Hermie's Perfume

It's not really Hermie's perfume, it's Hermes, or Airmissss (drag out the "s" and look snobbish when you say it). They make those $7,000.00 handbags that don't even have cocaine in them. I accidentally bought an overpriced serving of their bottled luxury when I stepped into the Very Expensive Department Store yesterday to warm up.
I should know at my stage of life how to handle this sort of situation; meaning that I should keep moving briskly, and, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, avoid eye contact. Following my successful negotiation of the handbag and cosmetic sections, I got sucked right into the perfume counter.

I could pretend that I was seized by some kind of proustian recall, triggered by the wafting fragrance getting my hippocampus all atwitter; however I really was just scared of the saleslady. Well, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. She really liked me. Really. She told me she could tell I had excellent taste, and of course any woman with my skills of discrimination should be wearing her stank, because it is the finest in all the land. So even though it smells like feline urine impregnated damp wool, it's the best! And I need it! It's what she wears, after all. Now what the hell do I do with it? Use it to keep the vampires away? sprinkle it around Archie Bunkers socks?

G-Rod

Here's a picture of the big stupid-head Governor pretending that he likes crippled kids, when he was actually at the children's hospital for the purpose of shaking them down for money. We see his giant mug and his right hand, you know his left hand is rooting around to see if the kid's got a few bills tucked away, or candy at least.
Smilin' Rod is the main reason I don't accept medicaid, because the state never ever paid me, not even the tiny miserable amount they allow. He probably needed the money for his hair maintenance fund. I think that's a weave, and it's squeezing his head so hard that he can't figure out that an 8% approval rating is sort of bad. Who are those 8% anyway? Maybe all those medicaid junkies that he got the free surgeries for.

Tween Vampires

Because my house is an autocracy and censorship is alive and well here, I'm forced to read and vet the current youth literature offerings. This was delightful for Harry Potter, and tolerable for that book about the flying bear. Now there is "Twilight" with it's 3 sequels, which seems to be surpassing Hannah Montana in popularity, and it's fucking excruciating.

Yes, they extol virtue and restraint, but besides that they pretty much read like a Harlequin romance (which I LOVED when I was 12). Miss H. is probably a few years away from reading these because there is very little action, just a lot of nuanced love shit. I will attempt to illustrate the style of " Twilight" by constructing some sappy drivel:

"His tawny eyes were irascible and his sensuous mouth formed a hard line with anger. Her expressive eyes flashed with emotion and her high cheekbones flushed with bright color, making her glorious in her rage. She tossed her tangled tresses, assaulting his anger-heightened senses with it's heady scent. Unwillingly his anger started to melt, his eyes softening and his sculpted biceps relaxing; he let his breath out in a long heartfelt sigh. They could manage this one time without the butt plug."

See what I mean?? just dreadful.

Sensitivity Training

Archie Bunker has to attend a sensitivity class every so often as required by his job so he can be appropriately PC and hopefully not bring a lawsuit upon himself or his employer.

Quote: " I don't know why I gotta do this shit, I got no problem with the shines". Honest.
Next: "The faggs are fine so long as they ain't lookin' at my ass" (too bad we're all stuck looking at his ass, as it is ordinarily hanging out of his pants, not a pretty sight)
Then: "The fuckin' women though. Who do they think they are?"

HOW damn drunk was I when I said" I DO? " Is annulment out of the question? Yes, I should have left before the kids realized he was more than just a mountain on the couch that they could climb on. Damn Damn Damn.

Dear Dr. P.A. from Dr. I.N.

OK, lets start with the positives. You almost always have cigarettes and you can drive a threaded k-wire like nobody's business. Cute car, remarkable un-whacked son with a nice haircut.

However, despite your amazing charm, talent, and beauty, Glamor magazine could do an entire issue on your fashion eyesores. Holy mother of God. Please, Please, I weep for your shoes when they are paired with those horiffic white sweat socks. Also, there is a special fashion tribunal just for people who put rubber bands in their hair. Please, for all that is well coordinated in the world, soothe the office aesthetic and get some appropriate accessories, or face the prospect of a visit from Stacy and Clinton of "What not to Wear" and expect to face the ridicule of an offended nation.

I mean all of this the utmost respect and care.
Bestest, Mr. Blackwell

Crazy Times

Crazy #1
I'm just taking a breather from slamming my head against the frozen ground in order to try to rid my mind of Brit's new song. DON'T EVEN say the title or it'll get right back into my head. Can't we all just LEAVE BRITTNEY ALONE? Then maybe she'd leave us alone. ugh it's already back in my head again. It's as stubbornly pervasive as the garlic scent lingering around Archie Bunker, which conveniently brings me right up to

Crazy #2
Believe it or not, this one involves that crazy baby daddy of mine. Anyone who has been paying attention knows that Archie Bunker got on the crazy bus some time ago, and one of his many obsessive compulsive issues is hoarding. While he was in the process of reviewing some of his buried treasures he discovered his 4-years-deceased mother's make-up box. Instead of having a little moment of misty memory and chucking the shit, he brought her old & used cosmetics home and told me that I ought to begin wearing them. If there is anyone who does not think that that is just creepy and wrong on several levels I'm waiting to hear why. Group shudder, please. Time for me to get back to the head banging thing again.

Holiday Recap

This is an in-law who has just successfully completed her diet. We're so proud! Soon she'll be able to shop somewhere besides the big girl store.

My hometown is in the heart of middle America, where there are an astonishing number of extra large people. I believe that their wide bottoms are necessary to balance out their skinny little minds. Most of these individuals wear stretch pants and hit the the Wal Mart's at least 3 times a week. I know this because I spent a bit of time at the Wal Mart's myself this visit (guns and ammo, ya know).

The first time I went Wal Marting was when I had just arrived in town, and I was still wearing my fuzzy driving slippers. My original intent was to change into my boots before commencing to shop, but then I saw the people in the parking lot. Most of them appeared to be in some type of sleep wear, and some were eating fried chicken; therefore I opted to shop in my slippers. It felt a little weird, but most of the attention I generated was more of the pitying type for my presumed eating disorder than for my choice of shoes. Anyway, everyone was real real nice! I gotta go there more, luv that place.

Next is a picture of the friggin awful desert that someone brought to dinner. She brings this same slop every year and thinks it is her highly anticipated duty. She had to get up a 5am to start cooking! It wasn't completed til 4pm! she was so exhausted from it's fabrication that she could only collapse and rest when she got to the house. It's some kind of pecan mess which tastes like burnt toast with spoiled humus all dipped in a bucket of snot. Every year we all admire it and pretend to eat some. Just one of our little traditions, ins't it sweet?
I guess it's better than getting sloppy drunk and making rude revelations about ourselves and others, but that might even be fun to try once. I'd say: (slurring)"Archie Bunker, you asshole, I'm a lezzie! I'm gunna get a crew cut and a tattoo and try to date Lindsey Lohan! I LOVE her! Pass the smokes asshole. You're an asshole! Also, I don't want your dead mothers old makeup, it's creepy you Anthony Perkins weirdo! fuck off! you're an asshole!". yea, I know I said "your an asshole" a lot, but drunks do tend to repeat themselves.

CHESTER!!

This picture is of my coat, to whom I respectfully refer as Chester. It's a giant mink coat with a matching PETA paint target hat. I used to feel a little weird wearing it due to the innocent creatures that were bludgeoned for it's creation, but now I just feel warm.

Miss H. is developing a cute little social conscience and asked me if I would please abstain from buying any more fur coats, and expressed angst over Chester. Parental response: " well honey, Chester is already dead. If I don't use him his life would be totally over, done & forgotten. By wearing him I celebrate his existence! Now shut up and eat your burger."