Momma's Boys

Just as I tucked the boys into bed, I got to enjoy the rare pleasure of a television to myself. Rowdy was watching CNBC or The Terminator or some other atrocious bologna that I have no desire to see on the bedroom television, so the living room tube was mine, all mine.
I skimmed through the channels when a brand new show jumped out at me -- Momma's Boys. Although I'm not normally one for reality television, I'm totally down for a train wreck, which is evident in my unfettered affection for Rock of Love.
No more than five minutes into the show, Rowdy comes through the living room to go outside for a smoke.

ROWDY: What are you watching? Is this that new show Momma's Boys?

ME: Ummmm.....why?

ROWDY: Is it?

ME: Yes, why?

(LONG, LONG PAUSE)

ROWDY: Well, I don't really want you to get started watching that show.

ME: Why not?

(EVEN LONGER PAUSE)

ROWDY: I just can't help but think that a show with momma's boys with noisy mothers is going to somehow bite me in the ass.


Immediately, I was overcome with laughter. And, just in case you haven't been as well, perhaps I should tell you that I live approximately 1,000 feet from my mother-in-law. While she is very good to me and my children, I can't help but think that maybe my darling husband feels periodically squeezed between the never-ending nut vault that is constant interaction with both your mother and your wife. I know all you fellas out there are shaking your heads, wondering if Rowdy is on a steady stream of drugs or just likes female nagging.

Then, it turned out, Rowdy's words were almost prophetic. I paused the show while he told me of this con man Madoff and his swindling. I wasn't recording it, it was just paused during this brief conversation when Rowdy's daily crack, Mad Money, kicked my new beloved show off. It was lost forever in DVR outerspace. Naturally, this caused me to start sniping at Rowdy's feet like one of those yappy lap dogs.
What can I say, when he's right, he's right!

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.

Shonda + Dancing = Awsomeness

As you know, I'm on a constant quest to prove my awesomeness. It's a scientific process, really. And like all efficient scholars, I have sought evidence to support the theory.
Now, my "process" may be a bit different than other world-renowned scientists. Rather than conducting an experiment persay, documenting the precise findings and then comparing them to another study, my expertise is drawn from google. It goes something like this here:

I open Mozilla Firefox. For my low-tech friends, that's how I surf the internet. It is much, much cooler than that lame-o Internet Explorer you are still using. Seriously, that is sooooo 1999. Why don't you log onto the new millennium and download Mozilla. (That's kind of the tough love my computer guy gave me.)

Anyways, after I wander into the world wide web, then I type the name of whatever I want to learn about in the google search line. About 1,000 years worth of studying pops up, I read part of it and then claim the supreme knowledge for myself.

Last night as I was performing more "research" to support the theory of my awesomeness, I stumbled upon the most solid evidence thus far that the name "Shonda" in itself translates into "pure drops of rockin' radness" or something along those lines.

In my very scientific process, I found this youtube video of a little girl who just happens to, you guessed it, bear the name Shonda. Clearly I'm not now or ever will be as awesome as our young friend, but I think the random coincidence of she and I having the same first name makes me just that much cooler.
So, kick back, my friends, and enjoy the dancing goodness that is Shonda. She obviously got all the coordination and moves alloted for the both of us.

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."

If I Think It's Tacky, Lord, It Is!

At the risk of startling my longtime friends, I have a confession: I am totally obsessed with Project Runway. Now, for those of you just coming to know me through this blog, perhaps you wonder why those who know me well would be surprised by that.
Well, let me tell you. I am a fashion nightmare. I always have been, even in my wild lady-about-town days when I was mixing it up with tall, dark and handsome men, as well as their short, pale and homely friends. I know a few of you are shaking your heads in a enthusiastic nod of agreement as you read this. I could take any two or three articles of clothing, completely acceptable on their own, and merge them together into a cocktail of chaos and clutter. I would try to give reason to my wardrobe, God knows I tried, but the end result was always the same pitiful mess. It's just like some women cannot find their way around a kitchen, in spite of a ton of labor toward it. I'm hopeless. Two words come to mind: faux and pas.
So, regardless of my utter lack of fashion awareness, I simply cannot miss an episode of Project Runway. Each week the DVR records it, but I wait until the boys are fast asleep, even the big one, before I will watch it. For Heidi, Tim and the pool of competing designers, I want to direct my undivided attention. Finally, this week, midway into the season, the judges have finally done what they should have on the first week; they have sent Stella home.
Again, I'm not claiming to harbor any trendy expertise, for I do not. However, when Stella strolled one outfit down the runway that I would've thrown together and then several more that I would've just passed over in the discount bend at the local leather S&M fetish boutique, even I knew this lady has no future in fashion outside of preparing for motorcycle drag show. Seriously, outside of the biker in The Village People, who wears that much leath-ah (spelled leather outside of Stella's New York apartment.)?
I'm still a little heartbroken that the judges sent my main gay Keith home last week. I found the send off especially unfounded in sight of Stella's remaining grace on the show.
So, from the absolutely least qualified person to say so, thank God Stella was auf'd.

The Great Remote Wars of 2008 Wages On

The day after the now-infamous remote control/DVR debacle, Rowdy came in as I was watching a marathon of Snapped, a series about women who freak the eff out and kill their men. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and, all inspired by the show's subjects, I growled, "Don't even think about it, asshole."
As I fried chicken in the kitchen, peering out from under the cabinet at the tumultuous lives of the women being profiled, I could see that Rowdy was perhaps a little frightened by the ideas I was absorbing.
One lady added just a few drops of anti-freeze into her husband morning coffee until it became so backed up in his system that his organs failed. Another plowed her cheating man down in parking lot, reversing and driving back over him more than once. And so went the tales of accidental shootings and carbon monoxide poisoning and hired hit men.
With each documentary, I could see Rowdy's eyes growing round and, through the corner of my eye, I would periodically see him glancing over at me. As I brought his dinner, laid out beautifully over one of our wedding plates, our eyes met in a deadlock and I could sense him fearfully wondering, "Has this crazy bitch finally flipped out?"
Then I just leaned in, kissed him gently, "Don't touch that fucking remote, baby."

An Ass Whoppin' You Can Take to the Bank: Pollyester Kotton For President.

Until this week, I thought I was an Obama Momma. Turns out, by Golly, I want Polly....ester Kotton that is.
This little gem stars an Elk City native who will remain nameless for the time being. Now, if you are an Oklahoman, you will recognize the names as local township, which only made me giggle more.

I don't know who I'm going to vote for in this president erection. Yes, I said erection 'cause somebody's gonna get screwed. --Pollyester Kotton

An Ass Whoppin' You Can Take to the Bank. --Pollyester Kotton

If you are an uptight, stick in the mud, by all means, don't watch the youtube video. However, if you like to giggle so hard you piss your pants a little, please watch. This paints rainbows all over my blues.

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.

Denise Richards: It's Not Complicated, It's Canceled!

Well, Readers, reality television took swing towards class this week. According to Star magazine, the desperate bid for self-promotion and stardom in Denise Richards: It's Complicated has come to an end just a few months after it's beginning. I think Denise is a soulless harpy willing to exploit anything, including her children, for fame. Clearly she's sucked so much money off poor Charlie that he can't even afford decent hair plugs. Not long ago, she accused Charlie of making unwanted advances and then later admitted that she simply made these charges up to make his new wife jealous. You know I like my reality television skanky. I'll take Rock of Love over Extreme Home Makeover any day of the week, but even this tacky TV genre has to draw a line in the sand. So, catch on the flip side, Denise!
My guess is she'll fire up her treacherous fingers and author some barely legible expose on marriage to my favorite man boy Charlie Sheen. Of course two weeks after the book hits print and the checks clear, she'll reluctantly reveal that half of it's wildly fictional bullshit. Naturally, as much as I detest Denise, I will purchase two copies to provide my sons with a cautionary tale of mindless sex through years of competitive partying. You don't want to be shackled to Denise Richards, do you boys?
But, until then, let's all take a minute to enjoy the break from America's hooker turned housewife. Oh, and by housewife I mean out-of-work actress pawning her meal ticket daughters off on a random team of nannies, unless the cameras are rolling, in which case the little money makers are front and present.

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.