Grad-u-ate Good Times, Come On!

Apparently one-half of the world will be spending part of their weekend sneaking cosmopolitans into Sex and the City: The Movie. Well, maybe not the women of Bhutan, because their "Happiness Index" policies mean that they limit advertising in the country, as advertising makes people unhappy and focused on consumption. The Bhutan chicks might not have seen all the ads and previews, so they'll be doing something else this weekend that makes them happy, blissfully unaware that they are unhappy because their shoes suck ugly.

My Happiness Index (HI) is sky-high. It's Grad-o-rama around here. My younger son graduated from his sweet, creative alternative middle school yesterday, and tomorrow my older son is walking to accept his HIGH SCHOOL DIPLOMA. We're in the middle of three weeks of parties, polar emotions and festivities. A small amount of weeping, but mostly celebrations.

The only things tamping down my HI are about to be remedied toda. I was broke yesterday because I'm shelling out a couple of twenties a day for graduation brunches, limos, T-shirts, potluck dishes, and xanax (for mummy). And I do need new shoes, because I do. But today is payday, so I'm rich again. The house is still ajumble, but I'm home to fix that today as well. See how much progress I have made already? Um...

I do have one remaining problem. As one of my parent jobs, the school told me to buy 10 cans of whipped cream for the traditional ritual of cream pies in the faces of middle school graduates, which I did. But only 5 cans were used. So that's a lot of whipped cream lined up like Siberian soldiers in my fridge.

• Do I take them back to the store and overexplain that they have been carefully chilled the entire time of their absence from the store?
  
• Have a swingers' cream wrestling party?
  
• Design a party menu around cream?
  
• Spray paint "I'm not old!" on my front lawn?
  
• Post on Craigslist that I'll perform anal whipped cream enemas for $100 each to replenish my checking account from this week?
  
• Just huff the gas to console myself that my babies are growing up?

I guess if surplus Readi-Whip is my only problem , life is good. Remember when you tossed your mortar board in the air? Cheers!

Top 10 Reasons NOT to see The Sex and the City Movie

I'm worried about you. You are thinking about going to that damned "Sex and the City" abomination, aren't you?

Baby, you know you'll regret it. You know you can do better. You know you will feel sick afterwards. You know you should hold out for a more substantial relationship, something memorable and worthy of you.

Sex and the City is the Mr. Big of summer films. Well groomed, but utterly shallow and annoying. Don't go.

I'm here to throw my body between you and the overhype out there by giving you my body---I mean reminding you of the top 10 reasons you don't want to see this movie, if we can call it that.



1. That's one ugly girl. The only reason to watch SJP for an hour on TV is to get an ego boost when you are feeling fugly. Because almost everyone is pretty than Sarah Jessica Moppyface. But as a movie I you want to watch an ugly movie star, at least pick a talented one, like Linda Hunt.

2. WTF is this? They are going to make you sit through some ugly fake wedding during which PETA is going to burst into your theater spreading red paint in protest of the goats killed to make this pelt dress. You don't want to be caught in that crossfire.

3. He is an ass. A complete, utter ass. During the entire show, what did he give her, crumbs of affection and a toothbrush? It wasn't even a complete toothbrush.

4. He's old. They are all old. We've jumped the shark, folks.

5. See number 3 above. He can't even act like he wants to hold her hand. Ugh. I even liked Mikhail Baryshnikov more than him, and he was a frigging dolt.

6. Miranda: her nasal voice & her bitchy character.

7. Samantha: her pretentious voice & her sleazy character.

8. Charlotte: her whiny voice & her childish character. She does have a nice ass, though, so she almost gets a pass.

9. The script. Can't you just hear Carrie...."I began to wonder, just because I wanted to make some money to support my out of work Broadway dandyman, did that mean I should milk any remaining life out of my old TV show for a schlocky film? Or is it past the due date for these four old yogurts?"

and

10. The fact that SATC was a TV show that was fun to hate, but that doesn't mean we should make it a movie. If you have to say "The Movie" next to a title, it better be a cartoon you are about to see. I love me some Karen, but "Will and Grace: The Movie?" How about "Two and 1/2 Men: The Movie?" "ER: The Movie?" "Everyone Loves Raymond, The Movie?" NO and NO and NO and NO.

This "movie" should be on HBO, dammit! It's at the level of a Brady Bunch Hawaiian Reunion Special, not a "no passes" flick. So don't be tricked into going to see it. Hold the line. Catch it in a few weeks in the comfort of your own home when your little red Netflix envelope delivers it to you so that you can see it right where it belongs, on your TV.

Still need to be talked down? Call me, really, anytime. We've all been where you are. Let's just work through the steps together and get you through this.

Florida is bound to get juicy again

Recount is now airing on HBO, bringing all due acclaim to my home state. Florida doesn't just fade into the woodwork on election stuff, do we? We're no wallflower Nebraska state, no sirree Katherine Harris. In fact, we would like you to seat our delegates even though we randomly schedule our primaries and we can't count our own dingleberry chads. That's just the price the nation pays for making us live alongside the roads that lead to the ghetto that you and your 70,000 friends from Canada, Japan and Great Britain like to call "Disney."

Recount is creating a PR worry, though, that Florida's dirty laundry will dissuade the 8 summer tourists who are expected to drive this summer from visiting their wallets upon us. With the gas crisis, we need new visitors more than ever to our humble, politically destructive state--we don't want families to veer to the west and head to the Ozarks. It's not that we don't want to share, but we have no income tax. We need your sales tax dollars, folks, or we won't be able to buy the duct tape and margarita salt we need to make it through hurricane season. It's that simple: Florida needs you.

So the tourism board is sinking some money into a PR campaign. They decided to try to spin the message so that we claim our state's political power and glory--to use the Recount film as positive press.

What's a few tanks of gas in the scheme of things when the Great State of Florida awaits? You might want to wait another month until our heat, humidity, pre-hurricane storms and mosquitoes are at their prime, however. And wait until we get really upset about the seating of our delegates or some other election debacle. Wait until the state becomes thick with protestors, news vans and grandstanding. Like our citrus fruit, political drama is best when served just a tad overripe. Wait until it gets Juicy again!

(When they were shooting Recount I stalked Laura Dern just a little bit.)

The Dreaded One-Eyed Snake Escaping from a Pair of Shorts

When I write about penises, as I did last week when I wondered about where boy ballet dancers put their junk, MS shakes her head. She says I'm obsessed with men's bulging packages. She says that a penis obsession means that I will always be identified as a "bi-sexual" and not as a "lesbian" even though "bi"sort of the queer version of Catholic limbo. (Never thought you would see all those words in one sentence, did you, God?!)

Then she invariably says, "Tell me about all of the penises you've seen." And it rolls downhill from there. Cause she's right about that, I've admired my (generous) share of penii.

Nonetheless, here I go with some cock talk. This particular penis topic is important to people of both genders and any sexual proclivity, because it's about schlongs in public. Now that it is officially summer, many men are donning shorts and wearing them outside of their own homes and yards when they aren't simply running errands. I've been summer partying and I saw this phenomenon with my own eyes. I even went to a White Party, so I have seen men in white shorts with my own eyes.

I might be permanently traumatized.

Shorts are pretty uncool on 85% of adults, anyway--and on 100% of men who are not soccer or tennis players. Then men complicate a fashion trainwreck and akward situation because they like to sit like this:

It's their way of saying, "I am straightforward and direct, and so is my dick. Take a look." And sometimes if you DO look, you will see outlines of such on his pants. Especially if he is wearing light colored pants. Sometimes you see a dribble stain. I'm serious, I've seen it with my own eyes. And if he is wearing SHORTS of all things, you might see more.

Maybe men sit like that because it's about easy access. It reminds me of this:

Or maybe they just want to keep an eye on their wangs so that they doesn't accidentally get into trouble. I kind of understand. If I had a dick for a day, I'd be staring at it (when it wasn't in use) and saying, "Whoa, Dude! Whoa, look at my dick!" But then again, adult men have had their tools for more than a day, so what gives?

Here's the thing they need to remember, and that women need to know to beware of, now that it is officially summer:

• lighter summer fabrics do not provide the same boink control as heavier, darker winter fabrics.

and, worse:

• when men sit down in shorts and swim trucks, we all run the risk of seeing the Dreaded One-Eyed Short Snake slipping out of the jungle.

Be especially aware of older men and lawnchairs:

Not only can you end up eye to eye with the snake, their balls can slip right on through the chair webbing. If it happens, quickly dive in the pool so that you are unable to assist with a rescue disentanglement mission. No one wants to eat wieners off of the grill after that.

Also beware the effect of water sports and or sweat on summer clothes. I love this photo of Owen Wilson sharing a wet laugh with his penis and his friend.
So what do I want men to do about this heinous crime? I want them to wear decent pants that don't create situations of revelatory risk. Or at least wear a tight underlayer that won't allow escapes (like soccer players do) to provide appropriate barriers between the junk jungle and the civilized city. Stephen Ire knows what works!

Now to be fair, women need to be aware of nipple slippage and peak through on summer-weight clothes.


But I don't seem to mind it as much. In fact, I think it's a cute fashion choice. See, I told you! Never doubt my love of the vulva.

Guest Post by Patrick Dempey

Hello! Pat Demsey here!

Deb asked me to offer a guest post today to share with you TIPS FOR A LOW-COST WEEKEND. The budget crisis is hitting us all, including me--so I was happy for the $25 and 1000 Entrecards Deb gave me to do this. Thanks, Deb!

So here are my ideas for a low-cost weekend.

1. DO NOT go to see my new movie Made of Honor. Only a 12% on Rotten Tomatoes! I knew it was a piece of shit when I made it, but like I said, I needed the $25 bucks and 10,000 Entrecards they gave me to do it.

2.. If you want to see me in a movie, go to the Netflix free "watch now" area and select my 1987 classic Loverboy. Damn, 1987 was my best year. Fast Times TV series, Woo Hoo Kid, and Loverboy. You'll get to see me juggle, ballroom dance, prat fall and just be free. I play a pizza boy who decides to make more money by being a gigolo to bored housewives. If they ordered an anchovy pizza, I came with my dick in the box. (Justin Timberlake totally stole that from me, BTW.)
When I was at the Senor Pizza place, I looked ridiculous.
But when I was servicing the old women, we both looked ridiculous. The movie is worth the view of Kirstie in a leather outfit with 80s shoulder pads, but you will never get the vision of me dressed as a gawky pimply pimp out of your mind.
Most people say I look better now thanks to Dr. Nose & Chin Job.



Most people say Kirstie Alley looks worse now thanks to Ron Hubbard, and because of the grief of her unrequited crush on suppa gay John Travolta. Did you know that Scientology got her off of cocaine? Funny, cause in 1987 I got her off while we were on cocaine!

3. I know I mentioned cocaine, but don't get excited. YOU CAN'T AFFORD COCAINE. Our new found poverty is the ultimate success of the Republican war on drugs. They started a war; we can't afford drugs. I recommend PBR as the new E. Cheap and easy!
4. Last but not least, for budget entertainment, don't forget SEX is CHEAP and EASY FUN. Just fill your three-day weekend with sex and your wallet won't feel the burn. You might even be inspired by Loverboy and you could sell your moneymaker to make some pizza dough.

Sex is actually how I met Deb. I was googling "foreplay for the clumsy" and ended up on her sex ed chart. I am definitely an "Upper Left" corner kind of candle-and-world-music kind of loverboy. I may be looking at a pretty grim future as an actor who can only get gigs as a reality TV judge in a few years, but I'll always have the skills I learned in that Tantra 4 U / EST seminar I took in the early 90s. Serves me well.

Times are tough, so if you come up with any budget-friendly weekend tips please share them. We need all of the economic stimulation help we can get!

Insane in the cranium, insane in the crane

I’m traveling right now, and so I am acutely aware of a particularly heinous (all rights for the phrase “particularly heinous” belong to NBC; used with permission) crime that is perpetrated in airports, planes, and free wi-fi hotspots. It is a nasty crime, leaving its victims feeling dirty, violated and vulnerable. The psychology of the perpetrators is so twisted that they repeat and repeat again, with no apparent saturation point to their recidivistic ritual.

I’m talking about the crime of craning.

Why is it I can’t sit and work or read blogs or watch a movie or send a freaking email without some bozo (usually a bored preppy business dude, but you can’t profile these craners, they come in all types) craning his damn starchy neck to try to catch a hit of my smoking computer screen. Craners are peepies of the worst order, because they don’t even know what they are after. They are compelled to indiscriminately peep.

Who the hell raised these people? Did their mothers march them around the block and teach them how to look into windows to try to catch a pubescent glimpse of the money shot, or of a family devouring a hot, cheesy pizza? Did their mothers withhold their own dinners until they guessed what was in the microwave, so they learned how to peek in the microwave window when she wasn’t looking? Microwaves are the gateway screens, perhaps.

Seriously, what ugly things happened to them that they would be compelled to crane incessantly to peep, even though they are in public and very obvious at their craning. I can tell it’s not yoga, dude who is right now looking at this screen. Yes, you. No, don’t try to cover it up with a stretch. YOU ARE A CRANING PEEPIE. BE ASHAMED.

What do you think you are going to see? It’s a laptop, guys, not a lap topless. Craners, you are not going to see porn on my screen. Do I look like I would view porn in public? Well, maybe I would, but 9 times out of ten it’s not porn. Unless you count adding a red circle and a slash to a picture of cranes as porn. Crane snuff porn, yeah!

Here’s the deal, we are for the most part 1st world people with 1st world problems. Yes, we are bored. Yes, we are essentially voyeurs needing to be fed details details details. But please, in public, do the 1st world thing and avert your gaze. Then get on your own damn laptop and read some hot blogs. Go to Alltop, check out some new worlds to peep into. Jack up your feed reader with new slickness, or surf and let bloggers get the pleasure of your comment love. Blogging is the mature way to peep into the sex, drugs, classified secrets and mommy-rocking-chair-and-roll of the world. We give it away; you don't have to steal a peep.

Either do that and avert your craning, or wear magnifying sunglasses like I do. If you are going to peep, look hot doing it.

What Skeeves You Out? Ice Breaker Dos & Don'ts

Last week I attended a meeting where an overly caffeinated facilitator wanted the room to participate in the age-old torture ritual of an Ice Breaker. Doesn't that bring up a vicious image: a bunch of people frozen, encased in ice, which must be gnawed at and hacked at until finally numb, trembling hands can be raised in greeting to one another?

Worse, her Ice Breaker question was: Name something that gives you the heebee-jeebees.
Really. She said "heebee-jeebees" with an immobile smile and Botox/latte eyes.

So of course the obvious answer is: I'm skeeved by Facilitators with Ice Breakers. The first person took that. Lazy bastard.

Next obvious answer: Clowns. Also taken early on. As were spiders, roaches, snakes, felons, germy keyboards, germy hotel rooms, germy anything was really popular actually, but also a very safe answer. No one is going to raise an eyebrow if you say germs, that's one thing I learned.

I gave one chick a nod for her really honest answer: the liquid on top of yogurt or sour cream. Her delivery was really convincing. I thought she might vomit right there. In fact, I was surprised the next person didn't say "people looking like they will vomit gives me the shakes" because vomit was really present in the zeitgeist of the room.

It was getting close to my turn. I wanted to say "rashes" but I didn't, because I didn't want to add to the "vomit zeitgeist." But it is very true. People seem to know this rash issue about me, and some subliminal force makes them want to show me their rashes. Everyone wants a rash witness, I guess. Kind of like a "smell this" bad milk witness.

A long time ago I worked at a homeless shelter for battered women and would all the time get women cornering me and saying "Would you look at this rash?" They would have their bra elastic up or their pants elastic down before I could say "Desitin, top drawer!" I don't want to be the rash go-to girl, but it still happens in various settings. I think I have that kind of helpful-nurse demeanor. I once helped a college roommate find and remove a lost tampon, too, but that's another story.

So I didn't mention either "rashes" or "tampons creating Toxic Shock Syndrome in cavernous vaginal canals" as my skeevy bits, which I think showed great restraint in respect for the professional setting. I also didn't say "when people search for 'tasty pony porn' on Google and disturbingly find their way to my site," because not everyone would understand that little displeasure. As you can see, I put a lot of thought into picking my Ice Breaker answer. I play for reals, people, I don't slack during the day.

So when it was my turn, I bravely told the truth without being graphic...I thought. When it came my time to crack my personal ice, I shared that what really gives me the heebee jeebees is not knowing what people are thinking, and how people could be thinking the most heinous or unsettling things in the same room or elevator as you, and you don't know it. You might feel it, you might sense the air ruffling a bit or the light growing slightly dimmer around the dank aura of the dark thinking person, but you don't really know, do you?

Boy, that made for a long **crickets** pause in the room. Should have gone with "rashes," right?

Times change, though, and now I have a new skeevable item. f I am asked that question tomorrow or the next day or the next, and you know at some point it will come up, I am going to say "Geisha feet" because my friend Lisette sent me photos of fetish shoes and of this poor old lady's crackly footbound tortured feet that look like a two chicken cordon bleu rolls hiding some Snausages. Because that is skeeving me out big time.

That's worse than long curling Guinness Book of World Records fingernails + cat anus on the heebee jeebee scale. Damn, what if a geisha foot HAD long curling fingernails? Dear Lord, I might not sleep tonight.

The Ballet, The Ass and Other Mallerina Bulges

"My hump, my hump, my manly ballet hump." -- anonymous ballerino.

After a work week that kicked my badonkadonk ass, I spent last night on my ass at the ballet. It was a lovely production by a tremendously talented and dedicated company, so it was time on my ass well spent. Sometimes ballet can seem like a L-o-n-g time to be sitting still on one's undisciplined ass, but last night's show was engaging, especially the dancer I knew in the show. Watching her has taught me that proficiency in ballet is the admirable culmination of serious work, and also that ballet is full-body acting.

It kind of sucks that I have to admire ballet now, because I used to like being in disdain of it because it made me feel better from being kicked out of ballet at 6 for my Immovable Clumsiness, Non-Waiflike Smart Mouth and Conduct Unbecoming of a Bumblebee. I think that last reason came from me wagging my ass hootchi-style while on-stage in bumblebee costume. Moves that were not in the choreography, but give a kid an imaginary stinger and what do you expect? I'm all about the elegance of my hind quarters en l'air.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not entirely cultured about this ballet shit. Not high-brown enough not to remain utterly distracted by the male dancers and their boy bumps in tights. The hell? Those boys have some bold confidence to be in tights all up their asses and with their junk all sealed up into a spandex wonton up front.

It occurred to me that I didn't know what they wore DOWN THERE that allowed them to leap and elancer without showing us if they tilt east or west. Was it something like those boxes where you cut out a hole and stick your finger in it to look like a severed finger on Halloween? Or was it more like a thick crocheted tea cozy?

After some brave Google and You-tube searching I found out that they are called "Dance Belts," the tend to cost $20 bucks, they are more like a supportive jock crossed with a quilted maxi pad, ballet guys hate them, and the thong version is preferred because it doesn't ruin your hip line with panty seams. Also, there is a fetish for dance belts. Surprise! I didn't see that coming, did you????

Here's what one helpful mallerina said:
Dance belts
Oh the evil part of being a male dancer...
Dance belts are both good and bad... Good because they keep things in place, prevent injury, and keep things from flopping around, bad because they're uncomfortable, and just utterly a pain in the... well... you know where I'm going with that...


Now there are a few different kinds. for those who just can't STAND to wear thongs, they do make a full backed one, but those look horrible in tights because they give you well... panty lines.. no better way to say it... You don't want these for shows... no no no no... none of that.
As for everyday wear, I find the quilted kind Capezio makes to be the most comfortable... For what that's worth... I also wear quilted to class, quilted just gives your extra support and comfort in the front.
And to answer that question that's so often asked... No male dancers don't stuff...


So that answers that. Information is power, so now that I know, perhaps next time I can focus less on the boy part crotches and more on the ciseaux. I might have to watch Dick in a Box before I go, though, just to get it out of my system.

Also, I learned that I don't use the full benefit of my arms when I am walking through town. I'm going to try to present myself more often like I am preparing to hug Sasquatch and to wear more feathers, because I will look more ladylike. Ballet is inspiring!

Les autres blogs de ridiculousement: www.humor-blogs.com

Something Oil, Something Green...

Jenna Bush's wedding was really no biggie. Pretty laid back Texas-style hoedown.

First thing that had to happen was Jenna had to agree to give up women, at least in public. Not a big problem, her mother had before her and so she knew that as a wealthy Texan, that smackdown was coming and she got it out of her system.


Then she had to get used to the sloppy advances of preppy men. That was tougher.


Then the parents had to meet so that the grooms' family jewels could be assessed to see if he would be a suitable family business partner.


Then, the date was set and the dress was purchased.

Wait a minute, that's not her, that's some other overexposed Wedding Day Barbie.

Then her dad had to walk her down the aisle and give her away. Again, no biggie, he's been giving his country, the economy, the truth and other bigger things for years. He really doesn't like responsibility, anyway!


Then she had to throw her thong to the hordes of bridesmaids waiting for a chance to be next to marry up.


Because a Texas-sized wedding is the dream of every humble girl from every humble family--the chance for just one day to be Cinderella with a fantasy party so that your grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, trust fund advisors and leaders of oil companies and oil producing nations can celebrate your hopes for having a more prosperous live ahead than did your scrappy ancestors who toiled so hard before you. Because in America, each generation can and will do better than those who came before. It's the American Dream, and no terrorists will interfere with that!



Can't you just hear the clanking of crystal and the popping of champagne corks? To the Bush family!

Repro Madness: Helping the Duggars Name Baby #18

Sometimes it is hard to know what to say when someone announces without a lot of enthusiasm that she is pregnant. You kind of wait to find out if it's a "hurray," moment, or a "ooohhhh," moment or if a "hhmmm" is needed. But when Michelle Duggar says she's pregnant, the only possible answer is "you crazy knocked-up freak."

Sister already has 17 children, but they now have announced that they have one more bun in that wood-burning oven. Her womb must have a mini-bar and chaise lounges in it by now. Her baby parts are so stretched out that the fetus is able to throw the umbilical cord on like a backpack and take little hikes up to her right shoulder for lunch, and then back down near her left knee for a country ride in the afternoon.

Most people can not wrap their heads around the reproductive choices of this family, but I think of her as some sort of new breed of Old Testament Sci-Fi royalty. Seriously, I would not believe any person on this planet who tried to relay a message from God or aliens EXCEPT for Michelle Duggar. If she announced that she's the Queen of the New World Order and that soon angels or aliens were on their way to vaporize the rest of us to let Michelle and her husband Jim Bob (true story!) repopulate the world in sanctity and whiteness, I think I would say that yeah, I saw that coming, okay, bye now.

The new baby -- #18 -- is due New's Year Day 2009. I imagine that Michelle will register at Target, so don't rush out and buy a gift just yet. And there is no word on the gender at this point. I hope it's a girl, because more Duggar hair is just as necessary to our collective happiness as is, let's say, more cowbell.

The Discovery Channel is inviting people to vote on a name for 18. We could just call her "18" except that all of their children MUST be named with a "J" word according to decree by God and/or aliens. Michelle and Jim Bob already have children named:

Joshua, 20
Jana, 18
John-David, 18
Jill, 16
Jessa, 15
Jinger, 14
Joseph, 13
Josiah, 11
Joy-Anna, 10
Jeremiah, 9
Jedidiah, 9
Jason, 7
James, 6
Justin, 5
Jackson, 3
Johannah, 2
Jennifer, 1

My favorite name is Jinger. Nice. You don't need a new stripper name if your parents plan from the beginning with a hearty, versatile name like Jinger. But I don't like any of the names Discovery wants to offer up for the new baby. They are all boring! And if you can't name your 18th child something fun and distinctive, what is the point, you know?

Here are my first thoughts:

Jezebel (Old Testament, natch!)
Jimmy Bobby (after Dad)
Jeckel
Jellybelly
Jizzie (or Jizey as a variation)
Jhumpa
Jesus Christ
J. Crew
Jackalopee (rhymes with Virgin of Guadalope)
Just Stop
Jipsy Rose
Jabawookeezie
Jack Daniel
J'accuse (French is classy)
Janiquita Sherelle
Jodphrey (nice and British)
Juanita Rosita Bonita de la Jarenta
Jhoop Thereitis
J. Bonedog
J. Lo. Bootie
JuicyJuice
Jiminy
Jabroni
Jacki Chan

I don't know if any of these are right. I'm hoping that the hive mind of da internet can help come up with some better ones. If you help me brainstorm, I will send them a list of our ideas. Anybody? Anybody?

**chirp**
**chirp**

Mommyblogger Talking Points 101: Take Them Down if You Have To

Damn. I wish Heather would let me put a little spy receiver in her ear so that I could help her out of tricky PR jabs at bloggers coming from traditional media. Because they are going to come.

When Kathie Lee interviewed Mommyblogger Queen Dooce on NBC's Today show and was on the attack about exploitation/at-risk, instead of fumbling about New York, Heather could have said:

"Well, it's not like we are paying children in El Salvador pennies to sew and glue tacky Kathie Lee clothes for WalMart, mangling their limbs, spirits and innocence. How did you and your daughter Cassidy make peace with that, Mrs. Gifford?

Hey, idea, could we be like Kathie Lee? Is it even possible to hire third world children to blog for you? Because that would be very lucrative exploitation--I'll research it and let you know.

(The photo, ironically, is Kathie taking daughter Cassidy to NBC recently for Take Your Son/Daughter to Work Day!)

Open Letter to Lindsay "Sticky Fur Fingers" Lohan

Dear Lindsay,

Betch, this has to stop. I just got an Amber Alert telling me that once again, you've been stealing. This time a fur coat? Sicko whack job, I'm begging you to get a pump of anti-bac gel and wash your sticky, filthy, furry little fingers. Because stealing is not a victimless crime. I'm still scared of you after what you did to me, and my kids sometimes wake up at night screaming random stuff like "my left foot. It's so COLD." It breaks my heart. They are resilient, but still, it's wrong, Lindsay, just flat ass wrong. I know you've been through a lot, but Meryl doesn't pull shit like this, and she survived the freaking Holocaust and a butt-ugly name!

Lindsay, you gave that tart her Peta-bait back, so I want you to make good with me and my children. GIVE ME BACK OUR SOCKS, LINDSAY. They don't even match, Lindsay. You must have piles of them by now, because every week I reach for a favorite pair, and damn you, you already hit one of them! You can afford to buy your own damn socks, Blondie. Give me back our socks, and I won't go to the traditional media. It will stop here, plus Stumble and of course Twitter. Just give me back the socks and we can all move forward with our lives.

Your BFF (I love you even though you are a FREAKy Friday),

Deb Rox

Nine Belles a Tripping

May 1
LOUISVILLE, Ky. (AP) - Presidential hopeful Hillary Rodham Clinton has urged a group of supporters to put their money on Eight Belles, the only filly in Saturday's Kentucky Derby

May 4
(Bloomberg) -- Big Brown delivered at the Kentucky Derby yesterday, winning horse racing's marquee event that ended tragically with the death of Eight Belles. As Big Brown was draped with roses, Eight Belles, the first filly to run the Derby in nine years, was euthanized after breaking both of her front ankles. It was the first time in Derby history that a horse died.

May 5

New York(AP) -- Former Presidential wannabee Hillary Rodham Clinton has stepped down from her bid to earn the Democratic nod for this year's presidential run. She said her decision will allow her to focus on her new business venture and to spend less time cringing about her family. "I'm sorry if you feel like you put money on a factory-bound filly," she told supporters. "I've tripped just one time too many on this campaign trail. It's ironic that in the end it's the cankles that got the fillies. But I'm not gone, look for me on QVC promoting my new line of home repair products for regular people--folks really need the basics in times of financial doom, like jello and my new super adhesive for shoes soles, bullet holes and leaky campaign coffers."

Democrat leader Barack Obama said, "All I have to say is once you go Big Brown, you never look down!"

That's What I Like About You

I have a theory that humans take a fancy to the things that keep them in a perpetual state of foreplay. Not in a perpetual state of pre-orgasm, because as we have established, constantly living on the edge of a volcano could be a bit too much. But foreplay, a continuous state of desire, arousal, exploration and craving, that is the human preference.

Baseball, politics, film, cooking, eating, organizing, Viggo Mortensen, aquariums, god only know what you are into. I'm betting that if we could start in the part of your brain where your love of whatever it is you love resides and follow the sparking and frayed wiring past where it crosses the blue synapses and the firing yellow connections and that knot of red wire, we would find a glowing hotspot in your neural network that's throbbing and straining to break through a zipper.

That said, I love the roller derby.

I love how those suicide chicks bang out a mash-up of competitive fire, brute force, rock and roll, humor, nostalgia, camp, identity games, S&M, fetish fashion and cocktails to create a girl-on-girl theater of power. Photographed is Capital Punishment hottie hothead Moxie Knockout.

MS took me on a surprise date Saturday night, and part of the surprise was Derby de Mayo. I love the excitement of the jammers trying to get through the pack, denied and denied again until finally they fling forward and break forward to lead. Vicarious? Yes. Thrill, yes, thrilling. And a certain turn-on for those of us who are wired for it. I even like how the lead jammer ends each jam by tapping her hips. It's a sign language safe-word.

I really don't know how big that particular roller derby turn-on club is. I would tend to think duh, everyone, but that's because I tend to forget that not everyone is wired exactly - like - me. Which I think is full-tilt weird of other people, but I've come to accept it. Luckily in most cases my wires cross with MS' to create electrical power to spare, and we tend to like doing the same things. Living in a state of perpetual foreplay is even nicer when if you've found your money shot partner. Six years now! I like it, baby, I like it!