The Right Wing Just Does Shit Differently

Nate over at the Pan Galactic Blogger Blaster just asks chicks to send in risque photos of themselves so he can post them on his blog and they do.

What the fuck?

I can’t decide if I’m appalled or jealous.


Some Enchanted Evening

Tomorrow is our office Christmas party. I have not prepared for it. I had even made plans to be busy this evening so that I would be unable to prepare for it.

But, alas, fate and the Butcher have conspired against me. My plans fell through and here on the oven are those awesome peanut butter bars, which I will whip up for my co-workers because I’m nice.

The real question is, what do I bring as my crappy present to exchange?

We’ve got quite a few lighthouses that neither of us like. But my grandma gave them to us and my mom would notice if they were missing. There’s the puppet that the Butcher uses to hit on my friends when he’s drunk. No, then, not that.

I think I’m going to have to go with one of my hideously ugly afghans, from the days when I didn’t know what I was doing.

As a present, it’s got two things going for it. One, it’s ugly so no one’s going to want it. But it’s handmade by me, so I will be able to revel in folks’ discomfort as they pretend like they don’t not want it.

Yes, I think that’s really the perfect thing to bring. That or the jar of peanuts my dad left here at Thanksgiving.


I was thinking just now of my friend Christy’s mom who took us into the bathroom when we were in eighth grade and tried to teach us about tampons.

Up until that point, the only thing we ever used tampons for was to shoot them at my brothers after church. In fact, I’m almost certain that it was upon being caught flinging tampons around the sanctuary that we were forced to endure the tampon lesson.

Basically, this involved us sitting on the edge of the tub, hoping to god that Christy’s mom couldn’t smell the cigarette smoke on us, while her mom lined up a series of glasses on the bathroom counter and tampons of all different brands.

She explained how to use them, handed us each some instructions, and then made the stupidest mistake a mom can make while administering the tampon lesson. She proceeded open each tampon, take it out of its applicator, if it had one, and drop each one into its own glass.

And there they swelled, like… well… unless you’ve seen it, it’s hard to describe. But tampons come in a small variety of shapes. Some open up into little mattresses (Tampax) or unfurl like billowy umbrellas (Tampax Pearl) or untwist into some other uncomfortable shape. The thing is that, when left to their own devices, unfettered by a vagina, tampons will balloon up.

And Christy and I looked at these cottony messes growing larger and larger in the glasses and looked at each other and Christy looks at her mom, eyes wide in terror, and says, “Jesus Christ, Mom, how the hell does that fucker come out?!”

“Well, hmm, now they don’t get that big…”

“The fuck they don’t! You think I’m going to put that thing up inside me when it does that?!?!”

“Well, they’re very convenient.”

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“There’s no need to swear.”

“Does B.’s mom know you’re telling her this shit?”


“Has the world gone fucking mad?”

Needless to say, neither one of us were converted to tampon use that day. But I remember when I got home, my mom sort of wanted to continue to talk about it. I’m sure she’d been briefed about the disaster. She handed me another sheet of instructions and said, “Now, you may have discovered that you have a hole. I just want you to know that such exploration is natural and that even though I don’t want to know about it, you shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Just read this and if you have any questions…”

“Yeah, ma?”

“Maybe we can ask your Aunt B. to answer them. She’s a nurse.”

Dr. Phil & Recent Comments

There’s a big shepherd that lives a couple of blocks from us who, I swear to god, looks just like Dr. Phil. I think he has a perfectly fine dog name–Jag or Jack or Jet–but I don’t know for sure since the people in our neighborhood are terrible about remembering dogs’ names. Mrs. Wigglebottom is regularly Sophie or Sally to them, so I can’t be assured that they actually know Dr. Phil’s name, either.

So, I just call him Dr. Phil.

Which is not a problem usually because he’s a dog. He doesn’t really know what the fuck I’m saying. But on Saturday, when he was out walking around the neighborhood with his owner and I drove by, windows down in an effort to get my hair to dry, I shouted out “Hey, Dr. Phil.”

And I couldn’t decide which part was weirder. That I was shouting hello to a dog or that I was then knowingly calling that dog by the wrong name.

Anyway, I added a “Recent Comments” section over there on the right. I’m not in love with how it’s set up, because it gives you the comments in the order of the posts–so, say, if Exador and the Church Secretary were to continue to fight on the post about Bush’s law-breaking ways, they’d never be at the top of the comment list, even if those were the most recent comments. That’s kind of annoying, but I think if I can figure out how to get it to say which posts those comments are on, at least that will be clear.

I’ll work on it.

In the meantime, let me know what you think.