Wednesday, February 25, 2009


Just what in the hazmat hell is going on around here?? twice in one month Mr. Bunker tries his hand in the kitchen?? I'm almost as baffled by this as I am about The Boy's mammary obsession. Usually on Tuesdays (my late day) he takes his hand out of his pants long enough to pick up the phone and order a pizza. Sometimes he gets fancy and orders Chinese, and occasionally he will become inspired and assemble a meal out of leftovers. I used to try to make something in advance, then I found out that if it involved any greater complexity than heat-n-eat, it was not going to be prepared.
The Big Guido menu involved sausage and some kind of marinara or possibly afterbirth underneath a layer of grease; no telling by visual inspection. He must be getting really low on cash, like almost time to start shopping for nice roomy cardboard boxes if he's trying to conserve funds by cooking.
The kids were wary, and opted to eat only the pasta without the special homemade sauce. Even the pasta sucked, because to my knowledge there is no legitimate method for "slow cooking" pasta, and unless you stick to the instructions and cook it in boiling water as suggested on the box, it turns into some kind of tasteless mush.
THEN he begged for a review of this offense to all mankind, and being the sweet kind person that I am, I told him it was delicious, much like I told Miss H. that her playdough sculpture was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. At least she had sense enough to be mildly skeptical of this high praise.
I'm confused and concerned. I'm thinking what the hell, kill the fatted calf--the end is near.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Boobies and The Boy

Why is this happening? The Boy's eyes glazed over last night when Sarah Jessica Parker and her rack arrived on the red carpet. He was transfixed. HE'S ONLY FIVE!!! He's generally restricted to PBS kids and Sprout, although there have been a few accidental Reno 911 exposures, but they were very very brief. He saw more of Officer Dangle than Officer Hookah. Honest. How can he be so dazzled?? He has yet to have a look at a girly magazine. So WHY is he so tantalized by the jugs? He's still supposed to be worshiping ME right? At least a little, until he's like 7, at least. I'm about as shapely as a FedEx envelope, and my motorboat potential is zero.
It must have been that Polish Nanny with the bodacious set that got him all warped. Shit. I should have made her hack those things off; they'll only give her back problems later in life, after all.
I am afraid that when he's 12 hes going to drag home a little something like this. He probably won't even care if she has facial hair. WHY?? HOW???

And in case anyone is unclear about the motorboat thing:

Friday, February 20, 2009

High Maintenance

This morning I went and got my fuzzy teefs did. It was time, nome sayin'? Following the whitening procedure, the sweet perky little tech was blinded & dazzled by my magnificence, and all was good. Until.

Without any type of appropriate warning she says 48 hours, no coffee, no chocolate. COFFEE, CHOCOLATE. What does that leave??? heroin?!? Yes, I quit caffeine (mostly) when I had one in the oven, but I was mentally prepared for that.
In the blink of an eye, she went from perky and sweet to a broke down raggedy truck stop whore maggoty cunting running sore.
By noon I was could hardly focus through my bloody hurting eyes to see who I should be bitching at. By one o'clock I would have slurped tepid instant Folgers out of the toilet. At 1:12 I went to Starbucks and restored normalcy to my world. I am a helpless junkie.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Mr. Mom

This is a picture of Archie Bunker's misguided attempt to make breakfast. Disgusting. Nobody should eat any of this mess, not even to be polite. If there is an accidental consumption, then there is a mandatory lie-down-and-rest period for at least an hour, because there is a high risk of the entire stomach falling right out through the ass, which can be vexing.
I'm not sure if he should get points for trying, or punched in the nuts for attempted murder.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Spring Break

How about this economy!!! Where the hell's my bailout money? We have to tighten our belts, according to Mr. Bunker, it's hard for him because he's suffering from that insidious chronic corpulence around his middle. No fancy resort in Cabo this year for us, we're going back home to Indiana for our spring break. I guess we'll have to leave him ashore because he'd probably sink our yacht. Maybe he could drive along the bank in his pickup truck; we need someone to haul the bug spray. I think we will be able to enjoy some luxury when we get to the big gambling boats. I wonder if they take food stamps? We'd probably be fine if we could pawn that damn nail polish.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Chump holiday

Participation in the Valentine's day holiday should be strictly limited to those in grades 5 and under. It is fun to be in second grade and get your carefully decorated shoebox stuffed full of Spider Man and ScoobyDoo cards along with little sugar hearts.
I think adults should abstain completely from this nonsense unless, of course, it's somebody wishing to buy chocolates for me.
It's always a terrible night to go out for dinner with crappy abbreviated overpriced menus, and the shows always end up sold out. The whole concept of a romantic holiday generally serves to make many of us feel inadequate and otherwise pretty bad about our sorry selves. If you are a man, there is pressure to do something extra special, and you will most assuredly dick it up. If you're a woman, and you don't have some idiot trying to woo you, then that too is some kind of failure.

It's a foregone conclusion that my Valentine's weekend was a non-event; I am, after all married to Archie Bunker (who did manage to purchase rather than steal flowers for me this year).

I was seeking a little vicarious excitement through my unmarried friends, and they instead helped to strengthen my above stated argument, that being that this holiday needs to be dropped from the calendar, or at least undergo major revision.

My single, successful & oh so hot girlfriends' Valentine's 2009 review:

DR. P.A. the supermodel surgeon (overlooking some tiny wardrobe issues, but this is exactly why we wear scrubs): Played "Rock Band" at home until 3am, with a bowl of chips and a pack of smokes, then came to our monthly homeless clinic where we did receive a lovely card from our regulars.

: The fabulously beautiful internist who maintains her privileges at a certain facility for the sole purpose of having a parking spot close to Barney's: Sulked around in a slightly subdued manner because she was in trouble for administering a verbal beat-down to her boo, which involved a visit from the poe-lice. Asshole just stood there and took it. Fight back you pussy! err, actually just stand there and take it like a man. SHE WAS MAD! maybe you had nothing to do with it,but hell. she was tired. Stand there and take your licks if you love her. Then buy her some shoes, and give her some Advil and coffee for her hangover.

Miss. CG
: The spectacular gyne-girl P.A. who can look at coochies all day, then do a triathalon and then make banana pudding that can make one weak in one's knees: went to NYC to visit her gay friend for shopping and dining.

Where's the romance? These are my personal heros!! Do what they're doing and Fight Back!! Fuck it!! stay home and eat chocolate and sweet tart hearts. That's what I'm going to do as soon as I get those dang kids go to sleep.

Friday, February 13, 2009

I'm feeling sexy

This is how I want to be feeling for the big romantic holiday. It looks grim, but one can just sense that these gals are cooling off from their pole dance bump and grind workout. Looks like they're on the way to get a 'lil waxing. Yes, girlfriend on the right, it hurts a little, but it'll be over soon!
This is pretty much what last year's roses looked like. Archie Bunker forgot to order anything for me and decided to remedy the situation by swiping the roses from his coworker's desk after she left for vacation. Bitch better not get me second hand roses this year. I don't even want roses, what the hell, you just takes 'em home and watches 'em die. Got Daym!

I'm eagerly awaiting the romantic explosion that will fan the fires of my blackened heart and make me want to skip through a field of flowers happily looking for hearts made of glitter and magical creatures of the forest. Jewelery might do it, or maybe a parking space in a clean garage even. Or maybe just take the GD Christmas shit-which has been neatly boxed for 6 long weeks-out of the house. I think that Valentine's day is an appropriate drop-dead date for the end of anything even vaguely Christmas.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

it ain't natural

Just in case anyone missed this picture of crazy baby-mama homegirl, I thought I'd share. Sorry.
I'm referring to her lips looking unnatural, of course. her belly is beyootifoo, and if you don't agree, you're clearly just some kind of jealous hater.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Princess flix

What are you watching? I ask.
Princess Diarrhea!! shouts The Boy, thereby making a fairly benign Disney movie sound like some kind of dirty scat porn. "She hit him right in the PEAUNUTS!!", he howls after Anne Hathaway whacks the little surfer prick in the, uh, prick with a softball.

Update: forget about drowning kittens.
The automotive-grade-silicone enhanced, trout lipped reproductive nightmare is the current target of my ire. In her ancestral homeland (Iran) the "F" in MILF would stand for FLOG, as in "flog that silly twat until her well proven uterus falls out and shrivels up, then jump on it until it is mush".
Those 8 unfortunate babies would have been tolerated for about 10 minutes in Iran, which is where the grandpa said he was going in order to raise some cash for the child army produced by his daughter. It was probably just an excuse though, just to get away from that batshit CRAZY homegirl of his, I'm positive he'll be back real soon.
Also, she's not on welfare. No, she's just getting $500/ month in food stamps because she's extra nice, and the other monthly payments she receives from the government, in her esteemed opinion, don't count as welfare because she has "legitimate needs". When you're done wiping the barf off your chin, go watch the Westminster Kennel Club dog show because those doggies are cute and fuzzy, and they are supposed to have litters.

Monday, February 9, 2009


Mr. V. is a sometimes churlish long term patient . When I first saw him he had a sloppy dripping ulceration on his ankle. I treated it with a genetically engineered graft which had been generated from fetal foreskin. It healed beautifully and Mr. V christened it his "peckerfoot".
Mr. V taught auto body at a vocational school on the south side, and called his students "those little bastards". He has a beard as long as santy clause but the style is more in keeping with a middle eastern mullah, his temperament being closer to the later.

He likes NASCAR and says a car isn't a real car unless, upon start-up, it sounds like your grandmother gargling peanut butter.
He was extremely compliant during his course of treatment, meaning that he probably would have healed just fine (if a bit more slowly) without the help from the pecker. He follows up a couple times a year and I am always happy to see him; initially he scared me, particularly when he was in the office roaring about having the "fucking little penis stuck on his leg".

I have grown fond of him as he has mellowed after quitting those little bastards. He comes from far in the sticks to visit and bitches endlessly about having to come to the city, but he keeps coming. still has private insurance too! gotta love that.
He is always menacing in the waiting room, scares the shit out of my assistant when he asks her to help remove his compression stockings (which he calls his "goddamn leg condoms). Then he launches into the discussion of his peckerfoot getting close to puberty, and what then?!? is it gunna wake him up at night hahaha!! then he asks me why the hell I'm wearin' those stupid high heels when my "wheels" aren't even showing and what is the point of that?
For recreation he makes loud cars louder, and in the summertime he drives around his property in a golf cart with his wife & a six pack. Life is good, peckerfoot and all.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Note to Michael Phelps

Dear Son of Neptune:
first of all, get your head out of your ass, or the bong as it were. Next find out which of your stoner buds just got a new car and do something really mean to him. REALLY MEAN! make him smoke up some oregano or something. That being said, I think most swim team locker rooms smell faintly like marijuana, Ben Gay, and chlorine. That's how mine always smelled anyway.

When you're in the pool swimming back and forth and back and forth FOREVER, it does get a little dull, and SOME swimmers were known to help the Pink Floyd playing in their minds a little by a tiny bit of zee reefer. That's what I heard, anyway. As far as I know, this practice does not necessarily lead to an end stage of snorting heroin off of a baby's ass while getting a swastika tattoo and committing armed robbery at the local White Hen.
So get your ass back in the pool, wait for some new endorsements (Cartoon Network and Cheetos, probably). And please have your aorta checked because I'm pretty sure that you have Marfan's syndrome and will bleed out before you're 30.
All my Bestest.
Love, Chico's Catalog

Thursday, February 5, 2009

My fat kitty

Back in the day I used to have a big fat cat. His name was Mildew. In the beginning I was not that fond of him; hence the name. He and his litter-mate who was called Thirty-Four-And-A-Half just showed up at my apartment one day. I meant to drown them both in the toilet, but I never got around to it. Instead I overfed them and gave them insulting names, which at the end of the day just made it embarrassing to take them to the vet. Mildew became my buddy when I was heartbroken over the Australian electrochemist who was moving back to Melbourne. I was sad and big fat Mildew suddenly started jumping (which was hard for him) into my bed and cuddling with me at night (which is hard because I'm about as cuddly as a surfboard). He either nursed me back to health or sucked out my soul, which one? it's debatable. Anyway, I felt better with his company. I started to say things like "he's just big boned" and "it's his glands, he can't help it".
Why these fond reminiscences today?
It's just a friendly warning to Dr. P.A. from Dr. I.N. :
You are teetering on the edge of the cliff, sliding right down that slippery slope. Get rid of those kittens, you're headed straight for "crazy cat lady" status. Really. I think I still have it in me to drown them, maybe. You're going to have your furniture ruined and they will sit and stare at you while you're eating Doritos on your exercise bike. Godspeed, woman.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Why I get the milk

If you want to get rid of some dirty hankies or old Happy Meal toys, then you should put a price tag on that shit and put it on the clearance table at my neighborhood CVS, because Archie Bunker will buy it. Pictured above is what Mr. Super Efficient Shopper brought home when I asked him to go get one gallon of milk. If you can't see it clearly, I will list it out for your enjoyment:
One tube of some kind of Oil of Olay youth-in-a-tube,
An ultrasonic jewelery cleaner
2 bottles of fruit scented shower gel,
2 large sets of little girly 'lil Miss Hoochie makeup (which is strictly against house rules)
Last but not least, twelve, twelve(!!) sets of wet & wild nail polish including a color that looks like Grey Poupon mustard. TWELVE.

Next pic. has 2 different shades of foundation, a bronzer intended for, uh, the more darkly pigmented woman, and some cream eyshadows that would be useful for someone trying out for the circus. The he swung by Dunkin' Donuts and Chipotle to stock up on napkins. Of course, he forgot the fucking milk. Day-um boy, you is stew-pid and crazy.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Beauty in the Barrio

Cheapass Archie Bunker likes to go to little Mexico for a haircut. He thinks he's getting a deal. He loads up the family truckster and hauls the whole fam damily out for this happy Sunday outing. He's happy because he can act like a big shot and shout broken english at people who, by and large, choose to ignore him. He & the kids get shitty haircuts and he tips outrageously because he doesn't know that I'll soon have to take the kids for fixer-upers at twice the price. Here's my new exciting look: