Just call me Lady Hussein Liberal!

The Momocrats, in their infinite wisdom, have started Just Call Me Hussein Day in response to fools like Bill Cunningham who is obviously still seven years old.
See, seems some of the conservative pundits having not been able to find any LEGIT way to discredit Obama and being incapable of debating him on the merits of his policies, have begun referring to him as B. Hussein Obama or Barack Hussein Obama.
Now, to most of us, the slimy tactics here are clear. The only Hussein known to the average American (the ones watching E! for their "news") is Saddam. They're aiming for a subconscious connection and a manipulation of the average American through what amounts to (at best) junior high psychology. It's insulting. It's disgusting. And it's underhanded.
Personally, I find this amusing. Because nothing says "holy shit, we're in big trouble- 'cause even the people we think are stupid are catching on" like resorting to something like this. And because, as the Momocrats put it, bitch is the new black, I am declaring myself a Hussein today. I hope you will too. Visit the Momocrats site and catch yourself a fancy new button for your blog and join up with Obama as an honorary Hussein!
Oh, and I'm supposed to tell you an embarrassing story about someone making fun of my name. My name is pretty benign. My maiden name is a little unusual and hard to pronounce, but doesn't easily rhyme with anything kids would seize upon. But my initials? LG or LRG more specifically. You can only imagine what kids did with that and you can only imagine what that does to the body image of an already overly-self-conscious pubescent girl. 'Nuff said.
Happy Just Call Me Hussein Day!

Why he's been my friend for over 20 years...

Email conversation with my Friend, J...

Me: I'm running away to join the circus. Care to join?

J: I thought you already worked there.... I know I do... but, pray tell, why are you running away?

Me: I'm running away because there are no good jobs outside the circus in which I can wear a tiara and tutu full time. (Trust me... people here look at you funny if you try.)
That and I want a career where I can stay drunk with carnies. Much more interesting.

J: LOL! Tiaras, Tutus and Beer, oh my!

From the "WTF????" Files

Congress Asks for Clemens Probe

Seriously? We’re going to waste even more federal resources on this bullshit? I mean, not like we have a WAR on or an upcoming election for the LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD… let’s have the government worry about whether Roger Clemens took a needle to the ass and lied about it! Folks, I’m sorry, but this is A) not the government’s business and B) not really what I’d call a priority even if it was the government’s business.
“But the integrity of our national heroes is coming into question!”
I have a couple of problems with this. One, sports figures shouldn’t be heroes. They’re just sports figures. This is the big mistake we make- assuming that people with athletic ability are somehow more valuable than the rest of us and can be assumed to be good people. Not true on either count. This whole practice of deifying pro athletes puts tremendous value on something (the aforementioned athletic ability) that hasn’t really been especially beneficial to mankind since we quit having to kill large wild beasts for sustenance. (So please explain to me why they get $7 million a year to throw a ball and I get my considerably smaller salary for protecting healthcare for the elderly?) There are some really crappy people in pro athletics, just like there are some really crappy people down at your local mega-mart. And vice versa- good folks in both arenas too. When we expect someone to be a better person just because they can hit a lot of homeruns, we’re setting ourselves up for disappointment. There’s nothing altruistic about being a pro athlete- you play a game you love for a buttload of money. I’m not knocking it- would that I could have such a career, with the loving and the buttload of money. But it still wouldn’t mean I’m worthy of someone’s respect or admiration. Before you point to all the “community service” performed by athletes, let us note that A) most of them do it as mandated by a team, league, or US court system and B) it is not typically their life’s mission. I’m not saying that makes them bad people- just not heroes. They’re entertainers, nothing more. If you were expecting heroic integrity from Roger Clemens or any other athlete, well, you’re kind of an idiot in the first place. So Congress, for the love of God, just let the damn players get all ‘roided up and hit balls to the moon. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter to anyone except the women who will be sorely disappointed by the state of their testicles. Get back to trying to keep soldiers alive and making sure my next President isn’t a lying war-mongering zealot.

Too Pretty To Fly
OK, again… seriously?? “Um… see… like… we’re young and cute and these flight attendants, they were just all hatin’ on us! ‘Cause we’re pretty! And we didn’t do ANYTHING!”
Did anyone else catch the part where one of them got into a profanity-laden heated dispute with another passenger over the restroom? Methinks that might have been what got you into trouble. Perhaps before your ego eats the rest of your capacity for responsibility and reason, you should take some time to reflect.
I’m mean, REALLY! The arrogance! And what’s worse is that CNN picked it up! Shame on you, CNN… I expect this kind of crap from… oh, I don’t know… TMZ… or FoxNews… but you?
Oh, I know… I’m just mad ‘cause you’re so pretty.

I have to go get my rage under control before Congress asks me to testify. Here- my cute child should help:

Jesus & Vivi: Both treated reverently....

First, thanks to my sis, Erin for the best laugh I've had this week. I present you, Jesus of the Week! Appropriate to my last post, there's even a 90s Hipster Jesus featured!



Oh, and here's something else to make your whole week...

















I know... I've already thrown down my wallet and car keys in surrender...

Venti Latte with a side of Skoal

This weekend, my Beloved shooed me out the door with strict orders to go, go now, and not to come back until I’d had a couple of hours to myself and a cup of coffee. (And later that night, my sex drive showed up to the party… coincidence?)

So I nursed the baby, promised to actually come back, and split for Starbucks. Mmm… Starbucks…nothing says having some “me time” like a $4 cup of joe. I love Starbucks- I love it for its overpriced coffee and pseudo-pretentiousness. I love it for the smell of freshly ground fair trade beans soothing away the yuppie guilt of patrons eyeing up the latest adult alternative compilation cd. I love the little sleeve on my coffee that simultaneously keeps my hands cool and generates more paper waste. I love the case full of trans-fat-laden scones and cookies arranged to look like the local organic bakery dropped them off (off a truck from an Atlanta warehouse?). I love how early-90s-poser I sound when I order my grande-skinny-mocha-no-whip. It is a place where I can harken back to 1994 when I was in college, coffeehouses were social centers, and throwing around words like “living wage” and “social justice” would get you laid.

I sauntered in, wearing my clogs and looking all hipster-granola-mom. I got in line and started to slip into Starbucks bliss. That’s when the illusion began crashing down around me. Here are the top ten signs that while you may be in Starbucks, you’re still in South Cackalackey…

10. The Starbucks is in the Target. And it’s not a Super Target. And it’s the only Starbucks in town.
9. Taking into account the clientele, the employees have added scraps of paper to the “tall, grande, venti” signs to read “small, medium, large”.
8. The boy in front of you is wearing (I kid you not) camouflage from head to toe. And it’s not Halloween. And those are his real teeth.
7. The girlfriend of camo boy has just requested “one of those chocolatey coffees”.
6. When the Starbucks employee says “a mocha?”, the girlfriend says “yeah- that’s it! I didn’t know how to say it right…”
5. And then she asks for a straw. (No, it wasn’t iced.)
4. The tip jar is empty save for a cigarette pack wrapper.
3. The barista says “I have a non-fat latte, no foam for Earlene!”
2. One of the patrons orders her coffee “without the Cool Whip”.
And my favorite…
1. There is a spirited discussion going on at one of the tables. About the irrelevance of the electoral college in the modern election? The wage inequities for creative professionals that led to the writer’s strike? Heck no….
ABOUT NASCAR. Yes, that’s right. An entire table full of raised voices and passionate discourse about Tony Stewart. Over lattes.

*SIGH*
Didn’t matter. I got two hours alone. And a large chocolatey coffee. With Cool Whip. Yee haw!