My boy (upon seeing a picture of Heather Locklear on some stupid gossip site I was visiting): Mommy, is that you?
Me: Why, yes, honey, it is!
My boy: You look nice and pretty on there.
Me: Thank you, sweet boy.
I probably should make it clear right here, right now, that I look nothing like Ms. Locklear -- we do have the blonde hair going on, though. Oh, and the dazzling, laser-bleached smile -- got that in common as well. And now that I think about it, the delicate, doll-like features are quite similar in the two of us. Also, the banging, smoking-hot, perhaps a bit on the anorexic side bods. The amazing legs. The luminous, spot-free skin…
Wow. I didn't realize it till now, but we’re practically twins! Lar’s a lucky, lucky man.
And for your reading displeasure, a companion piece...
Beat Me Daddy, Eight to the Bar (posted this bit of poetic genius two years ago, but feel it’s important to revisit today)
Jack Black, Jack Black, I love you, you know From the top of your skull to the tip of your toe Your eyes, how they spin round your orbital sockets How I love you, Jack Black, down to the lint in your pockets
Your mouth, rictus, and your teeth, chattering song Make me weak, make me hungry, make me sing right along Tenacious D make me wanna go Black and never go back You, honey bee (not Kyle Gass), are the real daddy mack
Sunrise, sunset, and the day in between Is filled with Jack Black -- hey! -- you’re really keen! So give me a sign, O monkey-like one, show me that you care I’ll come when you call, anytime, anywhere
I will make your bed, I will cook, dust and mop I will make your home sparkle and feed you till you pop Christ, Jack Black, I’ll even wash your shorts and socks Or meticulously repair all the wiring in your home so you never get shocks
Hear me, Sir Teddy Bear, Sir Wild and Wooly I’d be a good wife, and would submit to you fully No headaches or excuses, oh, no, not from me Lori's drive-thru would always be open for Jack Black the Mighty
So marry me, lover, make me a happy girl And give me your heart, your soul and your pearl Buy me diamonds and rubies and things made of gold And I’ll make you happy until you are really freaking old
Apparently, I’ve been approaching the publishing industry all wrong. As Harvard undergrad, Kaavya Viswanathan, has shown, all one needs to do in order to snag a $500,000 advance for a first novel is:
14) Acquire a snazzy, exotic-sounding name Z) Be, like, really, really young 3) Be, like, totally pretty and shit
E) Write uninspiring juvie dreck with a lot of gum-snapping and “omigod!” moments 5) Steal most of the above from someone else’s work.
So, this old dog has been taught a few very stupid tricks. In accordance with Ms. Viswanathan’s most awesome flim-flammy flamitude, I:
34) Changed my name to Chrysanthemum Vulva 2) Doctored my birth certificate so that it appears as if I were born on the same day as Dora the Explorer 3) Already had it going on 7) Began novel with this paragraph: "I like lipgloss. Boys are cool, but they're kind of stupid. Anyway, my best friend, Apple Fritter, and I went to the mall the other day, and we rolled our eyes a lot at the totally stupid vampires walking around. I go, "Apple, what is up with all the vampires today?" and she goes, "I dunno, dude. This is so not cool." And so I go, "We should probably leave before they start attacking and stuff." (This is going to be difficult, as I am only capable of producing literary diamonds, but for half a mil, I’ll sure as hell give it the ol’ college try) 5) Got my Danielle Steele and Laurell K. Hamilton at the ready
Oh my, I can already smell the ink on my soon-to-be issued $500,000 check...
As many of you already realize, I’m currently in the throes of a particularly nasty case of PMS. This fact might be too much information for some, but I believe it is my duty as Queen of the Universe to embrace the topic of premenstrual suffering with an eye toward male understanding, perhaps demystifying this Biblical phenomenon for the dudes out there who may on occasion find themselves Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered by their women at certain times of the month. One day she’s an angelic goddess, playful, sexy, a hair-tossing nymph with twinkling eyes, and the next a demonic Lilith who wishes to hurt you, slap you in your poor, confused face, say mean things like, “I hate your guts and pray that your bowels become blocked, your lips dry up and fall off your stupid face, your nose swells and elongates to the point of obscene proboscis monkey-like proportions, and your manhood shrivels in on itself and is absorbed by your body.” Things like that.
I understand completely your alarm and bafflement, gentlemen. Truly, I do. So, with the unwitting help of my husband, I’ve decided to list a few helpful hints that may guide you through this difficult time, and may even help your lady beat back Lilith, send her back to the Dark Place where she belongs. Unfortunately, Lilith never totally goes away, but with your loving persistence, it is possible to expel her to the Bad Realm, if only till the next month. So, without further ado, I present to you...
Five Surefire Ways to Banish the Lilith!
1) At the first sign of PMS, immediately begin speaking in a soft, high-pitched tone. Forget about sounding manly during this time, throw all thoughts of machismo out the window, and adopt a feminine, childlike voice, very quiet, very empathetic. Yes, I am completely serious here. The falsetto approach, combined with phrases such as: “Would you like a cup of tea, bunny-nose?” and “Oh, I’m sorry your head and back are killing you, sweetie -- here, let me rub your shoulders.” and “It must be so difficult to be a woman, honey. Guys have it so damn easy.” (With the last statement, if you shake your fist to the heavens and cry “Why, God, why? Why must my queen suffer so?” I guarantee you will get laid that night.
2) Offer chocolate, morning, noon and night, if possible. I suggest you keep a substantial stash on hand, just in case.
3) Make an effort to help with child-rearing, remove children from the home for a few hours, take them to McDonald’s so your lady won’t have to cook, but you’d better bring back a large order of fries or your good deed will be for naught.
4) Do not stare at the enormous growth that will inevitably pop up on your lady’s chin. If she laments over the unsightly boulder, behave as if you don’t know what she’s talking about. Smile -- nay, laugh -- and say “Are you kidding me? I see nothing but gloriously smooth skin. In fact, I was just thinking how you’ve been looking especially dewy lately.”
5) If you simply must bother your lady for sex during this time, I highly encourage you to use bribery. Some women might be wooed by promises of new shoes, some may swoon for jewelry, and then, if you’re lucky, there are women like myself who will whore for a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken (all the fixings must be included in the deal). Lar used the KFC bribe just this morning, and as expected, he went to work a happy man, and I sent Lilith packing for the day, visions of crispy drumsticks and hot, flaky biscuits smothered in gravy dancing in my head.
Hangover + PMS + Muddy Floors + Loud Children = Hate
Yesterday was absolutely beautiful. Lar and I had a barbeque with my brother, Rob, and my neighbors, The Squirrel-Slinging Fireman and his lovely wife, Bambi-Jo (not their real names). We indulged in many beers, many hot dogs, and inexplicably crunchy cheeseburgers, which, if I'd been sober, would have been totally humiliating. Rule #32 from "Ms. Lori's Handbook of Gracious Hostessing" (available at Amazon): One should never serve crunchy cheeseburgers to guests. Also from same book, Rule #45: Remove paper from cheese slices before placing them on chicken cordon bleu sandwiches, or you will forever be known as The Stupid Bitch Who Leaves Paper on Cheese Slices.
I'm not one who practices what she preaches, just ask The Squirrel-Slinging Fireman and his lovely wife, Bambi-Jo. I have broken both the above rules, as well as #14: If you spill beer on yourself while watching American Idol, do not call yourself a "big fucknose" and break down in tears of self-hatred lest your horrified guests quickly gather their belongings and mumble a hasty goodbye.
Okay, I didn't exactly break down in tears, but man, I sure was excited when Ace got the boot last night, hence my wildly flailing arms and subsequent spilt beer.
Now, my friendly friends, I must attend to this filthy, muddy, sticky-fingered house, as I'm expecting overnight guests Sunday. Rule #7 in "Ms. Lori's Handbook of Gracious Hostessing": If one is expecting overnight guests, one should vacuum, mop, srub and Windex until one's tits fall off.
#2 in My Series of "Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters"
Shhhhh: A Poem By Tom Cruise
Lay your head, sweet darling Upon the pillow And close your glibbinous [sic] eyes Be quiet, my love Gnash those dazzling teeth and release The pain to Me For I will wave my magic fingers Above this bed, and hum a glib-glorious tune That will ease the searing glibitude [sic] Within your womb Dear glibby, wondrous woman of mime [sic] Close your eyes, shhhhh Do not tear at the duct tape That seals your glib cries And think of the life we hath wrought Er. Begot I mean. Uh. Whatever Mine brain worketh overtime, O Silent Rose of Hubbard
Old Mother Hubbard Went to her cupboard To get her poor dog a bone And when the dog barked too loud Drawing a glibtudonous [sic] crowd Mother Hubbard said, Shhhh, before I beat you into submission with this stone
Get it? You’re a Mother of Hubbard, and the character’s name is Mother Hubbard?
Oh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, try not to weep Do not make a peep You’re not Meryl Streep Or a big fat sheep I pray the Ron [sic] my soul to keep
All righty then. Murphy’s Law is alive and well as evidenced by my missing turkey baster. Each and every time I even think about making a turkey, my son, using his eerie powers of perception, pilfers my baster and hides it somewhere special, a place that defies all laws of physics, logic, and God. There is a place in my home harboring approximately fifteen turkey basters, and damned if I know where it is.
Well, guess it’s “suck up the turkey juices with a straw” time again. Sounds gross, but honestly, burned mouth aside, it does make for a fine, crispy skin. When my guests compliment me on the delicious bird tomorrow, I shall smile with blistered lips and say not a word. So, shhhhh. It’s our little secret.
If you haven’t yet heard of Senator Russ Feingold, it is my pleasure to introduce to you the man I believe should be the next president of the Untied States of America. If you already know and love Mr. Feingold, and appreciate his uncommon willingness to put honor before politics, the Constitution before self-serving kowtowing, and his constituents before Washington party tricks and lobbyist favors, then you understand my enthusiasm.
I haven’t been this excited by a possible presidential candidate since Bill Clinton, and that’s saying something. Feingold, like Clinton, is a Rhodes Scholar -- imagine that, an intelligent man in office once again! -- who received his law degree from Harvard, went on to public service, and is presently Wisconsin senator, member of the Senate Judiciary Committee, Foreign Relations Committee, and Senate Intelligence Committee.
This is a man who knows what the hell he’s doing, y’all. He is self-made, political-wise, no string-pulling parents and parents’ friends paved his way with golden, undeserved opportunity and bricks made of excuses, no puppetry involved here, no cocaine or alcohol-fueled past. As a Rhodes Scholar and Harvard graduate, you can bet yer bippy Feingold wasn’t nursing hangovers instead of attending class like some presidents I could name.
And, get this: He has testicles made of iron. Yes, you read that correctly -- Feingold boasts a pair so mighty, so fearlessly bold, it has been said that the clanging of his cojones as he walks the halls of Congress sends shivers down the boneless spines of House Republicans. Rumor has it that Dubya himself cowers in the corner of the Oval Office when he hears that fearsome clang coming his way.
Feingold demands accountability, believes it is imperative that Bush and cronies own up to their deceitful practices, that this country deserves democratic leadership, not totalitarian rule. He is alarmed, frustrated, angry by Dubya’s self-appointed monarchy, and he thinks it’s time to stick that tarnished crown where the sun don’t shine. Feingold expresses aloud what most of those lily-livered squatters in Washington are whispering about, and does so with conviction, class and impressive courage in the face of quiet evil. I admire this man’s tenacity in his pursuit of justice, and doing so despite the “see no evil, hear no evil” stance of his colleagues, the band of brothers that literally shield the current administration with their menacing presence and turbo-charged spin.
Russ Feingold might not get his wish to censure Bush, but I salute this man for even trying. At least he tried. And isn’t that a quality we want in our leaders? Don’t we want someone who at least tries to do the right thing despite adversity or the possibility of being bullied by the status quo? A strong, compassionate leader who will favor diplomacy, human rights, environmental concern and the voice of the people he works for instead of megalomaniacal desires and self-righteous indulgence? Don’t we need a truth-seeker in office?
As Theodore Roosevelt once said, “The President is merely the most important among a large number of public servants. He should be supported or opposed exactly to the degree which is warranted by his good conduct or bad conduct, his efficiency or inefficiency in rendering loyal, able, and disinterested service to the Nation as a whole. Therefore it is absolutely necessary that there should be full liberty to tell the truth about his acts, and this means that it is exactly necessary to blame him when he does wrong as to praise him when he does right. Any other attitude in an American citizen is both base and servile. To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public. Nothing but the truth should be spoken about him or any one else. But it is even more important to tell the truth, pleasant or unpleasant, about him than about any one else."
Assume the position, Bush, and prepare to receive the proper coronation.
Had a meeting yesterday with my middle daughter’s teachers to discuss next year’s IEP (Individualized Education Program), as well as current progress, which turned out lovely. My girl’s doing a terrific job and has improved greatly as regards to transition, socialization, and schoolwork. She’ll no longer be needing occupational therapy, and her primary teacher told me that my daughter is one of her favorite students, and “looks forward to seeing her every day,” because she is “such a sweet girl who has a great sense of humor” and “who displays a lot of enthusiasm” and has the “most beautiful big blue eyes and brilliant smile.” She also said that my girl is a phenomenally creative writer, which is no surprise to me, but her teacher suggested I continue to encourage my girl to read her work as if she were someone else and revise accordingly -- she tends to spill everything out stream-of-consciousness-like, and often begins paragraphs in the middle of a thought or action, as if the reader knows what she is seeing in her head. Sally Lou From Kalamazoo (one of my many nicknames for her), also does that in conversation, which is amusing most times, but can be frustrating, especially when she gets frustrated by my ignorance. For example, she’ll occasionally blurt out something like, “So what should I do about that, Mom?” And I’ll say, “About what?” and she’ll reply, “Moooom! You know! The costume I have to make!” And I’ll say, “Costume? What costume?”
And on and on it goes. But she’s also one person of very few who can make me laugh to the point of tears.
She’s so awesome.
Know what else is awesome? Putting a snotty biotch in her snotty biotchy place, like I did yesterday when having a quick smoke in the practically vacant parking lot of the dentist’s office while waiting for my kids to get sealant put on their teeth (it’d been a looong day, and hadn’t had a cigarette in hours and hours). So there I was, minding my own business, enjoying the unusually warm and sunny weather with a nice smoke -- well away from the entrance doors, I might add -- when a young, slightly overweight, overly tanned lady wearing a micro-mini and tiny T-shirt that read "Porn Star" exited the dentist’s office, saw me standing there on the other side of the low ramp that leads to the sidewalk, and proceeded to wrinkle her nose and dramatically gag.
So I said, “If you think this is gross, you should see me when I shoot up heroin.”
She put her head down and, with barely-covered asscheeks wiggling in time to her bobbling braless breasts, quickly ran to her car.
John Adolfi’s mission in life is to prove the theory of intelligent design, and dangnabbit, with the help of a deformed kitten carcass, he will! Adolfi’s Lost World Museum, opening later this year in Syracuse, New York, will exhibit natural curiosities, deformed dead creatures, and ancient artifacts, all in the name of creationism, sort of like a preachy Ripley’s Believe it or Not. First up on his list of impressive “proof-positives,” is Cy, the unfortunate one-eyed kitten that was born last year in Redmond, Oregon and died one day later. Cy’s owner, Traci Allen, sold the remains to Mr. Adolfi for his Lost World Museum, because, as she states, "creationism should be an option for people to consider.."
Confused? All right, then, let’s head on over to the museum’s website again, where Adolfi explains how poor Cy, a creature born with a rare disorder called holoprosencephaly, which can produce the cyclopean effect in both animals and humans, debunks the myth of evolution. According to Adolfi, Cy proves that evolutionists don’t know what of they speak, because, jeepers creepers, if there weren’t dinosaurs with one eye, then that means humans came from God’s sandbox, because, praise the Lord, mutations, according to scientists, lifted us from ape to Man, are evolutionary necessities to build a better body, but how can that be when Cy lived only one day -- doesn’t that prove once and for all that evolution is a pack of lies?! Land sakes, people, his dead kitty proves once and for all that having only one eye and no nose is really freaking BAD! And, uh, so…Evolution is, heh heh. Um. Wrong?
Still confused? Yeah, me too. Well, if you haven’t already, head on over to the museum’s site, and if you decipher some kind of sense out of it, I’d be grateful for any light you can shed on this.
Also, if any of you have a direct line to God, could you ask Him something for me? Would you ask Him what race and nationality Adam and Eve were? I’d be interested in knowing, especially considering that since evolution is bogus and all, and “mutation” only mean destruction, how the Chinese came to be. As He already knows, there’s absolutely no mention of Chinese people in the Bible, so any sensible person would assume that they simply aren’t human…Could they possibly be aliens?
Bad News: Apparently, I’ve been suffering from a mild case of chicken pox Good News: The spots seem to be going away Bad News: But I’ve a nasty, deep cough and have been feeling terribly weak. I fear pneumonia, which I’m prone to, unfortunately. Since babyhood, I’ve been blessed to receive pneumonia at least once every four or five years, and chicken pox can lead to pneumonia, especially in very young children and adults. It’s been a little over four years since my last bout.
Bad News: After my shower yesterday, I walked into the kitchen wearing only a small T-shirt and thong, which I don’t usually do -- I’ve four kids, most of whom invite friends in to play while I’m showering, and my youngest is a very curious boy, and I wouldn’t want to scar neither them nor the neighborhood children in any way -- but I was in a hurry to start dinner preparations (homemade baked macaroni and cheese takes forever if done right) and didn’t feel like putting pants on over my still-lotion-y legs. So, of course, the boy happened to be in the kitchen at that moment.
He looked at my butt and said “Mommy, why are you naked?”
And I go, “I’m not honey. I’m wearing underwear.”
He moved around to inspect the front. “But, Mommy, they’re too small for you.”
“No, darling, I’m wearing a thong -- lots of ladies like to wear thongs because they make pants look better.”
His eyebrows furrowed as he took one more peek around the back and said, “Weeeeelllll, okaaaayyy. But you do have a big butt.” Good News: My butt isn’t all that big. Bad News: I’ve probably scarred my boy for life.
Bad News: My sister-in-law harangued me into going for my first ever mammogram, then made the appointment for me, the bitch. Good News: I’m going for my first ever mammogram. Bad News: Come June 5th, my sister-in-law and I will be sitting nervously together while wearing paper shirts and stupid fake smiles as we await the smashing plates of doom. I don’t relish the thought of having my boobicles turned into phyllo dough, really I don’t. I’m terrified that after the mammogram, I’ll be left with two crispy-crinkly Greek pastries hanging from my chest. If such is the case, you can bet that while my husband is sleeping, his testicles will be shaved and colored neon green with indelible marker. It’s only fair.
Tom DeLay, speaking with George Stephanopoulos this morning on GMA, claims that he's done nothing illegal, and that he's a victim of leftwing smearmeisters. “I walk with God,” he stated.
He walks with God?
Why, certainly! And Brian Doyle’s the kind of man I want coaching my daughter’s lacrosse team.
DeLay also said that he'd hired a lawyer to investigate himself in order to prove that there were no rotting corpses hiding in his closet, and claims that the investigations, which supposedly dug into his political career as far back as twenty-one years, turned up clean.
Wow, so his own lawyer didn’t find even one little skull? Tom, I believe I owe you an apology. Now please, continue walking with God, right to the edge of Heaven, where the Lord will then kick you in the ass and laugh as you tumble into the great abyss.
When Stephanopoulos asked DeLay if he now felt a kinship with Bill Clinton (as regards to character assassination), DeLay emphatically stated “Absolutely not!” with apparent disdain, as if he'd been asked if he enjoys porking livestock while fantasizing about Barbara Boxer. Stephanopoulos, pressing for details on the corruption seething from DeLay's former office, seemed taken aback when DeLay’s forked tongue slithered from between his lips, and thick, black smoke trickled from his nostrils, but recovered enough to ask his opinion on the outcome of November’s midterm elections. Unfortunately, he lost it again when DeLay predicted that many seats would be occupied by Republican butt, whereupon Stephanopoulos coughed into his hand while surreptitiously sputtering “asshole.”
Well, perhaps DeLay didn't do anything illegal according to Satan's law, and sure, he can’t relate to Clinton, as DeLay never received sexual favors from interns (not that an intern would even consider servicing Mr. DeLay -- ew!), but as far as behaving in an unethical and deceitful manner, I think Tommy Boy might have a wee bit of trouble convincing those of us who aren't brain-dead (or pedophiles who work for the government) that he’s as harmless as a choir boy.
Look, I understand that whole grains do a body good, but come on, Lipton, you’d better stop trying to parent America (read as: selling products that you think we night buy because the words “whole grains!” are stamped on the package, thus giving the illusion that you care, you really, really care, about us, when in reality you’re a bunch of baboon-assed soup and side dish mongers with no regard for our health) or else America, like the bitchy, sullen teen she is, will rebel and break your papery corporate heart. And I’m here to tell you that this is one sullen bitch who will not be purchasing your whole grains-injected swill, no matter how good it’s supposed to be for me.
At one time, your Fettuccine Alfredo side dish (now made with whole grains!), was my favorite mother’s little helper, the one thing that made Sunday’s baked ham extra special, Thursday’s grilled Italian sausage with peppers and onions even more faux-Italian, and soothed my monthly cravings for starchy, cheesy badness. That side dish gave me reason to live.
Where once my beloved Lipton Fettuccine Alfredo was a comfort, a true joy for the palate and soul with its tender, smooth, white, normal fettuccine smothered in a delicate but busty Alfredo sauce, it now causes my eyes to reel from the revolting tobacco-stain brown pasta, my lips to curl in disgust from its unpleasant gritty texture, and my stomach to heave with disappointment each time I try to reestablish a connection to my erstwhile friend, hoping against hope that it was all one big horrible nightmare, that it was all in my mind. Alas and alack, it is now dead to me.
Your one saving grace is the delicious line of rice dishes, of which my favorite has to be the Broccoli and Cheese. I can’t imagine a steak and baked potato without my glorious Lipton Broccoli and Cheese Rice. That said, I’m warning you, Lipton, if you dare screw with that recipe, I will frigging lose it. I honestly will. You will one day see an insane, wild-eyed harridan pacing back and forth outside Lipton headquarters with handfuls of tainted Lipton Broccoli and Cheese Rice, and I swear on my Aunt Carmella's grave, I will, much like a toddler who doesn't know any better, hurl it in your CEO’s face.