My Own little Schmoe!

There they are, ready to save lives putting out fires and fighting crime. One caped crusader and one vampire fireman.
What they really need to do is get their asses out there and start collecting some of the good shit. They go to sleep, I pick out the Reeses cups. It's in their best interest, really. Tooth decay, obesity risk, etc.

Zombie Cheerleader

I am bursting with pride.

The Frog has Landed & other updates

Once upon a time, there was a bitter housewife. She bitched and moaned and even made a blog mostly dedicated to trashing her husband because he's a crazyass hoarder who would pay money for dirty kotex if someone put 'em on the clearance table at CVS. This bitchy woman posted a picture of the mess in the garage, containing one frog lamp. Lo and behold, someone spotted it, and wanted it!! Through the power of the information age, one murder by frog lamp was thwarted, thanks be to you, Lord Google.

By now, enough time has elapsed that I'm pretty sure it's not a cruel hoax leading to my death by bludgeoning, and I could be wrong, but the new owner isn't making an icky face, so he might actually like it! or it could be gas, I guess.

This lovely situation was brokered by my buddy Peedee, Queen of the Dogs, from Northern Cuba, in Fort Liquerdale. She gave it to her frog collecting friend, Joshua to put in has garden, and there they will live happily ever after! So you see, some fairy tales do have happy endings.

In other news, I recently wrote about a my son's kindergarten classmates, one of whom is named Wedge. After further investigation, I have some fun facts about Wedge:

1. It is not short for anything. That's his name. WEDGE.
2. His last name starts with E. Long E, which means if you say his first and last name together, you can't help but say Wedgie.
3. His hair is cut in, of course, a wedge style.
4. I better get used to it as it seems that Wedge and The Boy and some little tramp (dossier in progress) are all now BFFs.
   

THE Pearl Neclace

Not THAT kind of pearl necklace, filthy perverts.
Archie & I attended our annual charity event when we get dressed up and go hobnob with some fancy fancies (a similar version of THE SUIT was in attendance). Asshole forgot to tell me we'd be attending until the day before, hence fanning the flames of my generally churlish demeanor.

Mr. Bunker usually gets drunk and hits the silent auction to bid on a bunch of stupid shit which I usually secretly donate back to the charity. His social graces are sadly lacking, and he is typically quite offensive doing things like pushing away his dessert, looking at a chubby tablemate and saying "I don't want to end up like you!" He is also wont to giving unsolicited advice as in the case of a lactating woman with a infant at home who he reassured "not to worry that you'll probably get your figure back when you quit nursing"; why not just greet her with a good 'ol titty twister?? That would be less painful.

This time there were some nice jooories (thank you, Real Houswives of Atlanta) available for auction. Wanker was trying to get back in my good graces, at least a tiny bit because he probably feared that he would otherwise be getting disemboweled with my fork. The drunken foo proceeded the buy me this very nice set of pearls that are not the kind you find in Claire's Boutique. This largess combined with 2 glasses of plonk made me feel a bit more charitable toward him, I even allowed him to speak to me.

That is, until evening's end when he nudged me and said something along the lines of "hey hon, you got your credit card, I'm a little short". But anyway, I still got the goods and I am confident that they will look stunning on my decollete.

National Chemistry Week: Don't forget P-Chem

P-chem or "Physical Chemistry" for you pusses that steered clear, mainly educated me in humility. You can find all sorts of descriptions of what is generally covered in this class, but in summary it is a demonstration that everything that you learned in 100 level chemistry is sweet fantasy.
In P-chem you learn that an ideal gas as described by PV= nRT, is as fanciful as the ideal man in that they both exist only in theory. It's sort of like the life let-down that occurs when you find out that real-life romance is more accurately represented by "Fargo" than "Cinderella".
Instead of a tidy little formula involving solving for a few variables, plug & chug, mind the units, be all done, you have to start working with "real gasses", molecular collisions, and of course, the dreaded "entropy".

The math is trying, particularly when your class (of 8) gets combined with a graduate class of biophysics PhD students, all of whom were Chinese and proceeded to make us look like monkeys pounding on HPs in reverse Polish. In spite of their seeming superiority due to their mathematical skills, those Beijing boobs could not do experimental design to save their lives, so happily partnerships were made with a tad of mutual exchange which some may refer to as CHEATING, but hey, it's all about teamwork, right?

Fortunately, I survived but I'd rather birth a hedgehog than take that class again although I'm sure I'm a better person for it. Also apparently something about entropy caught my fancy, because I am now married to it. Damn.

Honky Lopez

Suppose you're a new resident, and your name is Joe Lopez. You show up to surgery and turn out to look like a member of the Aryan nation, so how can you be offended if someone calls you "Honky Lopez"? Really, how can you possibly be mad? How could someone not call you Honky Lopez? I think it would be prudent to just legally change your name so people know what to expect. How's anyone supposed to know you're from Northern Spain and not Guadalajara?
Sheesh, why so sensitive?
Also, a little crack about your Halloween costume being gay wasn't referring to you being gay, hell, how's anyone supposed to know?
Anyhoo, Dr. Honky Lopez, I'd twist Dr. P.A.'s arm till she said sorry, but lets face it, the honky things should be expected, and truly nobody cares that you're gay, but the blithering asshole thing about your expertise is unbearable, so no apology for you. In fact you are are my new depot for patients I don't like, so prepare yourself, because you have a few crazies headed your way, Dr. HONKY.

The Dowager Special

This is a really nice evening suit, that is, if you were born on the Pangaea land mass during the Paleozoic era.

This nightmare was a gift for me from Mr. Bunker. Maybe he got it for me to ensure that I wouldn't attract any attention outside of the shuffleboard & prune juice set. This garment is so fugly that if I die when I'm 100 and somebody buries me in it that I promise I will be so pissed that I will come back to haunt whomever made the decision.
It is the color of a vomit covered bruise, it sparkles, and it is 2 sizes too big. BUT after posting a picture of the frog lamp, that particular atrocity has moved out of my possession, sooo....any takers?
It's made by St. John, and they are known for making suits that are very comfortable, and are especially favored by rich old ladies with elaborately styled hair and wearing so much Chanel number 5 that it's flavor may be experienced.

If I could only unearth the receipt, the refund would probably cover 2 pairs of nice hooker heels.

A Very Nice Day

Today was the Chicago Marathon and sadly I did not participate. Conditions turned out to be nearly perfect with cool temps and no wind. Instead of running with the pack of 45,000 sweaty fools, I took a leisurely run along the nearly deserted lakefront path with a good friend and her camera.

First stop (above), I went and gave Mr. Bunker a good kick in the kidneys and told him to get his ass out of that sleeping bag and to go take out the trash, and that if he cleans out the G.D. garage that maybe I'll let him sleep in there. If you look hard you can see that that is a very nice down filled sleeping bag which I think reflects my general kind heartedness; I can't help it, I'm just that way!
Next, I admired the lovely fall foliage while flipping off the cab drivers and yelling "get off that cell phone and go back to Abu Dhabi you terrorist!" They love that, and I'm sure they know it's all in good fun.
My face, my face!! where did it go??? This is what can happen with too much botox, no expression at all!
And then I said "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT?" Fools. I tried to explain to them that marriage was not that great of an idea, but apparently they'd already paid for everything, so what can you do?

And the very best part of the day: packing up abomadable frog lamp to go to sunny Florida. Life is good.

Claim your Frog Lamp

Good news for someone, your elegant frog lamp has been found!
Now come get it the hell out of my garage before it's used as a murder weapon. Someone surely is suffering great remorse for letting go of this object de'Art, the value of which was immediately appreciated by Mr. Bunker on his evening dumpster dive.

Anyway, rightful frog lamp owner, your fingerprints are probably ALL OVER THIS BITCH, so come get it or face up to the CSI, they will find you. That or you will be smote down by The Lord. This is in my prayers.

Autum Shopping

The costume shop has opened! I just need to force a sharp right upon entry and confine our visit to one small corner of the shop. This corner being the one where they keep the scary masks and all of the 3 children's costumes; the vast majority of the "adult" costumes involve themes that I don't really want to discuss: "mommy why's she got those cones and that whip? " Awkward.
That's my handsome boy above, looking just like his old man on a Saturday morning, all fresh & perky.
Don't be fooled by the pink wig and that innocent smile, if you trifle with her she will shank your ass on the playground.
Mr. Bunker bought her a cheerleader outfit from the clearance table at the CVS (where else?), as if!
"Cheerleader??" groans Miss H., completely appalled. After being Hermione Granger last year, she has no use for the usual vapid cheerleader (her words). She has decided to make some minor alterations in order to be a Zombie Cheerleader, which I guess is better than a regular cheerleader; my girl is slightly odd.

But never mind the scary costumes, the real horror was these ass-eater jeans, I mean this makes any of the previous camel toe tarts look like pikers, someone needs to call the authorities.

Richard M. Daley is Pissed!!

Time to TAKE COVER here in the Second City because Mayor Richie is sure to be as pissed-off as a priest with priapism. Ticked-off as an untucked trannie in a tutu.
OK sorry. Enough of the annoying amateur alliteration.
SORRY!
Well then, he's going to be as enraged as Kanye West, well, on a perfect Summer's Eve.

Anyone who works at City Hall should probably just call in sick on Monday, it's sure to be ugly. Mayor Daley is probably ready to lob a nuke at the South Side because if those little assholes weren't so busy having drug wars, then he'd probably have been more successful in Denmark. Oh wait... Rio has more drugs and crime than we do, anyway you slice it.
Maybe it's the "culture of corruption" we're all moaning about...but wait! Beijing makes Chicago look like a Brownie troop in terms of corruption.

So why? even with Poperah Winfrey and the Obamas?? How can this be?

This is one Chicagoan who does not care about this monumental slight. I'm just pleased that I don't have to pitch in for King Richie's hubris. Next we get to discover who will ultimately be blamed (credited) for this failure (achievement). This hot-potato toss should be every bit as riveting as any event traditionally included in the Olympic games.

KITTENS Open the Door, Save them!

I'd say that this could be a nice way to deal with some of the excess lawyers, but hell, they wouldn't have an urge to save a kitten, so what am I even thinking?

Whale Tale

Hell yes, that is a mantard showin' off his junk.
I wonder, did he lose a bet? Is he a bitch-boy to some dominatrix that makes him wear womens undergarments to keep him in line? Maybe he was getting dressed in the dark and accidentally grabbed undies out of the wrong drawer, I mean this can happen... Sometimes I'm at work and discover that I'm wearing Mr. Bunker's nasty skidmark skivvies under my nice Talbot's skirt. KIDDING! ha ha ha...ridiculous! Talbots!! puleeze!

Anyway, this is probably how the men dress in Copenhagen, which is where all the important O-people are currently convened; you know, Oprah & The Obamas, for Olympics. Also representative of the shape Richie Daley's mouth is stuck in from, well, maybe saying all those "O" words. Just wait, if the Chicago bid is successful Richie will flip out and either flash his own girly thong or start humping the first lady's leg. Can't wait!