Hellbent on Lent

With the final day of drunken stumbling through New Orleans, Rio and other Mardi Gras celebrations now upon us, I've got my Fat Tuesday beer cracked as I try to figure out just what I'm going to sacrifice on the alter of personal growth this year for Lent. I know what you're thinking -- I didn't know you are Catholic, Shonda. Well, you would be thinking correctly, I am not Catholic. You see, not long after high school, I periodically helped out at a small, local cafe. While the owner was the only member of Catholicism working there, the other ladies joined in on the tradition. And since I am so clearly someone abundant in self control, I figured I would be a total natural for this Lent shit.
Yeah, I turned out to be wrong about that. I don't really recall what I swore off for those 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter, but I do remember it being the Titanic of sacrifice. Sure, it started out with good intentions, but in the end, there was only blood curdling screams and a bunch of hysteria.

In spite of my first Lent being a holy fucking disaster, I've tried it each year since then. In 2002, that super fly Josh Hartnett stared in 40 Days and 40 Nights, a comedy about a young single man giving up the impossible for God -- sex. The first year I was with Rowdy I suggested that I might make this same pledge and he nearly peed his pants from the all consuming laughter. He apparently thinks he's such a Man God or that I'm such a lustful harlot that I couldn't withstand the lure of his loving, even if it were for the Almighty. I thought about attempting it just to prove Rowdy wrong, but then I realized if I were to fail at this, Rowdy would really strut around here like rooster in a hen house. Yeah, that's definitely why I didn't give up the nookie. It's definitely not because I didn't think I couldn't do it. Definitely.
Then one tragic year I gave up cussing. Now, if you've been following this blog any time at all or, if by chance, you've happened to meet me in the real world, you have probably figured out that I have had a long and passionate love affair with all words foul. In fact, I will go far enough to say that I believe that Jesus gave us cuss words in order that we don't freak out and start beating people at random. He told us to turn the other cheek, but he didn't say anything about flipping the bird while you are doing so. Not only that, if I took the cursing out of my vocabulary, it would literally be cut in half. But, I've always loved an under dog, so I tried it anyways. I spent the following 40 days walking around like a mumbling fool, no doubt convincing frightened strangers that I had Turrette's Syndrome or was in the middle of some acid trip gone awry. First, I would accidentally cuss and then I would start scolding myself under my breath. By the end of the day, I would just be walking in circles.
Last year I gave up Wal-Mart, which I know might seem rather silly to you, but hear me out. Since I'm kind of, well, a cheap skate, I hate spending more money than I have to on anything. I knew each time I had to pay an extra $5 for a box of diapers I would be tempted to scurry back out to the super store. But, after a week or so, it became incredibly easy. I felt pretty good about spending my money at locally owned shops and the local stores don't send me into the full blown panic attacks that Wal-Mart seems to.
So now, here we are on Fat Tuesday, the eve of Ash Wednesday, and I still have no freakin' idea what I am going to give up this year. I've kicked around giving up beer. But, as my friend Lyndi who also gives up something explains, you want to pick something that would be a challenge, not a miracle. I think we should leave beer off the list until my darling children have left for college.
I've also thought about giving up coupons. Yes, I'm really that geeky. I'm sure a few of you are giggling or smirking at the thought of that. But, let me tell you, I get as high as a Keith Richards on a three day heroin binder when those snotty teenage clerks tell me that I've saved 80% on my grocery bill. It will be a challenge to squeeze that full price out of my tight ass, but it wouldn't be like the whole Moses parting the Red Sea like forgoing the Bud Lights would be.
I still have a few more hours before I make the final decision. Since I think my blog readers could perhaps be a collection of the most brilliant people on the globe, I want to encourage suggestions from you guys. My clever husband has proposed that I give up bitching at him, you know, for the sake of Jesus. I tried to explain to him that the thing with Lent is suppose to be something you enjoy. He then chuckled and said, "You can't be that good at something you don't enjoy, love."
So, get after it, friends. While you guys are doing that, I'm going to watch our new president address our nation. I think I will take a big swig of beer every time he says the economy. After all, it is Fat Tuesday.

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.

The Slammy Awards?

So, I was scanning through the old television the night before last when I saw perhaps the greatest thing ever bestowed upon my eyes. Apparently, the WWE or the WWF or some other ridicules wrestling programming now has an awards ceremony. Hold it gets better.....wait for it......wait it for it......It is also called the "Slammy" Awards.
As I pondered this, I wondered what possible categories this particular awards show might boost. Perhaps best 'roided out rage freak? Or wildly disproportionate muscles while magically maintaining less body hair than my 2-year-old?
Seriously, who needs the Oscars when we now have this little piece of awesome?

Screwed

That will be the overall theme of this post and I think you'll understand why shortly.

***My day started on the particularly pleasant note of Rolan, the 2-year-old, leaping up and down on my bed like one of those bizarre Olympic trampoline champions and then subsequently landing on my belly like one of those super bizarre professional wrestlers. Since I already bemoan freakin' love dragging my large caboose out of bed in the first damn place, you can imagine how much I enjoyed being awoke by a 30 pound cannonball of adorable mayhem crashing into my abdomen. I don't think I have had the breath knocked out of me since I was in grade school, so as you can imagine, I was probably a real peach today. This isn't really "screwed" in the traditional sense. Or maybe it is. I guess I don't know what the traditional sense of being screwed is. Whatever it is, this is the one that sucks, like when you get stuck on a airplane by my a screaming kid and a relentless gum smacker. Or screwed like when your car breaks down at your mother-in-law's over a holiday that's driven all the local mechanics out of their shops and you half crazy.

The other two little tidbits are over the other kind of screwed, the kind that I like to talk about at very inappropriate places, such as baby showers. That's just a random example. The "talking about sex while you are sitting next to at least a half dozen 80-year-old women of a Baptist persuasion" is completely random and has nothing to do with the fact that I went to a baby shower yesterday. It is a totally hypothetical example. Totally.

***Honestly, the day wasn't that bad, apart from the smackdown breakfast in bed little Rolan served up all warm and toasty. I wrote articles for the paper and scolded the boys about 400 times for head butting each other and scattering pictures as though they were Mardi Gras confetti, so it was basically business as usual. After Rowdy came in from bullshitting at the local convenience store/coffee shop/pizza parlor getting latest minute-to-minute deer season updates doing cowboy things, we ate super and he put the boys to bed. Just after I started my shower, he was there rapping on the door. He, apparently, was in the mood for husband and wife relations, things of which I am clearly far too ladylike to blog about here on the internet for all six of my faithful followers to read. Anyways, my big, strapping, masculine, handsome man smiled as he joined me and then starting squealing like a newborn, decrying the unbearable heat of my water. Of course my gut instinct was to badger him for being a tender skinned wuss, but then I remembered that Oprah told me that sort of chicken pecking tends to take the fellas out of the romantic mood and, let's face, Momma needed a little action before the unstoppable toddler invasion overtook the bedroom.

***When Rowdy and I were on our honeymoon in Cozumel, Mexico, a rather persistent local vendor was pulling out all the stops to convince my husband to buy a necklace for his new bride. After several sales pitches proved unsuccessful, the intuitive salesman whipped out a paper cup and Patron tequila and, well, the grapefruit-sized pendant has been in my jewelry box ever since. Now, the reason I mention this memory is because that is probably the first time I realized that Mexico is just my kind of country. I mean, any place that openly encourages intoxicating customers to boost profits is a country I can get behind. Team that with the nationwide nap they collectively take each day and I'm outside the house with silver duct tape writing out BIENVENIDO over WELCOME on the doormat.
But, while I love that and many other Mexican traditions, customs and laws, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the absolute infatuation I would develop for the entire country to our south when I discovered that the mayor of Mexico City, some Einstein-level genius named Marcelo Ebrard, is now officially handing out few Viagra and other impotence drugs to men over 70. Now that's a stiff re-election platform if I've ever seen one. In the announcement that proved Mexico CIty is the most hard rockin' city on the globe, Ebrare said that sexuality "has a lot to do with quality of life and our happiness," which basically means I'm inching towards that goal post and I certainly want to score again.
However, I do have one question for Mr. Ebrard. If you are dolling out Viagra like their shots of Patron to half-drunk Americans, the best senior citizen service in history, for Mexico City's men, what are you doing for the ladies? If you will promise free laser hair removal for the chicas, consider my retirement bags packed. I mean, I'm barely 28 and I'm already starting to sprout those menacing little hairs under my chin, so I can imagine by the time I'm 70, I'll look like some creepy red-haired wolf man. You know the gentlemen just go crazy for that. And just who will be the biggest supporters of this plan? My guess is Mexico City's 70-year-old men.

I'm An Asshole

Yup, it's true. I know you are all, "That's not true, Shonda. You are a total humanitarian. Each and every time I think about you, the images of Mother Theresa pop in my mind. And not just because you look so rockin' hot without make-up, either, because you are so gosh darn saintly. It's like Mother Theresa and then Angelina and then you."
On most occasions, I would have to agree with you and wonder out loud just why the Catholic Church hasn't made one of those silver, round necklace thing-a-majigs with my holy image engraved on it for the worshiping faithful to clutch as they pray. Hey Pope, get that shit on your to-do list, mister!
Anyways, that's what I would so humbly say on most evenings, but not today. Today I am going to have to join the majority very small, almost nonexistent group of readers who come to The Cowboy Chronicles just to find evidence of my assholishness. Today they are right, I'm an asshole. Why, you ask.
I broke one of the cardinal rules of The Supreme Order of Chick Friends. I forgot one of my very best friend's baby shower. And I wasn't just one of the regular 'ole just-show-up-when-you-want-to-with-your-gift crowd. Oh no, I was a hostess, a freakin' hostess. Because I happily accepted that Chick Friend duty, I was suppose to bring a finger food of some sort, which is normally one of my strong suits, totally evident in light of my expanding rear end. But, I didn't get to relish in the lavish praise for my delightful dish because, during the time frame that I should have been preparing it, I was taking a nap.
That's right, I was taking a fucking nap. Don't YOU judge me.
As I was peacefully lounging in my bed, soaking up the rare treasure of a childless house, my friends were wondering if I was going to, I don't know, show up. Finally, and thank God, my friend Sara called and was all, "Soooooo.....whatcha doin'?"
And then I was like, "Sleeping, stretched out like a lazy cat, sleeping."
And then she was like, "Ummm....so, are you coming to Chelsea's shower?"
Yup, that's when I realized I had, in fact, written the shower down on the wrong date in my calender. Five years ago, before I had kids and my mind functioned better than a barely lucid acid freak, I wouldn't have had to put it in the schedule to remember to do it. Yeah, cellulite has dented my ass up like a golf ball and my mind has the memory retention of slobbering Courtney Love and, I don't give a shit what you say, I think Crocs are solid fashion gold. (Insert sharp sarcasm) It's definitely all uphill from here, bitches.
Chelsea is, of course, one of the most go-with-the-flow, easy-to-please people I know, so she was super awesome about the whole thing. In fact, she just chuckled at me and then let me rub her groovy baby belly. Still, she is a good friend and dropping the ball at her shower is just assholish no matter how you slice it.
After I left the shower, I stopped in the grocery store because we were out of milk and, really, how can Rolan be expected to survive without a vast ocean of dairy products. I loaded up the grocery basket with other much needed supplies, including eggs.
As I was checking out, the check-out girl, who turned out to really be an over achiever as far as check-out girls go, inspected my eggs to guarantee they were all in tack (or is it tact?). One little fella, smack dab in the middle of the carton, was cracked on top. She jumped to go fetch a replacement, but I was like, "Dude, you just keep a-scannin.' I'll go get the eggs," since I believed the oozing crack was most likely caused by the giant ham I threw on top of it as opposed to some random shipping or stocking mishap. I mean, I'm not a mathematician or a scientist or an egg-cracking expert or anything along those lines, that would just be my guess.
Anyways, in the meantime, a bag boy showed up and started sacking up my goods. Like the check-out girl, he was a busy little beaver. I mean, he was a sacking son of a bitch. I told him about my current asshole status due to the shower tardiness and he told me about how he was like 3 hours late for work because he forgot he was scheduled and went Christmas shopping instead. I kinda wanted to hug him and that's when I noticed that he had sacked BOTH egg cartons. So I asked if they had charged me for both sets and the girl was like, "Dude, you weren't suppose to put them both in the sack. One of them has a broken egg right in the freakin' middle."
And then my kindred spirit sacker was all, "Oh my, I didn't even check them. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am."
So then I asked him what becomes of poor cartons of eggs with just one fallen comrade. Do they find a replacement egg? Are they trashed?
After a little begging hinting, the sacker said since they couldn't be sold, they could just give them to me for free, which fucking made my day since I love all free shit, even when it is absolutely worthless shit a homeless person wouldn't sleep on in the dead of freezing winter, but especially when it is something like eggs, something I cook each morning. That's like hitting the lotto for a tight ass like myself.
As I walked out of the store, I thought, "Man, I am really am an asshole. First, I forget Chels's shower and then I hackle the grocery store out of eggs I broke."
I'm an asshole.
If you would like theme music for this post, which I think totally makes the deal, listen to Jimmy Buffet's song about assholes here or Dennis Leary's on the same brown-eyed subject here.

Time Change = Bullshit

Dear Time Change,
Tell me why, just why, are you out to ruin my life? Now, I know this is surprising coming from me, Old Shonda who once loved the fall time change. Ahhh....the good old days. The bars would actually "fall back" on Saturday night, thus creating an extra hour of beer drinking PLUS I would gain an hour of sleep before dragging my hungover behind out of bed to go wait table.
But, alas, those days are gone and now I'm living here in Old Geezerville. In fact, I've been entertaining a run for mayor, but I figure John McCain might throw his hat in the ring since Obama is about to retire him from national politics.
Bring it on, John. I look forward to debating what time "Lights Out" should be called and I am running on a tough platform on noise security. You know, as in "Damn kids, stop with all that noise."
Anyways, this time changing is totally screwing up my day. As you should suspect my kids are now waking up at the taint of dawn. Yes, you read that correctly. They were already getting up at the asscrack of dawn, so I have to assume taint is the next step in the "really freakin' bad" progression. On the up side, if you can call it that, they went down really early. But, that only further lets me know they are going to crawl their energetic asses out of bed as an insane hour. All I want to do is sleep 30 more minutes, damn it.
So, listen up, Time Change. I've got my eyes on you.
Shonda

8 Mavericky Ways to Stress Free Parenting

A few weeks ago, my bloggy friend Anna taught me about the brilliance in lists, or rather blogging lists. It seemed easy enough, right? Well, it's that time again.
This morning as I was wandering around the home of my heart, the beloved Internet, I found this article, 8 New Mom Stresses and How to Relieve Them. Sure, some of the ideas were golden, such as this one:

There was one week when my daughter Faye screamed -- and I'm talking ear-piercing, uncontrollable screaming -- for hours on end. I would call my husband, crying, and hold the phone so he could hear what I was going through. By Friday I couldn't take it anymore. I put her in her crib and went into the kitchen to try to pull myself together. A few minutes later, she stopped! I realized that seeing me stressed and upset just fueled her fire. But when I left her alone -- and played it cool when I did go back to her -- she calmed down."

But, as I was reading this monstrous bitch, I realized none of my tried and true mommy tricks were on there. And, really, I'm nothing if not helpful. So here goes, Mommas. You want to survive newborns and toddlers, then soak up the profound wisdom of Momma Little.

1. Take the above-mentioned advice of walking away and taking a brief break from the crying baby. In fact, wander on into the kitchen as that mom suggest. But don't just play it cool, DRINK it cool. And when I say drink, I don't mean water. Beer's the poison of my preference, but I think vodka, tequila or rubbing alcohol will suffice.

2. Now, this "walking away" technique will only work for so long. At some point your darling little offspring are going to gain some mobility and, take it from me, this makes the whole "escape the shrieking madness" a bit tricky. Once they do start toddling all over the place, they are absolutely adorable exploring the world except, of course, when you want to escape them. Then they will bobble after you, all red-faced and screaming, and you will think back to how some yahoo told you to just "take a minute" when your babies are having some unexplained meltdown. At these times, you will be glad you put a lock on your bedroom door. Sure, they will plant their bottoms on the other side of it, belting out unholy shrills sharp enough to puncture a dog's eardrum, but you will have that moment you've been long for. My friend Mollie, who is Martha Stewart in living color, taught me this trick. For those of you can't stomach the sounds of your crying kiddos, I think those scrunchy earplugs are also nice to have on hand.

3. Speaking of the mobility of our darling spawns, when they aren't using their new found tricks to chase after you, they deploying the skills to run away from you. Now this can be particularly troubling if you have a little weight in your trunk, if you are picking up what I'm putting down, or if you have multiples running in different directions. And, if you just happen to be unlucky enough to be like me, a fatass with two wayward children, you are totally screwed. It is for that reason that I truly recommend a leash.....or some awesome laser that, like, paralyzes them in their tracks. Really, it's the only way you'll win.

4. More alcohol. I would seriously consider opening a liquor store so you can get that shit at a discount.

5. If you don't have friends with similarly aged children, make some. Not only will they share their tips for neutralizing the enemy combatants, but sometimes you can blend your herd in with theirs and gain a few moments of adult interaction.

6. We all start out our adventures in parenting with the good intentions of raising the only set of American kids who aren't all strung out on the baby-sitting goodness of Dora the Explorer or Spongebob the Terrorist, but then we get starved for a free minute to do laundry or some asshole lets them watch it at their house and the next thing you know you haven't seen a single episode of those fantastic Maury Paternity Shows because you are in a power struggle for control of the television. So, listen up, Readers, just swallow all your aspirations of productive and responsible parenting from the start and buy those kids a spare television.
Sadly, I still haven't taken my own piece of advice here and sadly, in between my remote hogging husband and kids, I almost never get to watch my shows. Take it from me.

7. Don't read ridicules lists posted on the Internet, clearly written by someone who doesn't have children or has the luxury of hiring a nanny. While I like to joke about this sort of stuff, I really don't lock my kids out of my room or walk them on a leash. In fact, I know if I did try to put my wild kids on a leash, they would just one-up me by sitting their darling asses on the ground and forcing me to drag them to our desired destination.
Truthfully I just get tickled when I read these parenting lists. Occasionally you do get a good tip, but normally it's just the same list over and over. So, if you want my advice and, let's face it, I know you want to soak up my genius, just love your kids and hope they have grandparents who want to be involved enough to give you a small break.
I hope my fake list made you laugh. If it didn't, you are either a fun hater or you are still in the eye of the storm. If that's the case, go ahead and guzzle the rubbing alcohol. And laugh.

8. I just realized the list I found on msn had 8 tips on it. I can't think of number 8, so let's just call this an invitation for you, my awesome readers, to give us your appallingly awesome tips for child rearing.

Rolan Little: Nothing Says Maverick Like Outdoor Nudity

Rowdy: Now THAT boy is a maverick!

The Random Ramblings of a Sleepless Maverick

Well, Readers, I am staring dumbfounded at this blank page. In between the last presidential debate and wrapping my mind around that bitchy know-it-all Kenley somehow making it to the Project Runway finale, I just can't seem to compose a full thought. But, you know I am dedicated to your entertainment, Readers, so I thought I would jot down a few of my fragmented brain drizzle.

I love negative ads. It's just political shit talking. Is it true? Unlikely. Is it fun? Hell yes. So, listen up, boys: Why don't you come run some of those nasty tidbits on mommalittle. I won't player hate, I'll participate. Word.

That brings me to another. I love hip hop jargon. I've been trying to introduce it into my daily life, but thus far it has been unsuccessful.

I really like drinking coffee in the late evening. That is, until I'm laying in bed wide awake as a crackhead on a 3 day smoke feast.

Ridge snuck into Rolan's room and interrupted his peaceful nap this afternoon by shimmying into his crib and then subsequently pouncing on his little brother's head while chanting, "Wake up, Rolan!"
Rolan, in turn, spent the afternoon randomly jabbing his big brother in the eye for the torturous awakening. With each incident, rather than responsibly disciplining my offspring, I just thought, "Man, I'm so glad my sons are mavericks."

Speaking of swaggering with the big balls of a maverick, Ridge and I build some wooden car inside the house today and then proceeded to paint it on the kitchen table. He seriously had slaps of blue paint in his ears.

I am exhausted. I am so freakin' exhausted that I cannot sleep. Such is the divine comedy of life.

There are several ways to show your patriotism. One of them just happens to be paying taxes. God knows I pay my share, but I love America and don't want to further become a "sharecropper nation," as Warren Buffet described the negative effect of our expanding foreign held debt.

I love Kenny G. I mean, I really love Kenny G. He played on Dirty Sexy Money last week and my long, lost love affair was reignited. Few things get my blood pumping like that long-haired genius blowing away on his saxophone.

I think blue eyeliner rocks. I wore it daily for many years, using it for some reason on only the outer halves of each eye, which made it rock even harder. After much badgering from my more fashion savvy friends, I begrudgingly abandoned my aqua beauty trick. I'm really thinking about bringing it back. What do you think?

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. That's just how I roll. In fact, I think it is fair to say that's what I am doing right now. So, I'm gonna stop. I'm going to force myself to sleep so I won't drag around like a zombie tomorrow.

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.