"If I can just get the kids to believe homosexuality is normal."
Then the pixie angel gleefully declares,
"Hey Satan, not with Brent around you won't!"
When I read through all this witty Satan-Angel banter, I truly thought this shit couldn't be any more like a religious acid trip gone awry. I was wrong. As I scrolled to the next page, I was shocked by a penciled protest where Satan, a true star in this classic, and men dressed in togas like Julius Caesar are waving signs in support of Brent's opponents. Where's Waldo is also there in full protesting form. I guess he's gay too! That explains why we can never find him. All this time he's been hiding in some dude's asshole.

Naturally, the comic declares gay men and pedophiles as one in the same. By the way, the brilliant artist spells pedophile with a "F." Maybe that stands for faggot, who knows. I'm the queen of typos, so don't think I'm getting all self-righteous. But, if I were going to print something like this, I would get the important words like that right. They also declare Brent as a staunch opponent of "anal sodomy." I'm not sexpert, but is there another kind of sodomy? Oral sodomy? Vaginal sodomy? If anyone could clear this up for me, I'd appreciate it. The cherry on top of this homophobic sundae is that Rinehart repeatedly refers to liberals as "good ol' boys." This thing is really ground-breaking. We've been called a lot of things, but good ol' boys has never been one of them. That's typically reserved for the White Knights of the Klu Klux Klan. You know how pro-gay they are. It's no wonder you can never find affordable Prada and Gucci in white! I know it's hard to pick up on sarcasm on print, so let me just specify that I AM being a wise ass here.
Clearly people like Brent Rinehart and Sally Kern believe that only values that are values are theirs and the only laws that matter are the ones they support. That explains why for the SECOND time, Sally Kern smuggled her gun onto the Oklahoma State Capitol this last Wednesday. While Sodomite Sally does have permit to carry a concealed weapon, firearms are strictly prohibited there. Thank God the x-ray machine at the check point caught her. I know some fabulous gays at the Capitol and I don't want this ticking time bomb bigot armed around them. Jesus, what if they criticized her terrible hair cut? She looks like Jimmy Johnson in a pant suit. Like I said, this is the second time Kern has brought a damn gun in. She, of course, claims to have forgotten the firearm in her purse because she was in a hurry, but you and I both know if this would've been a rainbow-clad member of the non-existent pink army she's waging war against, she would be calling for their pretty little heads. Rinehart would be right there with her. Then again, maybe Sodomite Sally was packing heat because she suspected Rinehart's gay gaffe would reignite the fire storm that her comments sparked. I mean, she did receive death threats. Oh wait, law enforcement went through each message and each email she received and they could never find the death threat she CLAIMED to receive. Liar, liar, Sally's pants are on fire!
Clearly only a pathetic, insane and, above all, desperate man would stoop to such ludicrous measures to win a primary. Now, unfortunately I don't live in Oklahoma City, so I won't get the distinct pleasure of voting against this dickhead next Tuesday. But, for all of my readers who do, please get to the polls. We can't stop Brent Rinehart from making himself look like an asshole, but we can stop him from making us look like one!