Parental Irresponsibility

I love Katy Perry.  Seriously…I do.  Her tunes are bouncy, she’s beautiful in that classic sort of way and she can rock a night brace like none other.  But did you know she used to have blonde hair, a different last name and sing Jesus songs?  Talk about the cross-over of all cross-overs!

Anyway…if you have a small kid you know that out of 5 million words in a day, they’ll hone right in on the nasty inappropriate ones…repeating them loudly in church, school and grocery store check-out lines;  meanwhile, you’re left standing there trying to defend your pathetic lack of parental monitoring.  When this happens, I usually blame the public school system.

For Cali’s first three years of life, the only television channel she watched was Noggin (pre-commercials).  It was also during this time that she ate oatmeal and eggs…and never begged for stupid toys that squirt cookie dough and glow-in-the-dark paint.  I can’t really pin-point the exact time we exposed her to the other televised programming for children.  All I know is that after that, she started swilling Bubba Cola, walking like a hunchback, picking her nose and wearing peculiar things upon her head.  She also refused to eat roughage.  Truth be told, she became plumb ignorant.

(See pics below for verification)

So back to Katy Perry.  My kid is also a big fan because I have my iPod chuck full of her tunes.  We’ll have the sunroof open, cruising down Slappey Boulevard, singing about extraterrestrials and fireworks.  It was during one of these jaunts that my iPod’s battery died and we were left with nothing but talking space.  So she’s back there, slurping on a Slurpee, looking like a hillbilly when she asks:

“Mama.  What’s a menage a trois?”

A WHAT THE WHAT?!

“A menage a trois.  Katy Perry talked about that’s what she could have might have did last Friday night.”

*crickets*

And in my most brilliant parental save-a-scene to date, I replied:

“Chinese food.  It’s Chinese food.  She had Chinese food last Friday night.”

Katy…consider yourself censored.

If I Had a Magic Wand: Thwap!

So the question was recently posed to me:  What would you do if you had a magic wand for one day?

Oh!  What would I do?!  The question is….what WOULDN’T I do?  I’d be bippity-boppity-boo-ing all over the place like a magic Mad Hatter and there’d be nothing you could do to stop me.  Because I’d be magic.  With a wand.  And you’d be defenseless and republican.

So I’ve composed a list outlining exactly what I’d do with a magic wand over the course of one day.  (Keep in mind that I’m magic…so travel is super fast and I can go anywhere with a snap of my magic fingers.)

Also, my wand would have sound effects.  So with every wave, you’d hear “Thwap Thwap”.

1)  You know those extreme coupon crazies who hold up the grocery lines so they can acquire 200 pounds of band-aids and toe nail clippers?  Thwap Thwap!

2)  I would Thwap my Ma and Pa in the head to erase all of the grief and woe I bestowed upon them in my youth.

3)  I would also Thwap my brother who I abused and tormented as if he were a pet….for to take away the mental anguish.

4)  I would Thwap my kid so maybe she wouldn’t talk so much and make my nerves get nervous.

5)  I would Thwap my chronically depressed cat nine times so she can go towards the light and be happy and at peace.

6)  All libraries would remain open for 24 hours…and there’d be coffee and pastries served up for free and you wouldn’t have to pay your fines to use the public computers.

7)  I’d Thwap Fox News and CNN into a boxing ring and start banging on a bell while yelling “Jesus or Obama?!  You tell me!”

8.  Casey Anthony would be Thwapped repeatedly and condemned to a lifetime of solitary confinement while being fed a diet of Ex-Lax and Tab cola.

9)  I’d Thwap my lips fuller.

10)  All ground beef would be free for the taking….without violence.

11)  I’d Thwap myself invisible and make pompous soccer moms fall down in public…like three times in a row…then start pouring malt liquor all over the place so people would shake their heads sadly and say, “Oh.  She’s gone to drankin’ again.”  They’d be Thwapped humble!

12)  Stretch marks…be Thwapped!  For everyone!

13)  I’d Thwap this country debt free and make the Chinese have to buy everything American made.

14)  My sharpie pens would never run out of ink.

15)  I’d Thwap gas station owners just because they own a gas station.  Guilty by association.

16)  I’d Thwap Brian Wilson for wearing that Spandex suit out in public.

17)  Lindsey Lohan?  Thwapped in the face.  Paris Hilton?  Thwapped in the knees.  Sarah Palin?  Thwapped everywhere.

18)  All fish would taste like chicken.

19)  I’d Thwap my mortgage Paid in Full.

20)  The ocean would be restored to its original condition…free from pollution and 3 eyed fish of unknown origin.

David Slater and the Monkeys

“They aren’t known for being particularly clever like chimps, just inquisitive. Despite probably never having any contact with humans before, they didn’t seem to feel threatened by our presence.”

That’s what photographer, David Slater, (pictured above) said about these Indonesian crested black macaques BEFORE they swiped his camera and started taking Facebook-worthy self portraits.  Perhaps they felt it necessary to shoot down the myth of chimps being smarter.  And who can blame them, really?  Truth be told, back in my early 20’s, I hung out with some pretty cool people who looked a lot like these macaques…so looking at these pics was like a walk down memory lane.

I wish my chronically depressed cat would take a self-portrait of her pathetic self so I could maybe sell it and have enough money to buy her expensive gimpy bowel food AND keep my lights on.

Casey Anthony: The White O.J.?

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve no doubt heard that Casey Anthony was found not-guilty today on all counts with the exception of lying to police officers.  To say I was shocked to hear this verdict would be a gross understatement.

I know that justice is SUPPOSED to prevail…but does it?  Really?  Or only now and then?  Does the crime have to be videotaped and narrated to be considered valid?  Or was this particular case a prime example of a crappy prosecution who couldn’t make their case?  A bottomless pit of reasonable doubt?

And why is it that the media always gets blamed for a negative judicial outcome?  Shouldn’t our legal leaders have the ability to block out such things and focus on what they SHOULD be focused on?  If a jury is grossly influenced by the media, then it’s an immoral travesty for them to remain on a jury panel.  The media has and always will grab hold of a sensational story and run with it.  That’s their job.  Sure, they go overboard….but they shouldn’t shoulder the blame of mishandled criminal trials.

On a personal note, I cannot accept this verdict.  Not when an innocent child’s life was completely dismissed due to the absence of muscle and tissue on her skeletal remains.  But karma?  That’s the one thing I do have perfect faith in.  Because no matter the verdict or opinion of twelve people “tried and true”….the ultimate verdict is flawless and perfectly just.

So here’s the soon-to-be-free Casey Anthony….the majority of these pictures taken AFTER her daughter went missing.  Sometimes actions speak far more than words or evidence.

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Scents that Evoke Memories and Incite Inhumanity

I have a sense of smell that borders on being scientifically freakish. I could tell you, with pin-point accuracy, where you’ve been since you rolled out of bed, just by smelling the lapel on your jacket. No man has or will ever cheat on me because they know I’ll smell their mess 10 miles away.

I spend a small fortune every month on Febreeze plug-ins. A few years ago, my family had to intervene and send me off to addiction camp because I was spending all my money at Ye Olde Candle Shoppe every Friday. (That’s when their votives were on sale for 50 cents.)

So due to this mutation, I have strong reactions to olfactory hiccups. Sometimes I’ll catch a whiff of the cinder-block shower room from summer camp and get the strong urge to put on my $1 flip-flop shower shoes that my mom forced me to take so I wouldn’t catch the Foot Funk. Bowling alleys give me the dry heaves. And don’t even LET me smell a foot… I’ll come undone. Then I’ll commence to berating you for being a nasty person and suggest you go bathe. Immediately.

But the smell that evokes the strongest reaction is……*drum roll please*…..cat poop. They say these olfactory memories can go back as far as infant-hood. Even after an exhaustive search, I can’t determine where the initial cat poop smell originated. Maybe someone threw it on me as a child. Or forced me to eat it. Or something. All I know is that I go Charles Manson crazy when I catch the slightest whiff of feline fecal matter.

I start by finding the perpetrator and dragging her to the scene. Then I start smacking her in the face, while gritting me teeth…”God! You filthy animal! What is WRONG with you?! It smells like cancer up in here!”

Then I stick her face in it and tell her to knock it off before I throw her out the back door. This is highly disturbing for someone to watch. I’ve seen family and friends get up and walk out…no, BACK out of my house with a frightened look in their eye.

Most of my cats have been mentally challenged or hookers in heat, so the cat poop smell is like lighting an already-festering fuse of angry madness.

My current cat (New post for a different day) is all of the above plus a few more…depression being her Achilles paw. I’m not exactly sure WHAT is lurking in her colon, but it’s not fit for man or beast. I don’t know how she can walk around with that toxic mess up in her like that. About a year ago, the proverbial straw knocked the camel down and paralyzed it. I’d had it. The cat’s life was in jeapordy and something had to be done before the Humane Society showed up.

I’m not exactly sure how it happened because I was caught in a haze of hate…but I housebroke the cat. She now goes to the door when she has to make an environmentally hazardous waste deposit. Then when she’s done, she jumps up on the back door and hangs by her claws, bobbing up and down like a muppet until you see her.

When I let her in, I tell her how stupid she looks hanging on the door like that.

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Prophets, Dead Cats and Prosperity

Down here in the Dirty South we got us a bona fide, sure-as-snot rambling prophet.  Oh yes we do!  He is “The Original Georgia Prophet”,  thee Rev. Roosevelt Franklin.  The first time I saw him on the TV, I nearly soiled myself. It’s like watching that scene from the Hangover….when that Asian dude jumps out the back of the trunk?  It’s like watching that over and over and over.  It gets funnier every time.

I honestly thought it was a joke at first.   How can you take a master pimp seriously with his leopard print toga and fake ferns in the background…talking about prosperity and the like?  It’s obvious that the prophet smokes copious amounts of the finest weed.  Okay, first of all….look at his picture.  Now…look at what he thinks he can do:

* He has been gifted with the power from the Almighty God to motivate his people with the positive thinking attitude to help them succeed in whatever they want.

*  The Prophet speaks himself 7 languages and knows all things of all religions worldwide.

*  Thousands…you hear me?  THOUSANDS of people have went and got blessed with big houses, yachts, diamonds, cars and huge bank accounts.

*  Hundreds have passed the test and gotten themselves the jobs they desire.

*  Hundreds have listened to the Prophet and gotten themselves some fine looking, job-having husbands and wives.

*  The miraculous works of this man have been an assets to doctors, pawn shop owners and operators, politicians, attorneys and all people of high status.

All in the world the Prophet wants is for you to have yourself some prosperity!  And it’s easy.  You just shove some money in an envelope and and send it on to him, then sit back and wait for the miracles to ensue.

Earlier I called him a “Pimp”.  And here’s why.  He’s got a coven of “Clear Thinkers”.

Sis. Kat, Skilled in the Art of Clairvoyance.
Knowledgeable in the removal of bad luck snake spirits that can fill your life with hearth ache and despair.  Expert on all walks of natural and supernatural.


Sis. Mary will help you to obtain Miracles and Prosperity.

Provides the 7 Sister Miracle Package to anyone who needs it.  Sis. Mary can straighten everything out and can help you get the blessings that you need and deserve.

Sis. Maxine, the “Voodoo/Hoodoo Expert”

She can “fix it and unfix it”.  She has travelled to find the solution to your problems and put you back on the right track.

Sis. Martha, Expert on all Unnatural Conditions.

She can help you get that dead cat off your line.  If you are experiencing the effects of black magic, hoodoo, voodoo, jinxes, rootwork, witchcraft, evil spirits, etc., then you need Sis Martha on yourside to help you out of that unnatural condition.

It’s like a virtual treasure trove of potential cash ‘n stuff over there at the Prophet’s hovel.  You can get a prosperity bag, a blessings bag….charms, coins, oils.  However.  You must send the prophet money every week to get your blessings and thangs.  About 4 years ago, I wrote him a letter with like 53 cents in the envelope…saying I was living under the Flint river bridge and was praying for a miracle.  I didn’t hear back from anyone.  Nor did I get me any prosperity.

Here’s the classiest thing about the Prophet’s website…..look up there in the top right corner…and you’ll see food-stamps coming up out the wallet like a holy apparition.

If you’re not a church-goer, then the Prophet is right up your alley.  You can kick back with something to drink and listen to this multi-media presentation, “The Echo of Prophecy” on Sunday morning.

If I find out that any of my readers become converts and believers of the Pimp Prophet and his harem of Clear Thinkers….I will remove you AND your subscription and ban you from all things whimsical and profound.

I promise you.  I’ll do it.

What I Learned In Hair School

I’ve never been one of those people who adhere to a life plan; I’ve pretty much been winging it since birth. Spontaneity is my motto, albeit a more toned down version these days. So a few years ago, it was no surprise to anyone when I declared that I was going to hair school for the sheer heck of it. And off I went.

Anyone who has gone to hair school knows that the first two quarters are when the idiots are weeded out. This is done with classes like chemistry and mathematics. If you make it to 3rd quarter, you hit the salon floor with your tackle box ‘o combs.

Now, before I progress…let me digress. I live in the deep south. A place where Confederate Memorial Day is observed and everyone gets the day off, government jobs included. I’m a transplanted color-blind Yankee, so I was in no way prepared for the racial issues that are still alive and well down here. In the city I live in, the racial divide is mind-blowing. You stay on your side of the river and I’ll stay on mine. That’s the mentality here.

So…back to the story. It was my first day on the salon floor and my first customer was waiting for me in the waiting area (a.k.a. the maximum security holding cell). I bounce out and call the name of my first victim, waiting for a reply. Nothing. Then I noticed an elderly black woman sitting with her pocket book in her lap shaking her head slowly back and forth, saying, “Oh hell no…ain’t no white girl putting a finger up on THIS head!” The other waiting customers agreed wholeheartedly, with comments like, “I know that’s right!”

If you’ll recall, I said I’m a color-blind Yankee, completely unaware of southern protocol. So it was a bit shocking to everyone when I fell onto my knees and clasped my hands together.

“Please! C’mon…just one time let a white girl do your hair!”

A few of the other black students heard me and came to vouch for me. They assured her that I was Tootsie Pop in the middle and the white skin was nothing but a thang. My specialty was ethnic hair. I’d even spent 20 hours having micro-braids put in my hair just to prove that I could. Ms. Wright was hesitant, but since I’d been vouched for, she followed me to my chair. She relaxed when she saw that I sat with all the black girls…who kept assuring her that she was gonna be alright and there was no need to be frightened.

I must not have done a bad job, because next time she came back, she asked for me. After her third visit, she told me:

“Girl…I don’t have any money to tip you with. But I got a big mouth. And I’m gonna tell all my friends to come down to the vo-tech and see the little white girl that can do some hair.”

So for the rest of the year, I had a line of elderly black women coming to see the little white girl who could do some hair. I felt like the bearded lady behind the shower curtain. But fact of the matter was…I could flat do some ethnic hair. Braids, dreds, perms, quick-weaves, custom wigs….all of it. I was offered a job at the largest exclusively black salon here in town because I’d figured out how to color ethnic hair without damaging it.

On the last day of school, I ran by the salon to grab my stuff and there sat Ms. Wright. Apparently she’d been sitting there awhile. She’d rode the bus to come tell me thank you for doing her hair all year and that she’d miss my crazy ass. It was the last thing she said that made me cry like a chump.

“Girl, you don’t realize that what you’ve done here isn’t something we see everyday.”

After graduating (with honors), I didn’t do anymore hair. Nor have I since. I’ll work on some friend’s heads now and then…but for the most part, hair ain’t there. I just went to school for the experience of it. And here’s what I learned:

I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I could make it in prison.

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