I Can See The Cheyenne-Arapaho Nation From My Porch

Hello, it's so nice to finally meet you. I've been a fan for a long time. Do you mind if I call you John? (insert wink)
Great, you can call me Shonda if you'd like. Just go with your gut, I know that's where you really excel anyways.
Well, John, the reason I'm tracking you down today is that I need a job. I mean, with the American consumer going completely freakin' bankrupt and not having the keen foresight of being a corporation so their poor financial decisions could be "bailed out," I fear they'll only be able to scrounge up enough cash for a few beans for their daily meal. Typically a steak dinner is reserved for folks with enough cash to not be, I don't know, homeless, so I'm kinda concerned that the product my husband and I produce, beef, is going to become more of a luxury item for the few rather than the evening meal of the millions. That coupled with $5 a gallon diesel, which makes pulling a profit out of wheat crop easier than Katie Couric wrestling answers out of your girl Sarah, I think this might be the time for me to cut my apron strings and get a job.
But, here's the thing, John, I feel like I am far too qualified and, more importantly, too cool for most the jobs I've been being offered. So, I put on my trust Thinkin' Cap, known by many as shot-gunning a six pack (a little trick I learned from my friend Joe Six Pack. I think he is a common acquaintance of mine and your girl Sarah), and came up with a solution. You see, John, I'm a skilled problem-solver.
As I surfed the world wide web, I learned that the two of the only sectors with positive job growth during the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson Presidency are government and the oil and gas industries. I'm sure you are already aware of that since you supported 90% of that chucklehead's policies and resolutions. In fact, this reassures me of both your and Sarah's competence. God bless you, you saw this shitty economic Hindenburg plummeting toward it's fiery demise and you planted your brilliant butts into job security. Good for you, I say!
Since I'm already living out here in gas-rich Western Oklahoma, I'm sure you'd assume that I was going to pursue a fat paycheck in the oil patch. Well, John, I know lots of folks who work their asses off in that line of work and, to be honest, I just don't really want to have to work that hard. If you ask me, there are only a few activities are acceptable for 5:30 in the morning and drilling ain't on that list. Well, I guess "drilling" is approved, but it is the kind that you don't have to leave your cozy bed to do. I'm just looking for a job that requires a little less, well, work and a little more air conditioning.
I was starting to get a bit discouraged, John, as my quest for the perfect employment was bearing no fruit. Oh, speaking of fruit, does that offer you made for the $50 a hour lettuce-picking gig in Arizona still stand? It's not for me, you know I'm not gonna drag my fat, red-headed ass out in the 110 degree sauna that is Yuma for $50 a hour. But, for that kinda cash, I will totally force my whining offspring to pick that shit all year long. Hell, when they are finished with that, I will make them whip you and I up a nice chicken salad with some ranch dressing, perhaps a few almonds and sun-dried tomatoes. I think child labor builds character. Don't you agree, John?
My brain has always functioned most efficiently after I've cracked open a Bud Light. So, after I listened to that prick who ran Lehman Brothers into the ground whine to Congress about how the value of his Lehman Brothers stock had declined, you know because of his shitty decisions, and how he thinks it is absolutely fair that he gets to keep the $500 million in cash bonuses for his splendid job performance over the last few years, I realized I needed a second beer to really fuel my brain.
That's when it hit me, Joh. I should come to work for you! Like I said before, unless you work in the government or energy, you are probably worried that your job is going to disappear.
So, I googled government jobs. Several caught my eye, but I pushed forward in my quest. I think you will be pleased to know that I'm no quitter, John. When I am committed to task, I do not blink. I am that sure.
And then it happened, the job that I was born to do popped onto my screen. It was like when Derek met Meredith in Joe's bar and he was, like, totally drawn to her. Or like when Sarah Palin saw her first hockey puck.
Are you ready? (Drum roll please)..........
I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Assistant Secretary of the Interior, the one who runs the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Now, I realize that I won't actually be a "candidate," that you would have to appoint me or something along those lines. I just taught "formally announcing my candidacy" had a more professional ring than "please, John, I'm begging for the job."
I know with your super thorough vetting and interviewing process, you are going to rummage through the entire background of each and every appointment you make in your administration. So, on that note, I have a little confession to make. I kinda, sorta already asked Barack if he would give me the job. I mean, I've always believed that you would storm into Washington on the Straight Talk Express and Put Country First. I just didn't know if you would win. You did, after all, lose the GOP nomination in 2000 to George Bush.
After Barack intereviewed me, I realized you guys were righ. He is a snobby elitist. He gets all self-righteous about qualifications and credentials and I was like, "Dude, you think because you went to Columbia and Harvard and have that sky high IQ are you are sooooo special."
The interview really did happen.....in my highly-evolved, not-at-all bizarre brain. It went something like this here:

ME: So, ummm, Barack, I really need a job and I think this Director of the Indian Affairs title would sound awesome right before my name.

BARACK: Well, Ms. Little...

ME: Please, call me Shonda.....or Assistant Secretary Shonda, whatever you feel comfortable with.

BARACK: Uhhh....okay....Shonda......tell me the education and qualifications who have for this position.

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. First of all, I live just outside of Cheyenne, Oklahoma on the Washita River. When I sit out on my porch at night drinking a cold beer while I yell at my kids to stop throwing rocks at one another, I can see the exact location that Custer massacred that sleeping village of Cheyenne women and children. There's a huge monument on the spot and everything. I'm pretty for sure it's part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation. So, yeah, I have very close relations with the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation.

BARACK: And you can see it from your porch?

ME: Oh, yes, absolutely! I can see the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation, well at least the part that not one single person lives on, from my house. As someone who can see another nation from her porch, I feel like that also gives me a wealth of foreign policy experience.

BARACK: Shonda, the Bureau of Indian Affairs is the oldest department in the Department of the Interior. The Department of the Interior only handles domestic issues, so foreign policy experience, as you called it, doesn't necessarily qualify you for that post.

ME: Oh, you want domestic experience! Fantastic! I am a domestic goddess, Barack. I can turn any three ingredients into a gourmet meal. I think my sizable ass will speak for that qualification. Would you like to see my credentials?
Three years ago, I started baking my kids' birthday cakes because I just couldn't stomach forking over $40 for a product that cost $3 to make.I've also pioneered a method to prevent lazy women from ironing. I use it daily.

BARACK: Yes, Shonda, frugality is a positive attribute, however, the Department of Interior doesn't really handle baking or ironing.
Do you have any actual experience in matters that the Bureau of Indian Affairs does handle, such as managing the 66 million acres of land held in a trust for the 562 federally recognized American Indian tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. Yes, I do. As you know, my husband and I farm and ranch. After helping my husband move farm equipment, I have sat stranded in a pick-up truck hundreds of times while Rowdy farmed. I normally manage that time by drinking warm beers left in the truck while texting messaging one of my friends about the enormous pile of bullshit I think being left in that sweltering truck is.

BARACK: Are you actually involved in the land management?

ME: Well, I'm not actually "involved" in making any decisions, but sometimes my husband really gets desperate and forces himself to let me plow. I have to tell you, Barack, that is a time I truly enjoy. I feel at one with land as I drive my giant tractor while listening to NPR Radio and narrowly missing fence posts with my plow.

BARACK: (quiet for lengthy period of time. Clearly he does blink) Another responsibility of the Bureau is to provide quality education. Does your background hold any experience in this field?

ME: Hell yes it does, Barack. I spent my late teenage years teaching younger kids how to drink beer. That's where my passion for education was birthed.
Just this week I taught my oldest son to tell his father that he was making him crazy. I also taught my youngest son to whiz off the front porch. Those diapers we are soaking through freakin' dozens at a damn time are bad for the environment, Barack, and like my Indian brothers and sister, I am want sit in a Circle of Harmony and smoke peyote with Mother Earth.


BARACK: Shonda, I think that statement may sound a bit racists to some.


ME: Oh, forgive me, Barack. I know white folks need to be careful when using racially specific words like "brothers and sisters." I apologize.

BARACK: White people have siblings, too, Shonda. That's not what I was referring to. Rather I was offended by the "Mother Earth" and "peyote" comment. It is wildly offensive to suggest that all Native Americans sit in circles smoking drugs to be one with nature.


ME: I just want the Native Americans and Mother Earth to be happy with me, Barack.


BARACK: Are you saying that you consume drugs, Shonda?

ME: Of course not, Barack! I am one of those people lucky enough to have a brain that hears non-existent noises and sees non-existent things all by itself. It's kinda like having a television in your head that no one knows about but you.

BARACK: You know what, Shonda, let's just move on. Providing quality health care to Native Americans is also a mission of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. How does this reflect your personal values?

ME: Well, for starters, Barack, I feel like they should be able to smoke peyote in the case that they develop cancer....or are a Cancer, like the zodiac sign. I feel like the same right should be available to Virgos, Geminis, Libras and any other strange star formation.


BARACK: (shakes head, clearly annoyed for reasons I don't understand): Let me state this more directly. Have you ever worked in health care?


ME: In what sense, Barack?</span>

BARACK: Well, have you ever worked in health care means have you ever been employed with a job that stabilizing and improving the health of other people was one of your tasks?

ME: As you know, Barack, like Sarah Palin, I've turned my uterus into a baby oven. Just as she has explained, being a mother makes you an expert on anything directly or indirectly linked to your children. Have I studied medicine? Well, in a sense, I have, Barack. Almost every time my children cough medicine, I read the label. I mean, if there is a butterfly or some flowers on the medicine's label, I don't read it. I know the FDA would never allow a drug company to place symbols of safety and happiness on a product they know might harm my kids. In those occasions where a butterfly, for example, his fluttering his majestic wings as he sails over a blooming Spring flower, I fearlessly shot that shit down my kids' precious throats.
Also, I have held the Kleenex while my kids have blown their noses on several occasions. I cared for their umbilical cords until they fell over, which likewise gives me experience dealing with amputees.
Oh, and I also breastfed both my sons, which gives me solid credentials in food production and circulation as well as nutrition. Do you think just anyone's milk glands would just aimlessly produce that perfect formula of breast milk immediately following the birth of an offspring, triggered by hormones that all females naturally make after their bodies give birth.


BARACK: (stares blankly at me. I guess he's taken a class on true leadership since he has clearly given up blinking). As one of the most important functions of the Bureau, you would be responsible for promoting economic opportunities for the Native American tribes in the very off chance that everyone else in America, including Dick Cheney and George Bush and Sarah Palin have disappeared and you actually got the job. Do you have any knowledge in positive ways to promote economic development for these tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. I just wish we had more time to talk about this. I'd like to start by saying that the reason my husband unselfishly exposes himself to lung cancer is so that we can help support our Cheyenne and Arapaho neighbors by puffing away on those cheap ass cigarettes they peddle. I've read that you've been known to light up on occasion, so I would like to call for you to also make the patriotic sacrifice of capitalizing on, I mean investing in, the awesome discounts at the Indian Smoke Shops.
Also, here in Oklahoma our Native American friends have the good fortune of being able to profit because of the great future planning of the ancestors. You see, because their great-grandparents had the foresight to generously donate their land in Western Oklahoma to the Land Runs, now they have the opportunity to operate those casinos. Do you know what makes that big-hearted offer of all that land to the white man even kinder? They gave us all the oil underneath it, too, and because of that philanthropy on the part of the Native Americans, my grandparents now get to use their royalty checks to see America from their 50-foot fifth wheel.
So, I would like use the donation of their land and oil and, now, wind energy to my home state (and, indirectly, those lucky bastards whose grandparents and great-parents ran in the Land Run, thus hooking them up with those fat daddy royalties), I would like to help my Native American brothers and sisters. And the first way I'd like to help, Barack, is by finally serving up the booze in their casinos. Seriously, every single time I go in there, I walk around all clear-headed and sober from the utter lack of intoxicants pumping through my blood stream and think to myself, 'Jesus, Shonda, you'd sure be wasting money at much less responsible rate if these Indians would just get you drunk.'
Listen, I've been to Las Vegas on more than one occasion and I can tell you that the key to successfully pillaging your betting customers is by pouring free drinks down their unsuspecting throats through the helping hand of metallic-lipped, ass-shaking waitresses. Now I realize that our Indian friends aren't quite as crafted at disguising a ploy to steal money through fake generosity of their friends, so I would like to execute my patriotic duty and pale face heritage by helping them with this. And, Barack, we must start with alcohol.

BARACK: This has been a very....interesting interview, Shonda. I appreciate your time and interest, however, I don't think you quite have the experience and qualifications to direct the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It's been nice meeting you and I hope you have a pleasant day.

ME: What, you aren't hiring me? Suck it, Snobby Elitist.



So, John, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first. I know you won't make me mull over my qualifications, looking down your super wealthy nose at me. I mean, seriously, not all of us can be raised in a tiny apartment by a struggling single mother on food stamps, studying our already brilliant asses off to earn academic scholarships. I've always favored your wild child path through education. I mean, I think going to a private prep school and then getting into military college with a good word from your 4-star general dad and granddad shows your ability to excel from an early age. Beyond that, it takes a ton of courage to choose freedom over conforming, and by that I mean the balls to tell your powerful parents to suck it, that you'd rather drink beer with strippers and graduate 894 out of 899 rather than oppressively chain your handsome nose to a book. Now if that's not mavericky, I just don't know what is. That is the exact same course I took through school, John .Like you, I always go with my gut instinct. And if that just happened to be skipping school to drink beer all day at the lake, then by God, that's what I did. I think that should tell you what a fantastic job I would do as Assistant Secretary of the Interior, overseeing the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
John, you recognized that Sarah's ability to see Russia from Alaska earned her foreign policy experience. Well, John, I can jump on a four-wheeler and actually be on part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation in about two minutes (insert wink). Not that long ago, some of our cattle got through the fence and ended up on their land. I was able to negotiate the top-level talks that got them back onto our land. Well, I sat next to Rowdy while he bullshitted on his cell phone with the super nice dude who runs the deal. But, my instincts and swift actions helped lead to peaceful solution. And by that, I mean that I thanked him for his kind help and then offered him a beer, which he in turn thanked me for and then drank. It was diplomacy at its finest, John.
So, I look forward to working with you next year. For uneducated and unqualified people such as myself, I'm glad to see this period of repression for underachievers has finally come to an end. Sure, occasionally horse trainers have ended up running, I don't know, FEMA, which worked out so positively for hurricane victims. So, perhaps it isn't such a ground-breaking phenomenon. But, when George Bush appointed "Heck of a Job" Brownie to the head post with FEMA, it was cronyism. That's not what you are doing by picking Sarah and now me. Oh no, this maverickism.

'Cause the Glass Half Full Makes Me Nervous

I don't like it when life's road is a gingery glide along a tranquil stream or some such shit. Well, it's not that I'm all anti-harmonious made-for-television moments or anything like that. If they were just that, a moment to come and go, then I'd probably skip along side the chipping larks and fluttering butterflies.
But, as it is, I know that when life's road is smooth, it isn't just a moment. It's anything but that. Rather, it's the preface for a stormy Hindenburg collision. You show me a cheerful man whose day is pacing along in perfection and I'll show you a dude who is going to stub his toe while tripping over his dog's puke. Or I'll show you a dude who is going to inadvertently crash his new beloved sports car into a vehicle his wife is traveling in, unbeknownst to him, with her younger, hotter lover.
Now, before you start lecturing me about the sunshiny glass half full philosophy that you live your super corny life by, I want you to know that I love my pessimism. I adore it. And do you know why, Mr. Chipper Pants? Because my pessimism has never failed me.
While all those plastic-smiled optimists are bummed out on the sidewalk because their favorite Idol was booted out on his ass by the ruthless Simon or because a mud puddle somehow found its way into their fresh, clean path, I take life's numerous disappointments and failures in stride because, well, I knew that this shit was most likely going to implode into nightmare. And then, every great now and again when life does throw me a unsuspected curve ball and things work out as though it is happening in some euphoric Hollywood script, I get to be surprise. And, really, who doesn't love surprises? I mean, there are a few no one loves, like when your ex-girlfriend surprises you with the knowledge that her special lady time is a few weeks late, but aside from that, surprises make us feel like cotton candy is in the soul.
Let me break it down for my "special" readers: Optimism = tons of disappoint, Pessimism = occasional surprises!
Now, I'm not detailing my well-established beliefs is suckism to further convince you of my fun hater status, though my guess is that it is. Oh, just so you know, suckism is a word I totally just made up to describe the doctrine that this (fill in the blank) sucks.
Let me get back on track. The reason I am writing all this is because in the rare and random incident that life just somehow cooperates to my will, I get nervous. And I mean real nervous, like that knotted up stomach I get each time Dick Cheney snarls at me on the television.
If, out of the clear blue, life magically falls into place, I start looking for the poop in the corner. So, after I laid Rolan down for his nap, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I walked into my bedroom to find a peacefully napping Ridge.
I didn't tell him to lay down. I didn't scold him for three hours, repeating in an endless loop, "Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down. Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down."
I didn't bribe him with 4,000 empty sugar calories. I didn't even have to turn on some terrible Western. He just took it upon himself to swaddle himself in my covers and rest.
So, because of his divine miracle transpiring from no effort on my part, I know something real shitty is going to happen this afternoon. One of the kids will get sick. No, wait, both of the kids will get sick. After they puke in unison, they will slug it out. Then their favorite toys will disappear. Or George Bush will come on television and, after he gives the super-educated Washington press corp definitions to words already know, he'll announce that he's liked "presidentin'" so much that he's decided he's just gonna keep doing it next year.

The "Don't Be A Douchey Joke Thief" Campaign

In case you've somehow missed it, the heavens came together this week to make the universe just a little more harmonious than it was before that. No, I am not referring to the fact that the government is finally keeping it real rather than trying to mislead you into believing that you live in a capitalist country. That's not it at all.
Dane Cook, douche bag supreme that he is, is finally being recognized as such by the rest of the world. Apparently his little puppy has been shitting all over his Los Angeles neighborhood and, in keeping with being a total dick, Dane has refused to pick up the doo. I mean, he is a semi-star, right. You wouldn't ask Brad Pitt to pick up shit. Except that Brad Pitt isn't a dick, so he would.
The neighbors complained, the poop continued. His landlord gave three formal notices to pick up the mess, the poop continued. The landlord finally filed a lawsuit to evict Dane and, after the judge ordered his ass out, Dane suddenly takes this shit (pun very much intended) seriously. While appealing the ruling, Dane has explained that leaving the apartment would deal him an emotional hardship. You see, Steve Martin and John Belusi once lived in the same building and Dane claims that he draws inspiration from that for his work.
Here's my question: Are you fucking kidding me, Dane? Inspiration for what? Writing? Pah-lease! For comedy fans like myself who are constantly looking for a good act to follow, we know that many of your jokes have been stolen, straight up stolen, from other comics. Listen up, Readers. Do you know how to tell if a Dane Cook joke was written by someone else? If you laugh, that's how.
For my dime, few things are most lowdown than a joke thief. It goes beyond stealing money, it steals the craft the writer uses to make money.
In case you don't take me at my word on this, just watch these two videos below of jokes Dane Cook has stolen. Then you can join me in my quest for the extermination of Dane Cook, or at least his presence on my television.


When I rented Dan in Real Life, I was excited to watch this movie with my man Steve in it. But, I couldn't get into it. I spent the whole movie wondering how that asshole Dane Cook got in the damn thing. Where all the actors dead? Couldn't they find some vagabond on rubbing alcohol to play the part?
I'm far from alone on these sentiments, just google it. As yeeeah, said, "In what might possibly be the first concrete evidence that God exists and does not hate us, Dane Cook was evicted from his apartment because he is a selfish, oblivious asshole who refuses to use a pooper scooper."
Now, I've believed in God my entire life, so I don't see this has the first evidence of his existence like yeeeah does. I just think of it more as Him giving me this little gift to make up for the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson presidency, kinda like when your man sends you flowers after he feels up the babysitter.
So, heed my warnings, Readers. Dane Cook is a dick and, even worse, a dirty joke thief. Don't watch his movies, no matter how much you love Jason Biggs and/or Kate Hudson. I've always enjoyed both their movies, but I won't be watching this new movie My Best Friend's Girl. Why, you ask. Because Dane Cook is in it and, unless the video is of him being a joke thief or getting evicted or enduring some other act of misery, I will watch no footage that includes him.
I think I am going to have some of those bracelets made to raise public awareness. We will call it the "Don't be a Douchey Joke Thief" campaign.
Or, as yeeeah also said, "I mean, you can’t expect a sack of shit to go around cleaning up piles of shit. That’s like asking someone to shoot their own brother in the face."

For Those Who Missed It: The Sponge Bob Conspiracy

I posted this the first time several months ago. Since this, I have made a few new friends, one of whom has been bitching about her own children's addiction to this absurd cartoon. You know how seriously I take my patriotic duty, so I am re-posting this to spread the word.

I'm not for sure where my kids got turned onto this little gem, but I have my ideas. SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS! One day they came home, chanting and pleading for me to turn it on the tv. Seemed harmless enough. And since its on Nickelodeon non-freakin'-stop, I just flipped it over and there it was. Because they seemed so pleased and entranced, I went ahead a recorded it for good measure.
Over the next following weeks, Ridge asked for it more and more while Rolan danced gleefully in the background at the prospects at watching this underwater sponge living a pineapple.
Well, one day I decided I should maybe watch this with them. I mean, I know that no tv is really that good for kids, but Thomas the Train, the undisputed champion of Ridge's heart, periodically talks about colors and letters. Plus Ridge has learned to talk like a cheeky little Englishmen, abandoning the word "mad" for "cross," i.e., "Mom, Rolan is playing with my train. I am so cross."
Anyways, let's get back on track. So, I sit down with my guys one afternoon to see what all the fuss is about. With my mouth dropped open, I was shocked at how many times this one tiny sponge could burp and fart, as though my boys need any encouragement in this department. The sponge bumbled around foolishly as some grumpy squid or whatever schemed on selling kids for profit or something, just one more thing my boys probably won't need any further encouragement with.
Immediately I banned Sponge Bob and all his ridicules friends from our house. Just put it on the shelf next to the Nascar and the Grizzly Man log-sawing contest or whatever the hell that is that Rowdy soooo loves to watch.
As soon as I erased this nonsense, my living room looked like Tienanmen Square, China, circa 1989. Ridge and Rolan were in a fully brazen protest and you know I was gonna mow that shit down like all those tanks over those freedom-starved students. (I know, I know it's probably immoral to joke about such a thing, especially coming from a self-described liberal such as myself, but I bet you laughed.)
After the Great Sponge Bob Famine of 2008 began, I spent a lot of time thinking about such a show and how it ever came to be. And before you start sending me some hate mail because you love Sponge Bob, look down at your one-hitter and your hacky sack. Yup, that's why I don't want my kids watching this bullshit.
Now, if you happen to be one of those neocons, follow closely. You are gonna love this. After all, that nutty windbag Jerry Falwell decried that the purple Teletubbie was making our kids homosexuals and you all went banannas. Here goes: I think Sponge Bob was created by the Taliban to dumb down our kids, thus setting the stage for an out-and-out jihadist invasion in about 15-20 years. I mean, if I wanted to conquer their shit hole countries, this is exactly what I'd do. I make a show that was so silly and ridicules that all kids would love it, but have the underlying message be, well, burping and farting. Osama bin Laden is behind this, I just know it.
And since I'm a sworn enemy of Osama, I'm waging war on this Sponge Bob Conspiracy and I think you should, too. I mean, do you want the insurgents to win? To quote my man Dub, you're either with us or against us. Osama is against us and so is Sponge Bob. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I bet Osama loves Sponge Bob.
I don't give a shit what former or current comic geek is credited with the creation of this little cartoon nightmare. Osama was behind it. Haven't you ever seen Super Troopers? Johnny Chimpo, need I say more.
So, there you go. I've done my patriotic duty. George Bush told me if you see something, say something. I've passed along the information. Go well, my friends.

Bill, I Love You So, I Always Will.

Dear Bill,
Happy 62nd birthday! I hope you are having a good one.
I miss you so much, Bill. I look out the window and long for the days that the definition of sex was our most controversial national debate. Remember that time you said, "It depends on what your definition of 'is' is."? Oh man, I'm tearing up.
After you left office, the American people started looking for a president they could have a beer with. I told them all this was a mistake. Everybody knows good presidents are like the neighbor you'd have an affair with. Geez!
Now that Little George is borrowing billions from the Chinese each month, I'm so thankful for the budget surpluses you left us with. Just imagine how big our already overwhelming debt would be if you hadn't! I sure wish Little George would have followed your good example of "blowing" off steam, no pun intended. I think he needs a blowjob, Bill. Wars are the products of the sexually repressed, right Bill! That's why I follow your prestine example and get laid as often as possible. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask if you can just do your country. What's up now, bitches?
So, Bill, I hope your living it up on your birthday. Hell, look at who I am talking to you, I know you are, Big Pimpin'! You are my favorite president ever, hummers and all.
I Love You,
Shonda
PS -- Aren't you glad the FDA approved Viagra, coincidentally during your administration. Now, that's what I call universal health care.

PSS -- I really, really love you. I love you like you love big-haired blonds with blue eyeliner. Kisses! Hugs! Remember that song, "Bill, I love you so, I always will?" Do you think that could be our song? Please?

PSSS -- Happy Birthday, Melissa! I love you half as much as I love Bill, which is a freakin' lot.

Paris Does Politics

Well, I've been meaning to blog about John McCain's sad and desperate campaign ad, the one comparing a scholarship-winning Columbia and Harvard graduate who also happened to be the first black editor of the Harvard Law Review, to globe trotting trust fund babies. Please forgive me, my brilliant readers, I've been busy wrangling my lawless children into conformity.
Now, if I would've gotten around to writing that blog, I would've explained how it reminded me of a middle-aged, desperate divorcee, dressing two generations younger than her age or buying midlife crisis Corvettes he can't afford, just to win the attention of an uninterested old lover or a new one, young enough to be his/her child. During McCain's speech last April given aboard the Straight Talk Express, I was all inspired as the old geezer promised to run a clean race, focused on the country's issues and problems rather than dipping into the gutter for spin-doctor dirty politics. Honestly, I already knew the false, sensational email chains on the Internet would add enough smut to this election, so I hoped McCain would stick by his good guns on this one. After all, he knows better than anyone what the collateral damage caused by this kind of politics. Few campaigns have been nastier than the primary he ran against President Bush in 2000, in the Carolinas in particular. He took a few below-the-belt hits thrown by Dubya. But, after some Bush mob, namely Karl Rover's protege Steve Schmidt, went to work for the McCain Camp this week, they lured Ole' Johnny to the dark side. It's hard for me to pinpoint what I find most alarming about the Bush presidency, but at the top of the list is his spoiled frat boy badgering he has lavished upon other world leaders who have disagreed with him. I hope this cheap shot ad of McCain's isn't an indicator of the same isolationist, Imperialistic Bush policies.
Well, I kept scolding myself for my lack of productivity in blogging, Readers. Now I'm glad I spent all that time scouring myspace profiles rather than writing about this ridicules bullshit.
I woke up this morning not knowing it was going to be better than any childhood Christmas morning. No, Santa's elves didn't whip my cluttered house into shape as we slept. Yes, that wise-crackin' Ridge is still talking back to me. So what, do you ask, made this day's dawn better than Kahlua in my coffee? Well, let me tell you. In response to McCain's (the old, white haired dude) ad comparing her to Barack Obama, Paris the heiress released her own. The best part is when she boasts, "Get ready for the debate, bitches."
Simmer down, McCain fans. As you see in the video, Paris, like, totally tells Barack what's up, too.
Like a cocktail waitress in a tacky wig, John McCain was reaching for something that simply wasn't there. When I saw this video this morning, I could just envision John flying into one of this famous shit fits, like the time he called his wife a CUNextTuesday in front of TV cameras. But, it was he who ran that ridicules ad, so it was he who invited this hilarious rebuttal by either of the two people featured in it who aren't running for the presidency. As absurd as Paris is in many ways, she quite cleverly demonstrates that she and the Democratic Nominee are apples and oranges, or three-piece men's suit to a barely pieced swim suit.
***Oh, on a side note, my man Barack has pissed me off recently with his FISA vote, a strategy to look tough on national security.

See more Paris Hilton videos at Funny or Die

This just in, George Bush touched my heart today.

Now before anyone of you pass out or suspect that I've been smoking heroin, rest assured I have not. If you know me at all, you probably know that I've been a pretty big critic of President Bush's. But today, as he gave a press conference in Iowa, he gave notice to those in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, due to their recent floods, but then assured that all the smaller communities will likewise be attended to by their government. That region of the country, by the way, is one of the most critical. I know many of you might not see it like that, but instead see it as a fly-over state like my beloved Oklahoma. But, Iowa raises a huge portion of our domestic crops and therefore is essential to our country's independence.
Now, don't get me wrong, I will hope that the president keeps his word. There was one other time I was all moved by him. I'm sure you know the one I'm talking about, him standing on top of World Trade Center rubble with his arm around New York City's fire chief as he declared his promise through a bullhorn to make those who knocked down those buildings feel our wrath. Well, Osama is still at large and just the other day Georgie made that comment that he just wasn't that concerned about bin Laden at this moment.
But, that aside, it really did warm my heart this afternoon when I heard the president make that pledge. I've been a small town girl my whole life and likely will always be. Like most small town folk, I often feel that our vast contributions to the nation are overlooked due to our smaller population.
So don't faint or call my physician. I'm fine. For those hard-working people of ALL of Iowa, let's keep the government to their word. If these family farms fail, corporate farms will swoop in and take their place. And, trust me, that's not good for anyone. Just ask anyone who recently suffered from food poisoning at the otherwise harmless hand of the tasty tomato.
Kudos to you, Mr. Bush.