'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.

Breakfast Chubbie at the Quick Lube

One of the best things about living in the rural part of the country is the businesses, not just because the merchants lather you down with friendly service, but also because necessity often breeds multi-faceted stores. For example, in my little town, you can buy a hand-crafted blue suede couch at the same place you can tag your car and renew your license.
Just down the street from my auntie's restaurant is another of my favorites. On one end of a new tin building, you can have your oil changed and tires rotated. On the other end, you can sip on some top shelf chai tea.
As you, my brilliant readers, are well aware, I have the sense of humor of a 14-year-old boy. If I can construe any sentence into carrying a sexual undertone, I will giggle to myself at the sheer genius of my witty word play. Everyone else normally just scrunches their eye brows at me while they yammer on about how I'm almost 30 and, even worse, responsible for turning my darling sons into upstanding young men.
Anyways, as I left the restaurant this afternoon, I noticed that the local quick lube (which in itself is grand, right) was advertising its newest product on the outdoor marque. In big black letters, it said, "Now serving Breakfast Chubbies."
Seriously, I laughed until I shot sweet tea out my nose as I thought, "Breakfast Chubbie, huh? That's exactly what Rowdy served me every morning until the first kid was born. Hell, I think that's how we got the first kid."
Speaking of getting screwed, crude oil had its biggest jump in history on the October futures board as investors searched for a way to hedge against the falling dollar. I mean, clearly when the government just starts printing freakin' money to bail out banks and insurance companies is going to make the value of the American dollar plummet. In other words, that buck in your pocket is worth much less today than it was a week ago now that you and I, the American tax payer, have so kindly picked up the tab for these huge corporations practicing poor business. Oh, and filling up your car is going to be more expensive. So, bigger price tag with less valuable currency.
But, even with the economy melting into a Freddie Kruger-like nightmare, I still love that I can get a breakfast chubbie at the quick lube. Ahhh.....Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind....Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine

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.

Ashley Dupre: The Dr. Phil of High-Priced Hookers?

I stirred a little slowly from my slumber this morning. Although I'd been awake for a few hours, when The View came on at 10 am, I was still moving at a snail's pace. Breakfast was on the table, but that was really the extent of my productivity thus far.
Just as I was sipping coffee from my favorite mug, wishing a bolt of electric energy would uproot my weighted ass, a discussion between Whoopi, Barbara, Joy and Elisabeth shocked me right out of semi-comatose state.
I'm sure you all recall the March, 2008, hooker fiasco that left the formerly high-powered Governor of New York Elliot Spitzer out of a job, out of dignity and nearly out of a wife, to say the least. As a Democrat, I've always been completely amazed by our uncanny ability to throw a monkey wrench in what would otherwise be a glide to victory, but even I was shocked by the rat-faced, alien-eared Spitzer's involvement with hookers that pricey. I mean, he is Jewish, right? I don't think they have coupons in the Yellow Book for that, do they? (Calm down, I'm only joking.) For the first couple of months following the high end prostitution ring, laughably the "Emperors Club," was busted, Spiter's girl Ashley Dupre aka Kristen sprinkled the gossip magazines and late night talk shows as though she was Britney Spears in a barber shop. First she was publicly offered a hefty check to be in one of the Girls Gone Wild videos, but then Joesph Francis, the class act who started up that national embarrassment, realized, you guessed it, he'd already filmed Ashley when she was still an up-and-coming high-priced hooker. Even Joe was surprised that he hit the proverbial jack pot. He already had her on tape showing off those million dollar goodies, so he tore up whatever check he was planning on sending Ashley. Just imagine the profit margins on that little gem!
As if the whole fake-named hooker with the beady-eyed gnome wasn't funny enough the first time around, apparently the veteran reality television show producer David Knieff believes there is still plenty of ridicules profitability left to be made. You know funny, ridicules and, of course, sex are the three most important elements of a successful reality show. What other explanations would there be for the upcoming THIRD season of Rock of Love with Bret Michaels, which is, by the way, totally freakin' awesome! It's like The Bachelor with crack 'hos! Love it!
So, Knieff has offered Ashley $2 million for the full rights to her story, which will include a show and possibly a book. The best part is he plans to cast her as "a kind of Dr. Phil."
I can totally see the similarities: they are both media whores, they've both broken up a few marriages and neither one is a bit scared to drop their ethics like panties in a frat house for a good pay day. I know this girl has been to college once or twice, but does this mean she will be interviewing guests and giving them advice that can be applied to the general population. On Dr. Phil this afternoon, a wife sought counsel from the good doctor on coping with her unfaithful, porn-addicted husband who periodically frequents the service of call girls. What do you suspect would be Ashley's guidance in such a situation?
Of course, Krieff and Ashley's publicist (Yes, the hooker now has a publicist) both gave statements claiming that Ashely is seeking "a show to clean up her image."
Meanwhile, some poor schmuck from New Jersey, Thomas "TJ" Earle is joining Elliot Spitzer in cleaning up his life after admitting last Friday to purchasing a little love time with Asley. I think it is interesting that in their secret business transactions and now the subsequent fallout from them, Elliot and TJ got screwed and Ashley, well, she got paid.


***Just for your entertainment, I'm going to post a few excerpts from the Emperors Club wegpage. I mean, holy shit, that's the name of your hooker ring and then you create a website that all put spells out, "Yes, we are peddling ass, very tight, top-of-the-line ass," and you are somehow mystified when the authorities catch on. Apparently, once you become a "VIP," which only means that you have LOTS of money and aren't scared to spend it, you can go to the site and check on the "merchandise." Naturally, the page has come down since the media firestorm broke out last Spring, but just for you, my beloved readers, I have saved them. You will notice that on the individual girl's profile, her attributes are advertised or "pimped," as it would be called if they on the corner instead of the computer. Now, on top of the descriptions, they are rated with diamonds. It is basically the same set-up as book reviews in People magazine, except the diamonds represent not only quality, but cost. If you got a five carat call girl in mind, let's just hope your stocks have been rising like these prices or, well, you know. I would write more funny stuff, but there is really no way I can stop this shit.



Looked at all her diamonds!



She's good, but clearly, no Maya! And finally, the "estimates" for what a day and/or night with these world class call girls might run a "VIP." I know Elliot Spitzer comes from a little money, but Jesus, how was he paying for these rendezous without his wife Silda sniffing out the perfumed trail? He has, after all, been on government pay for several years now.