We can't dance as well as Pudsey, but at least we know all the lyrics to The Flintstones theme song.

The Remote Control Terrorist hurt my feelings the other day.  We had just finished watching a YouTube video of Ashleigh and Pudsey, winners of Britain’s Got Talent.

He looked at me and said, “The producers of The Amazing Race should pick that dog for their show instead of you and Jeni Decker.  There’s no way the two of you could beat that dog.”

They should do no such thing.  Sure Ashleigh is an attractive teen with a great body.  And certainly Pudsey is a talented dog with less hair on his face than I have on mine.

But a dog competing on The Amazing Race is ridiculous.

How is that dog going to rappel down the side of a building?  That’s something Jeni and I can both do as long as the people on the ground don’t mind being showered with what I like to call terror pee.

What about zip-lining?  When I zipped across the neon skies of Vegas, the tight harness gave me an extra two butts, each one larger than Ashleigh’s.  Pudsey looks pretty small to fit in one.  Ratings might increase when he slips through the harness and falls howling to his death, but I doubt it would be worth it to the producers when PETA finds out.

I bet the Remote Control Terrorist didn’t even consider India.  If poor Pudsey gets separated from his beloved Ashleigh, the next snack she eats at a sidewalk vendor could be a Pudsey Kabab.  There goes her £500,000 winnings to a therapist.

There are a million ways for us to beat Pudsey while competing on The Amazing Race.  But SlimJims™ are our secret weapon.  As long as the dog doesn’t watch the following video, we’ll be picked instead of him no matter how fucking adorable he is.

If I ever have to watch the Power Rangers again, I'll be begging for the Zombie Apocalypse to hurry up and get here.

It started like any other last day of the work week for me.  I was running late, which in itself is hilarious because the most I can manage is a fast walk to work since my car got totaled. 

Adios, White Trash Toyota.

The second I arrived at the bookstore the customers descended on me like vultures.  I’d prefer actual vultures since I assume that unlike my customers, those disgusting birds would know the name and/or author of the book they want me to find for them.  It would be lovely to wait on a vulture perched on the book desk who says to me, “SQUAWK SQUAWK SQUAWK SQUAWK,”  This translates into, “Do you have The Original Road Kill Cookbook by Buck Peterson and J. Angus McClean?”    Even a vulture has more sense than customers who ask for a book when they have no idea of its name or the author.  All they know is they heard about it on some Fox News show.  An unnecessary aside which has nothing to do with this blog post:  You can buy a road kill kid’s costume on Amazon.  I can’t decide if that’s awesome or something that should get a parent turned over to Child Protective Services.

In between waiting on people asking for who knows what, I had six carts of books to stock and 15 end caps to set.  Since I was alone on the floor due to labor cuts this wasn’t a problem…if I were the Flash or Superman or Samantha from Bewitched or Jeannie from I Dream of Jeanie.  But guess what, Unreasonable Corporation (who thanks to the Supreme Court is now a person) I’m not any of those things.  I’m a fucking grandmother with high blood pressure and a heart condition!  Quit trying to kill me!

I finally got through the day and ordinarily would be looking forward to my weekend.  But, oh no!  Mortified Daughter had asked if I could babysit Pumpkinhead the Elder and Pumpkinhead the Younger, my two grandsons; ages five and three.  I love them to pieces, but would prefer to wait until they are in college before I start hanging out with them.

I’m different from most grandmothers (and women for that matter) because babies offend me.  And the offensiveness doesn’t stop just because the little angels can now talk and viciously wave a plastic sword around until it pokes me in the eye.  Oh, no.  The offensiveness grows and grows like an anal wart does when you can’t afford to go to the doctor.  (I’m not saying I have an extra-large anal wart growing in my asshole and I’m not comparing my grandkids to anal warts, small or otherwise.  Really.)

In case you think I’m exaggerating my feelings about babies and small children, below is a poem I wrote about Pumpkinhead the Elder.

You’re Terrible

While trying to tell you something
You take a swing.
Whatever that thing is in your hand
Connects with my lip and jars my teeth.

“Mother fucker!” I shriek.
Immediately realizing my error
In contrition I lower my eyes and mutter, “Sorry.”
Laughing, you pull your arm back to swing again.

This time I defend myself
And wonder why I love you so much.
You’re terrible
But you’re only two.

Okay, are you convinced?  Moving on.

Once I arrived to begin my five or so hours of torture, Mortified Daughter Defiler informed me he rented some movies for the kids.  Good news!  This would keep them occupied and I love movies like Puss in Boots, Shrek, Up and Monster House.  Or superhero movies like Ironman and Thor.  “What did you get?” I innocently asked.

“Power Rangers.”

WHAT…THE…FUCK?

Apparently my grandkids like stupid shit.  I don’t think this necessarily makes them stupid…yet.  But they better get over it fast if they don’t want to grow up to be politicians.  On the plus side, at least the Power Rangers aren’t Veggie Tales, even if one of the bad guys has a bell pepper hanging off his ass.  If Veggie Tales ever shows up in Mortified Daughter’s home, I’ve completely failed at raising her.

At some point in the evening (probably when Pumpkinhead the Elder goaded Pumpkinhead the Younger into throwing a bottle of red juice all over my white t-shirt) I quit speaking to the both of them and read a book.  They eventually fell asleep on the floor like flea-bitten dogs and I fell asleep on the couch with a Power Rangers song looping over and over again on the television.

The parents who spawned my lovely evening eventually returned and I said to Mortified Daughter Defiler, “I’ll kill myself if I ever have to watch Power Rangers again.”

He replied, “Mumble-mumble-mumble.”

Me:  What?

MDD:  Mumble-mumble-mumble.

Me:  What?

MDD:  Mumble-mumble-mumble.

Me: (Placing my ear next to his mouth full of mumbles) What?

MDD:  That makes two of us.  (Garbled.)

Mortified Daughter tossed me the car keys and I left, muttering my new mantra when driving (which was only the second time I’ve driven in eight months) “Please don’t let me have a wreck.  Please don’t let me have a wreck.  Please don’t let me have a wreck.”  You can say that sentence a LOT of times in four miles.

A thunderstorm was brewing to make me even more nervous.  I’ve been around for over half a century and I’ve never seen such violent lightning strikes.  Each one partially blinded me.  Could this day get any better?  You bet.

When I got home I expected the power to go out so I ran around trying to accomplish some things and hoped I’d have time to check my email.  One thing I needed to do was apply flea meds to the back of the neck of Super Snatch, the gypsy voodoo cat.  She did not take kindly to me doing something for her fucking benefit.  As blood started gushing from my arm, the lights went out.  For five hours.  No air conditioning.  No fan.  (I can’t sleep without the sound of the fan.)  No Internet.  No computer games.  No movies.  No fucking way to enjoy the beginning of my weekend.  I almost had a panic attack over my refrigerator and freezer since I’d already spent my entire food budget for two weeks (about $30 Corporate Overlords – thanks for nothing) and I’d splurged on key lime ice cream since some FUCKER bought the last frozen key lime pie which I NEEDED more than the FUCKER who bought it before I got to the store.

I managed to find my flashlight, aka book light.  As if someone like me would be prepared enough to own a flashlight.  Or a hammer.  Or a screwdriver.  Or an emergency plan.  (Zombies, just come and get me, would you?)

This had turned out to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  Until…I remembered I still had a few unread chapters of Jenny Lawson’s memoir, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened.  I finished the day laughing, but even the hilarious Jenny Lawson can’t make up for corporate greed, future juvenile delinquents, ruined t-shirts, nearly being struck by lightning, cat scratch fever, and the possibility of melted ice cream.  But she came damn close.

Jeni Gets a Letter from President Obama & All I Get are Bills

My co-author Jeni Decker thought I was crazy when I suggested we send President Obama a copy of Waiting for Karl Rove.  Crazy like a fox – not because I’m sly and intelligent, but because my legs and face are covered with fur.  She also wondered if I might be barking mad when I suggested we include a pack of smokes for Obama.  My theory has always been that nothing shows you care more than a thoughtful gift that will be gratefully used – possibly right before ordering Seal Team 6 to kill Osama bin Laden.

I finally convinced Jeni that the President of the United States could use a good laugh and she mailed off the book.  I can only hope someday he will read it while drinking a beer and smoking.  (I cannot trust a President who doesn’t smoke because this leads to additional stress and the probability of being a Republican.)

As you can see by the above photo, Jeni received a thank-you letter from President Obama’s Under Secretary to his Under Secretary’s Secretary.  I am so fucking jealous!  Once our sequel is in print, that book is being sent to the White House from my address.

The first is President Barack Obama.  Now there’s a man who has to put up with a lot of shit from everyone from Congress, to crackpot dictators who slaughter their own people, to power-mad, overweight, lying drug addicts.  Yeah, I’m talking about you, Rush Limbaugh.  Obama handles an unbelievable amount of pressure with grace, charm and wit.  You know what I’d be doing if I were in his position?  Sobbing.  Wetting my pants.  More sobbing.  Kicking things.  Cursing.  Did I mention sobbing?

The second person I admire the most is Michelle Obama.  I think being the wife of the President of the United States is the shittiest job imaginable.  The First Lady always has to appear in public wearing makeup and her legs always have to be shaved.  Or waxed.  Probably waxed since she can afford it.  She has to brush her hair.  Every day!  There’s no way she can sneak into the White House kitchen and eat half a coconut cream pie with a spoon and chase it with a six-pack of beer.  That shit would be all over Fox News in nothing flat.  (Damn you, White House whistleblowers!)  She has to constantly interact with other human beings instead of six cats.  She can’t get away with calling Ann Coulter a badly dressed, anorexic bitch.  (White House whistleblowers, move along to the halls of Congress, would you?)  Like her husband, the First Lady handles all this pressure in a manner that makes me ashamed of myself when I put a voodoo curse on a rude customer.  (Okay, that’s a lie.  I’m never ashamed when I pull out a voodoo curse on someone who deserves it, but I do wish I could handle pressure as well as Michelle Obama.)

The third person I admire the most is my good friend and co-author Jeni Decker.  Jeni has two autistic sons and handles a difficult situation far better than I ever could.  She’s raised my awareness about autism while making me laugh my fat ass completely off.  (Oh, how I wish that were true!)  Jeni will drop what she’s doing when I come up with a bizarre Photoshop request and she never judges me because I choose to be a computer end user.  She always goes along with my craziest ideas.  For instance, when I told her we should send Barack Obama a copy of Waiting for Karl Rove, she did it.  We’re now on the Secret Service’s watch list, but not in a good way, i.e. Chunky Prostitutes for Hire – Fees Negotiable.

When I asked her to listen endlessly to Insane Clown Posse while making a video, here’s what happened.

Attack Karl Rove Ad

The President and the First Lady might fall in my personal rankings of people I admire the most, but Jeni Decker will always be number one!  Her birthday is April 30, so all you Russian porn bots hitting my site, wish her a good one.

Happy birthday, Jeni!  You are one amazing woman!

They bought their tickets. They knew what they were getting into.

I don’t like to fly.  Why should I?  Am I the only one who has noticed planes are made of metal (probably lead); they carry hundreds of passengers – many of them lard asses; and their wings don’t even flap?  It’s physically impossible for a plane to fly.  (I never took physics in school, but even I know that.)

Then there’s the hassle at airport security.  Unlike my fellow passengers, I have only two hands and can’t juggle a boarding pass, driver’s license, removing my shoes and watch, opening my overstuffed carryon bag, stripping off my bra and old lady panties, and placing everything in buckets.  (Imagine my surprise when everyone from TSA agents to the small child in line behind me informed me my underwear could have stayed on.)

Next comes the waiting.  Years ago I would enjoy reading, but these days I can’t seem to focus for long on even the most entertaining of books.  I did luck out on this trip with an advanced reader copy (ARC) of Jenny Lawson’s Let’s Pretend This Never Happened.  My kind of writer is one who writes a chapter entitled Thanks for the Zombies, Jesus. (NOTE TO JENNY LAWSON:  Next time I hang out with Jeni Decker I want you to come along.  It’s exhausting embarrassing her all by myself.)

So there I was, sitting in the terminal reading and snorting in a very unbecoming manner (I snort when I laugh out loud) and in my right ear I hear the following:

“Motherfucker!  I missed my flight by five fucking minutes!”

I turned to look and the attractive young woman four seats away (although she could have been in the next terminal and I still could have heard her) was talking on her cell phone.

“Fuck!  The fucking lines were so fucking long.  Then I had to go through the fucking scan.  People even let me cut in fucking line, but they were so busy scanning fucking old ladies in fucking wheelchairs that I fucking missed my fucking flight.”

I love how people think using a cell phone makes them soundproof.  But I have to admire the fact that she overused the word “fuck” more than an Irish football team.  (I didn’t look too closely at her face because I’m so polite, but perhaps the woman was Jenny Lawson who says in her memoir “…Call me ‘that-weird-chick-who-says “fuck”-a-lot…”.

Ms. Fuck-a-Lot finally wound down and I went back to reading until my flight was called.  I was practically the last person to board and ended up sitting in the furthest seat back.  The wall behind me hid the flight attendants’ work station and the lavatory.  I sat on the aisle, while a young dude sat by the window.  He immediately slid down the shade thingie, which prevented me from seeing the Grand Canyon so he’s forever a douche bag.  The woman slept the entire flight.

Somewhere over Arizona the Captain informed us to expect turbulence (it was more like a hurricane giving birth to a tornado) so he would be turning on the “fasten your seat belts if you want to live sign” and that’s when it started – the parade of passengers getting up to pee.

Talk about your in-flight entertainment!  The flight attendant, who was safely strapped in, waited until each one reached him and then he gleefully informed them they would have to return to their seats.  (I’m certain he was gleeful because I work in retail which is no different from being a flight attendant, except for the fact their thankless and underpaying jobs occur at 60,000 feet in the air.  Both of us spend half our shifts dealing with rude fucktards who won’t listen.  I suspect he was imagining them uncomfortably sitting in a pool of their own urine.)  Unlike the two people who serve the public, my fellow passengers were not happy.

We landed early thanks to tail winds caused by the turbulence/hurricane/tornado and consequently had to wait in line at the tarmac.  This led to the very clear instructions from the Captain to remain in our seats with our seat belts fastened and consequently led to the previous violators, along with several new morons, getting up and heading to the lavatory.

For the record, I will shamelessly ingratiate myself with flight attendants because if there are motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane and Samuel L. Jackson isn’t aboard, I want the flight attendant to save me instead of the rude asshole who complains about his drink, the temperature, any delays and/or the freshness of the free (plus $649) peanuts.  “This is what you get for not saying “please” and “thank you” you disrespectful old bitch!” I will scream in the face of a blue-haired old lady who will be swallowed whole by an anaconda as the flight attendant carries me out on his/her shoulder.

Twenty minutes after we landed (and approximately twelve minutes after several bladders exploded) the Captain turned off the seat belt sign.  The woman sitting next to me had to pee so I told her I’d help her be the first since she didn’t get up during the Force 5 turbulence.  I stood up to let her by and then cock-blocked the rest of the crowd.  Once again I heard the glee in the flight attendant’s voice as he informed the first of the herd that the lavatory was occupied.

On my return flight to Texas from Vegas we had a stopover in El Paso, Texas.  Once we landed, the Captain announced that all the power was out at the airport.  Holy shit!  Snakes in the airport!  Or terrorists!  Or aliens!  Or somebody didn’t pay the electric bill!  Once most of the other passengers disembarked, I made my way back to the lavatory and saw my opportunity to indulge in some private ingratiating with the flight attendant because he also had to tell people to sit the fuck down.  (He was a bit more tactful.)

I said, “It really annoys me when other passengers don’t listen to what flight attendants tell them.”

He said, “What?”

I said, “It really annoys me when other passengers don’t listen to what flight attendants tell them.”

He said, “What?”

I started to repeat myself once again, and then I snapped.  I started laughing and leaned in to look at his name tag.  “What’s your name?  Mitch, is it?  Well, Mitch you’re an asshole!”

Mitch cracked up.  I said, “I mean it, Mitch.  You’re a big asshole, I’m a writer and you just made my next blog entry.  You know why?  Because you’re an asshole.”

I called Mitch an asshole a couple of more times after we landed in San Antonio.  And you know what? I’m pretty sure Mitch would save me before he’d save that bitchy old lady and I’d be more than happy to return the favor.

It was a pleasure flying with you Mitch…you asshole.

On February 14th I'll be marked down to 50% off!

I watch two hours of cable news every morning to get a jump-start on being irritated for the rest of the day.  Even more annoying than the know-it-all and smug pundits, are the commercials shown that early.  Acne medicine endorsed by has-been celebrities, an instrument used to clip the claws of a dog injected with tranquilizers, an invention guaranteed to remove dead skin cells that don’t understand the party’s over, and Shamwow! According to the Shamwow! spokesperson, it can soak up everything from cat urine to the bile which shot out of my mouth after I watched the next commercial.  It’s seasonal, and has taken over most of the time allotted for selling crap.

Imagine an office where three men in cubicles agonize over what to get their girlfriends for Valentine’s Day.  The actors look nothing like any man I’ve ever seen in an office.  They’re all attractive, which means once the shoot is done, they’ll be racing to pick out the perfect gift for their boyfriends.  The woman are also unbelievable, with their perfect bodies, fake tits and manicured talons.  As a former legal secretary, I can tell you those bitches have never typed a letter.

Down the hall from the mail room appears another gay guy pushing a rolling cart with a box on it.  The box has air holes and I perk up.  Perhaps one of the whores pretending to be a hard-working secretary will receive a Tasmanian Devil which hasn’t been fed in three days.  Those little guys are carnivores, right?

One woman opened the box and squealed as if she’d stepped on two copulating cats.  No crazed and snarling Australian furball emerged.

Cooing like a flock of pigeons planning a shitfest over Congress, the three women bounced up and down while their six newly acquired boobies remained motionless.

“Ooohh!  He is so adorable!”  Each woman’s red-painted mouth formed a perfect O and I began to see where this commercial was going.

“It’s so much bigger than I thought.  I could kiss it and kiss it.“

The gay guys being paid to play it straight poked their heads around the sides of the cubicles, obviously expecting to see their co-workers on the verge of a ménage à dick.

The lucky recipient read the card.  “I’m sending you this love bandit because you’ve stolen my heart.”  She held up a teddy bear wearing  a black mask and a Spanish gaucho hat.  It looked like a lycanthropic Zorro.  “Oooh, wait until he sees what his surprise is going to be tonight!”

That’s all it took for the three-member cast of La Cage Aux Folles to roll their chairs in front of computers to order teddy bears from the Vermont Teddy Bear Company for their significant others.  I took a few moments to visit the website and immediately wanted to apologize to the love bandit after viewing some of the other teddy bears which dolts would be purchasing as last minute Valentine gifts.

The Holstein bear is a black and white horror, right down to its gender-confustion.  Why the fuck would a man wishing to get his nob polished send a cow as a spokesbovine?  Do men possess milk-producing nipples?  Where’s the unnaturally large testicles?  What happened to the semen-shooting penis?  This teddy bear is a bad idea even without the pink sash bearing the words Udderly in Love.

All the bears not wearing pants had a perfectly sewn camel-toe and I felt relief at seeing the Let’s Get Bear Naked Teddy Bear because it wore a fig leaf.  Real bears must be as modest as this caricature because I’ve seen documentaries of grizzlies chomping down on lost Boy Scouts, but I’ve never seen a bear’s penis.  What’s up with that?  Are all bears hung like my first boyfriend?

What woman wouldn’t want the Redneck Red Hot Teddy Bear?  Me.  A stuffed bear with its flannel sleeves torn off and wearing a trucker’s hat which says This Stud’s For You reminds me why I don’t like living in Texas.  After being subjected to that image, I looked around for a gun to shoot my computer monitor, but then remembered I’m a liberal.  I don’t own a gun.  I did consider buying one after reading its tattoo.  Hot Fur Ya.

The most ridiculous thing on the website had to be the price of the bears – $89.95, plus shipping.  If a man thinks he can pry my jaws open and stick his dick in my mouth by sending me crap, he might consider that I have a blender and almost know how to use it.  His Valentine dinner will be Vermont Teddy Bear casserole, with a side order of blue balls.  The real way to my heart is to take that hundred bucks and pay my electric bill before the candlelight in the bedroom becomes a necessity rather than a mood setter.

My boyfriend and I met on Valentine’s Day several years ago.  Back then, he brought me a single pink rose and some M&Ms.  This year he’s bringing me a dozen  red lighters.  Call me a romantic, but I get weak in the knees thinking about it.  There’s no romance in an unlit cigarette.  Just ask Bogie and Bacall.

The last few years I’ve dressed as a slacker because I want to wear pajama bottoms to work.  This year a co-worker insisted we dress as zombies, even those she’s never read a zombie book or seen a zombie movie.  (Poser!)  This worked for me.  Zombies are fun.  The only problem was the walk home.  I’m certain everyone driving by thought I was a crazy, homeless woman; even that chick sitting in front of her house whose wiener dog was dressed as a hot dog, complete with bun and mustard.  (Yeah, I’m crazy.)

This zombie photo of me reflects how I feel these days.  I’m tired;  too tired to write several blog entries for a new series chronicling my adventures in walking.   But please come back to read about Kat’s Death March or Getting in Shape Before Falling Off Bridge or whatever I decide to call the series.  TEASER: Inadvertent flying without plane – a Grim experience – Calling all search parties.

“…it’s always something…”  Roseanne Roseannadanna

When the old geezer isn't farting dust, he's attempting to commit vehicular manslaughter.

It’s time to say farewell to an old friend.  Those who have read Waiting for Karl Rove know one of the main characters in the book is my white-trash Toyota.  This faithful transport carried Jeni Decker and me halfway across the country in our search for Karl Rove.  Buy the book if you want to know where we ended up waiting for him.

Yesterday, Methuselah’s grandfather sped through a red light and T-boned my car.  It seemed a weird thing to do because there were other cars stopped at the red light.  Maybe he’s dying and had been planning to run into a tree, but took a look at the white-trash Toyota and thought – The woman driving that piece of shit probably wishes she were dead.  RAMMING SPEED!

It must have been during the spinning and crashing into an SUV pulling up to the intersection that I thought –  What the fuck? I didn’t sign up for this carnival ride.  His truck hit the passenger side of my car or I might be dead, or at least still internally bleeding after 24 hours.

For a car wreck, it turned out to be a fairly good experience.  The witnesses were supportive; the police officers were great, and the paramedics humorless.  One of them didn’t crack a smile when I made a tasteless joke about an ambulance ride being on my bucket list…as long as I’m not decapitated at the time.  I guess my morbid sense of humor came too soon after the last headless body he transported.  I don’t think these things out when I’m traumatized.

The accident happened in front of the bookstore I manage.  One of my co-workers saw my car spinning and was the first to get to me. She expected to see lots of blood and compound fractures, and I think might have been a bit disappointed with my mediocre performance as a victim.

My attacker stood around with his hands shoved in his pockets playing pocket pool and farting dust.  He didn’t come over to apologize.  I’m not surprised because I’ve had close encounters with geriatric drivers before.  It’s my theory they have so many wrecks their insurance companies have sent them memos in TRIPLICATE instructing them to never apologize, as that would be an admission of guilt.  Once the adjuster takes a look at the white-trash Toyota, champagne corks will be popping at his insurance company’s corporate headquarters.  My 16-year old car is not even listed in the Blue Book of used car values.  I suspect I won’t get a dime to replace my only means of transportation and that’s a shame because my savings totals about thirty-six cents.  There’s a PayPal button on my website if any of you Russian porn bots (my only visitors) wish to donate a dollar to buy me some decent walking shoes.

After the car was towed, the shattered glass swept up, and the gawking over, I sat down in front of my workplace to make some phone calls and smoke a cigarette.  The worst part of the day occurred when I looked up to see the district manager walk into the store.  I think my initial thought was – you have got to be shitting me!

I did go into work which probably wasn’t the best idea because I might have been in shock.  I spent most of the time repeatedly walking in circles looking for paperwork I had in my hand a few minutes before.  Besides the apparent scrambling of my brains, I had a bruise the size of a pancake on my leg that resembled either Florida or Africa.  Since I refuse to have a nutty State like Florida on my leg I’ve named my bruise Mshinde, which means loser in Swahili.

I had to get up early the next morning to go to a mandatory store meeting on my day off.  I could have caught a ride, but decided walking would help me avoid getting stiff and sore.  I remember well my days as an emergency room doctor.  (Okay, maybe I got a concussion in the wreck.)  What’s hilarious about working and attending the meeting is that my boss, whose mantra during ice storms is – drive slow, you can make it into work – told me there was no way she would have worked after being in a crash as severe as mine.  So I blew a three-day weekend.  Once again I’m considering the possibility of brain trauma.

As I left the meeting, my boss asked if I wanted to take the leftover donuts she bought to bribe us to show up.  I declined because walking two miles being attacked by packs of hungry dogs, feral cats and the homeless seemed too much like a reality show cross between Hardcore Pawn and The Biggest Loser – Kat Nove starring in Hardcore Loser.  Excerpt from pilot – HERE’S YOUR DONUT!  TAKE IT!  TAKE IT!  QUIT HUMPING MY LEG YOU FUCKING PSYCHO POODLE!

And so begins my late-in-life workout program; which involves walking everywhere.  Bye-bye heart attack, stroke and diabetes.  Thanks Mr. Codger who shouldn’t be driving.  You saved my life.

129 days after Rick Perry issues proclamation calling for days of prayer to end drought. Either Kat Nove is walking on water or Guadalupe River has dried up.

As a Texan, I’m not going to blather on about what a lying, hypocritical, corporate suck-up Rick Perry is because there are already dozens of blogs discussing these things.  I will mention that if Jesus is really in contact with Perry, the anti-capitalistic Jew probably whispered, “I said you’re a disgrace, not get in the race, you fucking asshat!”

Texas is full of millions of people just like Perry.  Unfortunately for those of us who are not, two of the best Texans who ever lived are no longer with us.

The best vote I ever cast was for Ann Richards the first time she ran for Governor of Texas.  I cannot believe George W. Bush defeated her when she ran for a second term.  That’s another thing Karl Rove needs to apologize for.

The following are some quotes from my all-time favorite politician, Ann Richards.

I did not want my tombstone to read, ‘She kept a really clean house.’ I think I’d like them to remember me by saying, ‘She opened government to everyone.’

Power is what calls the shots, and power is a white male game.

I have a real soft spot in my heart for librarians and people who care about books.

Let me tell you that I am the only child of a very rough-talking father. So don’t be embarrassed about your language. I’ve either heard it or I can top it.

There is a lot more to life than just struggling to make money.

On how to be a good Republican:

• You have to believe that those privileged from birth achieve success all on their own.
• You have to be against all government programs, but expect Social Security checks on time.
• You have to believe…everything Rush Limbaugh says.
• You have to be against government interference in business, until your oil company, corporation or Savings and Loan is about to go broke and you beg for a government bail out.

My other favorite Texan was Molly Ivins; a great writer and satirist.  She’s the one who gave Perry his nickname – Governor Goodhair.  Below are some of her quotes and I’ll end this blog entry with her last one.  It’s not like I can top it.

Ann and Molly, I wish you both were still here.  It’s not so much fun without you.

The first rule of holes: when you’re in one, stop digging.

What you need is sustained outrage…there’s far too much unthinking respect given to authority.

Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful.

I dearly love the state of Texas, but I consider that a harmless perversion on my part, and discuss it only with consenting adults.

Although it is true that only about 20 percent of American workers are in unions, that 20 percent sets the standards across the board in salaries, benefits and working conditions. If you are making a decent salary in a non-union company, you owe that to the unions. One thing that corporations do not do is give out money out of the goodness of their hearts.

I have been attacked by Rush Limbaugh on the air, an experience somewhat akin to being gummed by a newt. It doesn’t actually hurt, but it leaves you with slimy stuff on your ankle.

Next time I tell you someone from Texas should not be president of the United States, please pay attention.

I’m pretty sure the Beatles wrote a song called “Here Comes the Pee”

Work is kicking my ass to the point where I fully expect to drop dead in front of a customer so rude he’ll probably kick me in the head and tell me to finish what I started so he can get home to abuse his wife.  If that happens, I’ll never get to complete my bucket list.

Long ago when my skin was smooth, my breasts perky and my vocabulary limited by my ignorance of the value of a good blow job joke; I’d never heard of a bucket list.  Today I’m retroactively scratching the following two items off from that period of my life.

I piloted an airplane (without a single lesson) after first being an accomplice to its theft.  Oh, grow up people.  Most of you secretly yearn to commit some type of victimless crime.  Quit judging me and don’t expect me to elaborate on that story because I’m not certain if the statute of limitations is up yet.

Most of the remaining items on my list involve travel, but only to places that aren’t as hot as Texas.  If my pits are wet while climbing to the top of an ancient temple, I’m someplace I don’t want to be.

Despite suffering from acrophobia and debilitating vertigo, many of the things on my bucket list involve heights.  I’ve almost successfully completed two of these height-related adventures.  By almost, I mean there were some glitches in the process.

The first was the Roller Coaster of Death.  Fiesta Texas calls it the Poltergeist because my name for it probably wouldn’t draw a crowd.  I’ve always liked roller coasters, but haven’t ridden one since I became menopausal.  I wanted to see if I still have what it takes, so my son-in-law, Mortified Daughter Defiler agreed to join me.

The glitch occurred halfway through the long wait to get on the ride.  I peed before getting in line, but since I usually have to pee ever thirty minutes, my dismay and imagination reached epic proportions the moment I felt a tingle in my nether regions.

The Roller Coaster of Death has one of the fastest starts of any roller coaster in the country, going from zero to sixty mph in a few seconds.  I could imagine the g-forces pushing my pee back up my urethra, into my bladder, through my kidneys, up into my nasal passages and out my nostrils.  The g-forces would cause the pee to spray me in the face before hitting the people in the car behind me.  To cover my upcoming embarrassment, I mentally concocted a scenario where I could blame it on Mortified Daughter Defiler.  It should be obvious to even park security that the culprit would need a penis to accomplish such a heinous crime.  Luckily no DNA samples had to be taken as I managed to hold it in through the exciting ride.

My next bucket list fuckup came when I got a helicopter ride from my brother, a corporate pilot.  He had recently been rated on the tiny flying fishbowl and flew in to the local airport to give me a ride.  Even with bifocals I can recognize a deathtrap; but my list is full of unscratched off items, so I got in.  We took off and my door flew open.

“You’re supposed to lock the fucking door!” the pilot shouted.

“You’re the fucking pilot!  You’re supposed to tell me shit like that!”  I shouted back.

And that’s how I became involved in an emergency helicopter landing.

My third bucket list adventure seemed to be going smoothly.  South Park Happy Holidays t-shirt in June. Check.  Harley-Davidson.  Check.  Genuine biker dude.  Check.  Me on bike behind genuine biker dude.  Check.  No helmet.  Check.  Fool  baseball cap personally given to me by bestselling author Christopher Moore flying off as we zipped along in a school zone at 70 mph.  Checkmate.  And what did I tell you people about judging me?  School’s out for summer!  The chances of hitting a third grader in a crosswalk were slim.

This bucket list story does have a happy ending.  My cap got caught on the back of the Harley so now I don’t have to hound the shit out of Chris Moore until he gives me another one.

The biker dude turned out to be a hoot.  He told some great stories about naked bike-riding in Kansas.  I’m certain the two of us disagree on many topics, but we got along just fine.  Man, I love that biker dude and his bike even though we just met and will probably never see each other again.

Thanks for the best ride of my life, Orval!

Next stop on my bucket list…