The Pope and Oral

The Great White Pope

Pope "Emperor Palpatine" Benedict released an encyclical today talking trash about atheism.

His Most Groovy Popeness said that atheism was responsible for some of the "greatest forms of cruelty and violations of justice".

After laughing hysterically for a few minutes, the only response I could come up with to the Popeadilly's encyclical is this: Dude, you're really scary looking. Really. Scary. Ease up on the eye makeup, for chrissake. You also look as though you just slugged back a bucket of the communion wine. And, I really want to put a propeller on your little hat thingy.

There. That's better, isn't it? It makes you seem so fun-loving. Now you look as though you could be somebody's uncle. Their scary, crossdressing, drunk but fun-loving uncle.

One more thing, Pope B, whining about atheism only makes me think that atheists scare the holy poop right outta you. 'Cause you know down deep in your little pope heart, that we're right and you're not.

The Devil God Made Him Do it.

Just like his daddy, Oral, the capital-G god talks to Richard Roberts. God told Dick on Thanksgiving that he really needed to step down as President of Oral Roberts University. I'll bet god pretended the Thanksgiving turkey was a ventriloquists' dummy and he talked to Dick by throwing his voice out the turkey's ass.

Dick also said that his particular brand of god told him that if he stepped down as president of Oral Roberts University, his g-o-d was gonna "do something supernatural for the university".

Suhweet! I hope it's going to be some of that Old Testament supernatural stuff, because that shit rocks harder than a Yanni concert. Maybe it will rain burning sulphur, and Dick's wife will turn into a salt lick as she takes one final farewell glance at good ol' ORU. A plague of locusts would also be a nice touch. But I'll bet the students are gonna be plenty pissed if they wake up one morning and find themselves covered in huge boils and open sores.

I can't wait to see what happens!

Take Care,
Babs

Edited because I'm a moron sometimes, and think people's names are Robert, but they're really Richard. Which makes for a much better nickname, anyway.

Fun at the Office

I hired our new administrative assistant today. I knew I was going to hire her when I told her that we could be pretty crude in the office and we used the word "fuck" a lot. She gasped, at which point I was a bit nervous, but then she said, "It's only my favorite word. I was beginning to think there weren't any women in Arkansas who cussed"

The only way I know how to explain the completely awesome miracle of finding someone who has the exact same favorite word as me, is that it was Jesus. Jesus helped her find our ad. He probably highlighted it with holy light or something. And then when I was flipping through the mound of resumes, Jesus whispered in my ear, "Interview her". I thought it was just tinnitus or maybe a bug or something, but I was so wrong. It was the J-Man.

That Jesus sure is fucking helpful sometimes.

Take Care,
Babs

Funny Money Bunny

Total Moron? You Can Bank on it!

Oh Alexander Smith, you almost leave me at a loss for words. But never fear, Alex, I can find words. Oh, how I can find the words. Here's a little note for you:

Dear Alex,

I'll bet you're wishing that I would have told you before now that there's no such thing as a one million dollar bill. How was I supposed to know you were going to be dumb enough to try and open a bank account with one? I thought that when you bought the cigarettes with a stolen check you were only mildly stupid and were possibly having severe nicotine cravings, but a one million dollar bill? And you tried to use it at a bank? I'm starting to think that you might possibly be just a tad obtuse. I'm sorry, you're from Georgia. Let me rephrase. Well, butter my butt 'n call me biscuit, I do believe you're dumber'n a toad sittin' on a bullfrog. I honestly have no idea what any of that means, but best of luck with those forgery charges and have fun in jail!

Very Distant Hugs,
Babs

That Wascally Wabbit

I wish I could have seen the looks on the faces of a couple of Austrian purse snatchers who discovered nothing but a dead rabbit in the purse they'd just filched.

I'm so not making this up.

Hilda Morgenstein and her daughter were catching a train to the countryside so they could bury their recently deceased bunny out amongst the edelweiss. As a means of transporting the eternally sleeping lagomorph, Hilda had stuck it in her purse. I have no idea why anyone would put a dead rabbit in their purse, but whatever blows your skirt up. The two thievin' bastards made their move and were off with the purse and the dead rabbit faster than, well, two rabbits goin' at it like rabbits. But that Hilda is one quick thinker. Rather than telling her daughter the truth and explaining that the two men were total fuckwits and they'd just made off with her dead rabbit, she opted to go with the less traumatic story and told her that the men were angels and they were taking her bunny to a better place.

I'll bet the kid's not buyin' it.

And now I have this strange urge to write a song called Dead Bunny in a Hand-Me-Down Handbag.

Take Care,
Babs

So, Sue Me.

Do you guys remember Sue? The one that loved all things sparkly and was able to get rid of demons via instant messaging. Well, I had to go visit Sue's website again. It's like when I flip through the channels and some horrible infomercial is on, and I watch it even thought I know it's complete dreck. And the spokesperson hawking the all-in-one, ear hair trimmer-grout remover-dentist's drill- embalming kit is always a little creepy, and I know if I ever met them I'd have an overwhelming desire to staple duct tape over their mouth.

Sue's website is exactly like that for me.

Anyway, I began reading a riveting account Sue had penned about the Maryland Satanic Clan and how she helped break up the clan and now all the members hate her and are on a woman-hunt for Sue and raisin' all kinds of a ruckus because Sue just couldn't leave their little club alone. So, here's part of what Sue has to say about the clan:

Another lady who renounced Satan & accepted Jesus told me; "The Clan really fear your room. They say you have an Annointed song." They want to get that song from you. I dont know why."

I told her; "I know why. It puts the evil spirits to sleep and they cant jump into someone else. Then Anita & other Ministering Spirits Sent from God gets them, ties them up, and Jesus throws them in the pit."

I'll bet it's not really an Annointed song. I'll bet it's Michael Bolton, and it doesn't put the evil spirits to sleep. They just hold their breath until they pass out so they don't have to listen anymore.

I'll also bet that Anita and the other Ministering Spirits Sent from God. Wait a minute, what the hell kinda long title is that? Can't you just shorten it to God's Ministering Spirits? GoMS. That's better. So, I think that Anita and the other GoMS used to be in the rodeo and they probably hogtie the evil spirits. That way it's easier for Jesus and the pit tossing thing. As far as the pit goes, I think it's a barbecue pit that Sue has in her backyard and she, Anita and those crazy wack GoMS cook the evil spirits and eat them. Yummy. There's nothing like spit-roasted evil spirit basted with the sweat from Satan's scrotum. Just make sure you that you add 3 cups of red wine to the scrotum sweat and then reduce it to half the original volume.

You can also serve deviled eggs as a side dish and devil's food cake for dessert .

That is if you want to be all cutesy about your demon feast.

Take Care,
Babs

Happy Monday! It is Still Monday, Isn't it?

My Fortune Cookie

"You are admired from afar". I started laughing when I read it, because I thought it could be clarified with, "But up close is a whole different story, Sister."

Sleep Evades the Wicked

You know those times when you haven't slept very well in a few days, and you're sleepy all the time, and then you start feeling crappy, but then after about 9 hours of crappiness you start feeling a bit loopy and you just start writing stuff on your blog, but you're not really sure what you're writing, you just know it's one hell of a run-on sentence?

Yeah. Me, too.

Let the Hiring Begin

Our administrative assistant quit, so I've had the pleasure of perusing resumes trying to find someone who will put up with me for 8 or so hours a day. I rank the hiring process right up there with having to sit through an eight hour Baptist sermon while wearing a dress made out of fiberglass insulation, and the guy in the pew behind me is singing I Keep Forgettin', and he's off key and singing it in a chipmunk voice, and there's a kid beside me that keeps poking me in the arm over and over again until I want to slap his finger right off his hand, and to my left Rush Limbaugh and Mike Huckabee are making out and using tongue and everything, and Ann Coulter won't stop asking me if she can braid my hair.

Well, maybe hiring someone isn't that bad, but it's damn close. And fuck me, I'm tired.

Take Care,
Babsaroni

Donkey Balls (I couldn't think of anything else to title this one)

What do you get when you put together a former pastor, Satanic abductions, drinking, a double life, electroshock therapy and truth serum? You get a fucking great story, that's what. The kind of story that makes me want to be a journalist, but I know I will never be able fulfill this dream, because I use the word fuck too much. And what newspaper wants a potty-mouthed reporter?

Now for the story, and oh brother is it a doozy.

In 1975 Don LaRose was the pastor of a church in Maine, NY and it was there he began getting threatening letters from Satanists. Who knew Satanists were even literate? Things escalated and Don was kidnapped by these letter-writing whores of Hell. Why would Satanists abduct Don? Because he was blaspheming the name of Satan, and they obviously do not dig someone talking shit about the dark lord. The Satanists pulled Don into a van, performed electroshock therapy on him, erased his memory and gave him a new identification complete with papers. Electroshock therapy in a van? Those crazy Satan people will do just about anything. But, I think it's super swell that they gave him new ID papers. It just goes to show that even those who have decided to be cheerleaders for the devil can still be thoughtful, and it makes me want to hug them for their kindness.
Don then found himself in Chicago only he wasn't Don anymore. He was Bruce Williams and he was a drunk. A slobbering, filthy drunk. Three months later someone recognized him as Don LaRose, and Don was dragged back to his wife, all the while claiming that he had no memory of his former life. That had to be pretty convenient. But alas, Don was given truth serum, and the session was videotaped. After watching the tapes, he miraculously regained his memory and over the next four years, he became the pastor of a church in Hammond, Indiana and knocked up his wife twice.

Then in 1980, the Satanists found Don again. They're tenacious lil buggers, huh? They sent more threatening letters, made menacing phone calls. Hell, those Satan-worshiping bastards even ransacked Don's study at his church. Then he received a phone call stating that if he didn't turn himself over to "them", his wife and kids would suffer a painful death. So, Don did what any other normal coward would do. He slung on a backpack, hopped on his bicycle and got the heck outta town. He left town on a bicycle. Oh, how that makes me laugh.

After touring the country for awhile, Don changed his name to Ken Williams, settled in Centerton, Arkansas, worked at a radio station, became the Mayor, and remarried. By the way, Centerton is only 20 minutes away from me. It's so exciting!

This past week, his secret identity was discovered due to the fact that Don's a dumbass. In May of this year, Don-Ken started a website about Don LaRose and it was registered under the name of Ken Williams. Way to go, Don-Ken. Using your new, fake name to register a website about your old, real name. Fucking brilliant, I say! One of his LaRose family members found the website because they were wondering just where the heck Don-Ken had been for the past 27 years and well, they found him. They sure did, and I'm betting there's not going to be any happy reunion with cake or balloons or anything.

Now Don-Ken is claiming that it wasn't really Satanists that kidnapped him. Just some other "group". The Satanists angle was a malicious fabrication of the media. But, a local reporter contacted one the deacons at Don-Ken's former church in Indiana and this deacon stated, The night before he disappeared, he was speaking to a group in the church, and in the middle of his sermon he stopped talking and looked at the back of the room, No one else who turned around saw anything, but LaRose later claimed he had seen one of the Satanists through a window outside.

Dear god, this is giving me a headache. Don-Ken, do everyone a favor and be a decent human being for once in your life. Tell the truth, because your story is just a big ol' mess of stupid, topped with a dollop of dumb. You hated your life in NY, so you bailed. Then, you hated your life in Indiana, so you bailed. Arkansas has obviously agreed with you, which to me is just completely fucked up in itself. You abandoned wife #1 and your two daughters, and it wasn't because of anything other than the fact that you wanted out. And anyone who hops on board your stupid train and believes your lies should be exiled to Montana*.

If anyone else wants to get a headache, you can check out the following websites:

Don LaRose
Ken Williams Ministries
News Report

Take Care,
Babs
*To any of you who live in Montana, I sincerely apologize for wishing dumb people to be sent to your state, but you guys have a lot of room, okay?

Shine on, Shine on Harvest Moon

I've been tagged by Philly Chief, and the the rules of the tag are as follows:

1. Describe my earliest memory where the memory is clear, and where "clear" means I can depict at least three details.
2. Give an estimate of my age at the time.
3. Tag five other bloggers with this meme.

The year was 1972. Millions of Americans developed banjophobia brought on by too many viewings of Deliverance. Michael Jackson was singing a creepy love song about a rat. Mark Spitz was winning gold medals while sporting a porntastic mustache and bikini bottoms. I was busy being four.

I have to say that my fourth year will never be dubbed as my "Damn, that Girl Be Stylin' and Shit" year. In fact, I failed miserably at any sense of style until I was, well, I'm still not sure how I fare. Anyway, I had a pair of red, double knit, 100% polyester pants. Pants that had the crease sewn down the front. What the fuck was that even supposed to be? Like the pants weren't bad enough being double knit, so someone got the bright idea of sewing a crease down the front so they'd score even more points on the awkwardly ugly scale. But for some reason, I was fascinated by the stretchiness of those red, itchy pants.

Seriously fascinated. They stretched, and to me that was pure magic. I didn't have to unzip, unbutton or unsnap anything. They just pulled down, then back up. They were surely one of the greatest inventions of all time, albeit one of the ugliest and itchiest.

One day I was demonstrating the fabulous stretchiness of these pants by pulling them down to my hips and then pulling them back up. Down, up, down up, down up. I could've done that for hours. This particular demonstration of stretchy wonderment happened to be in view of my brother, Doug. He was 9 at the time, and he didn't feel that his little sister pulling her pants up and down was appropriate. He thought it was just way gross that he could see his sister's GIRL underwear that had pink rosebuds on them. I think these particular pair of drawers came from JCPenney. They had matching spaghetti strap undershirts, too, and they came in all colors of rosebuds, pink, yellow, green and blue. Does anyone else remember these? Maybe they were from Sears. Those sets are the only underthings I wore as a kid - I'm pretty sure until I was 16. I really wanted the "days of the week" panties set, but I never got them. I also never got an E-Z Bake Oven or a Sno-Cone Machine, and I still harbor bitterness about all three.

Oh yeah, I was telling a story, wasn't I?

So, I was standing there in front of my brother pulling my pants up and down, (now there's something I never thought I'd write) and he gave me this superior, snotty, dare I say persnickety look and said, "I'm gonna go tell, Mom". Rather than stopping and begging him not to rat me out, I decided that I'd show that would-be narkosaurus. And show is exactly what I did. I turned around, pulled the red, stretchy, double knit 100% polyester pants and the rosebud, girl underwear down, wiggled my tiny, little bare butt at him and taunted him with, "So go tell, Mom".

That pushed him over the edge. He was "really going to tell Mom, now. You're gonna be in big trouble". He ran off, and I stood there in a panicked state, thinking of some excuse that I could come up with for showing my brother my naked butt. It had to be something so good it would save me from having the flyswatter land across my previously unclothed bum, and prevent me from having to hear the "you're going to make Jesus cry" speech. Then it hit me- the excuse, not the flyswatter. I had the perfect defense. It was an accident. Somehow in my four year-old mind, that totally made sense. I mean, people's pants and underwear accidentally fall down in front of their brother all the time, right?

But my brother didn't tell our mother. Probably because he didn't want to be branded a tattletale for the rest of his life. How far would he have gotten with that stigma attached to him like a huge, festering boil threatening to burst at any minute? Or it could have been, that at nine years old he realized that, given our circumstances, it was us seven kids against the parents. He knew we had to stick together against The Enemy, even when we were baring our asses at each other.

Okay, the rules say that I have to tag five people, but I don't like rules. So, I'm going to tag anyone who ever owned a pair of double knit, 100% polyester, magical stretchy pants.

Take Care,
Babs - Who still isn't above mooning someone, should they threaten to tell on her.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A video of what I am most thankful for, not just this time of year, but every single second of every single day.

I'm off to an undisclosed location in Arkansas for a few days. And the only reason I'm not saying where I'm going is that I've always wanted to say that I'd be at an undisclosed location. So, now I can mark that off my "Things to do before I die" list.

I hope that all of you have a happy and safe Thanksgiving, and that you are surrounded by love and only good things.

And Blogger sucks big, green donkey balls, because it took me at least 634 tries to get this video loaded.

Say Uncle! Now Say Daddy!

Who's ready for another church scandal? Me, too! This one involves an 80 y/o man, the Georgia Bureau of Investigations and a camel.

I'm just kidding about the camel part. But that would make for a juicy scandal, huh? Anyway, Earl Paulk (the 80 y/o) is the head hauncho at the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit at Chapel Hill Harvester Church. Well, sweet Jesus on a paper plate, could they have a longer name for their church?

The story is that back when Earl wasn't 80 years old, he had much friskiness in his most holy groin and he found his brother's wife to be very, very enticing. So enticing that Earl, being the godly man that he is, bedded his brother's wife and his sacred seed produced a strapping baby boy named D.E. Probably short for something like I dunno- Douglas EARL, or maybe Donald EARL, or even Dabney EARL.

Anywho, D.E. is now 34 years old and via a court-ordered paternity test, he just learned the wonderful news that his uncle is really his dad. He has an Uncle Daddy. Isn't that cute?

And even though D.E. said he was disappointed and surprised, lemme tell you, he has got this shit under control. Here's an absolutely brilliant gem of a statement he made about the mess, "It was a necessary evil to bring us back to a God-consciousness." Well, sure. Fucking your brother's wife is always a necessary evil. What would the family reunions be like without that going on?

And to make this story even better, Earl fucked a camel!

No. I'm still joking about the camel. But, Earl is being sued by Mona Brewer, a former church employee, who claims that Earl told her that the only way she could receive salvation was by boinking him. From 1989 to 2003. Fourteen years of boinking Earl just so she could get to heaven. Right on, Mona. We totally believe you.

There have also been other women who claim they had been coerced into sex with Earl, his brother and other men in the church's administration.

I think they should rename their church Cathedral of a Lot of Fucking at Chapel Hill and What the Hell Let's Fuck Some More.

Take Care,
Babs

Ann, Part Dos

Time for Part 2 of the Ann story. For those of you who missed out on part one, it’s right below this one. Pretty cool how that works, huh?

Ann and I played with our Barbie dolls a lot. In all honesty, I would have rather been out climbing a tree or riding my bike, but Ann loved playing with Barbie dolls. And sometimes when your best friend wants to do something that you may not necessarily want to do, you do it anyway. You do it simply because she's your best friend in the whole wide world, and she has a Slip 'n Slide.

My favorite in the Barbie line was Skipper. Mostly because Skipper didn’t have boobs that could leave puncture wounds on my delicate, young flesh, and she had one kick-ass swimsuit. It was red and had a striped, v-shaped inset on the chest and a matching striped flounce around the bottom. I always wished there was some way I could magically enlarge it so I could wear my very own Skipper swimsuit.

Ann got to take her Barbie dolls out of the box brand new. Mine were hand me downs from my older sisters and their hair had been hacked off, and they had at least one foot that had been chewed on (the doll’s hair and feet, not my sister’s). At Ann’s house Ken and Barbie would do a lot of dry humping and cussing. At my house Ken and Barbie got baptized and did a lot of praying. Her Barbie had inflatable furniture. Pink, squishy inflatable furniture. My Barbie had a greeting card box for a bed, and her dresser was made from glued together matchboxes. Ann had the 3-story Barbie Dream House with an elevator. A lacy elevator with heart cut-outs. My Barbie Dream House was fashioned out of shoe boxes and glitter. Lots of glitter.

Ann had all of the newest clothes for her Barbie, and every stitch of clothing my Barbie had was sewn by my mother. Which translates to: her Barbie had to be dressed in the pink, polyester skirt that came with the shirt that came with the jewelry that came with the shoes that came with the purse. My Barbie wore whatever the hell she wanted to, and probably didn’t match.

But the other day, when I started thinking about all of my handmade Barbie stuff, I had a mini-epiphany. By not having the pre-fab furniture, I had to be creative. I had to think, well not exactly outside the box, but rather about the box. Lots of boxes, in my case. And my mother, with her many faults and malfunctions, took the time to sew my Barbie some clothes which meant that my Barbie was wearing stuff that no other Barbie was wearing.

This creativeness by necessity has stayed with me, although now it’s not by necessity, but because I enjoy it. I would much rather go to a flea market and find a funky piece of furniture to add to the odd assortment of furniture I already own, rather than go buy a matching set of furniture. And now my outfits are thrown together pieces that I've found here and there. A jumbled array of vintage and new. I'm most comfortable in jeans and whatever shirt fits my fancy for the day. Some days my fancy is extremely hard to fit. It's highly possibly that I'll have on a hat and some pretty cute shoes, because I love both more than you can imagine. I might even have a 60s era scarf slapped around my neck and an old butterfly pin stuck somewhere on my outfit. But you can bet your sweet hindquarters that I most definitely will not be wearing a pink, polyester skirt that came with the shirt that came with the jewelry that came with the shoes that came with the purse.

And this is the story that Barbie built.

But, I’d still love to have Skipper’s swimsuit.

Take Care,
Babs

Ann, Part I

I've decided that I'm going to try writing some memories from my childhood. Good memories. I just feel the need to focus on the good times that I had as a child and put the bad times to bed as best I can.

Speaking of beds, while lying in mine wide awake at 5:00 this morning I began thinking about Ann. No, this isn’t going to turn into some lesbian fantasy story, so hands back up where we can see them. Ann was my best friend growing up. We were only a year apart and lived right next door to each other, and when you're a kid that's the only criteria you need for choosing your best friend in the whole, wide world.

Our families were completely different. Polar opposites. We were the religious freaks of the neighborhood and her family was well, not even remotely religious. In fact, they may have been, dare I say it? Atheists. Her family lived in a pale turquoise house while ours was sort of brownish, and their car perfectly matched the color of their house. But now that I think about it, I guess the fake wood paneling on our colossal Oldsmobile station wagon perfectly matched our house, too.

Ann's mother, Betty, had voluptuous, poufy black hair and she always wore lipstick in bright shades that were probably named something like Coral Whoreness or Ruby Rampage. Betty also watched soap operas every afternoon and couldn't be bothered while she was watching her shows. I think that we could have walked in the living room spurting blood from our eyes, and Betty would have handed us a tissue and told us to wait until after my shows are over. You know better than to bother me while I'm watching my shows. And if you’re going to bleed, go outside to do it. I just vacuumed in here. You have to admire Midwestern sensibility.

Soap operas were not allowed in our house as they were chock full of fornicating and then some more fornicating.

My mother did have Betty beat in the cooking department, though. But more often than not, at lunchtime I was at Ann’s house having Campbell’s Potato soup and half of a cheese and mustard sandwich, or SpaghettiOs and half of a cheese and mustard sandwich. And some days it would just get all crazy in Betty’s kitchen and we’d have RavioliOs and half of a cheese and mustard sandwich. I think I just figured out why I was constipated all the time as a kid. It was all that damn cheese.

Ann and I also were very different, and had very different things. She had the cool stuff and I had the stuff that ensured that anyone who came within 50 yards of me would know I was a complete doink. Ann got to skate gracefully around her asphalt driveway, her sparkly-wheeled skates keeping time to her rock music. I, on the other hand, would jerk around in my metal-wheeled skates trying desperately not to trip over the damn seam in our concrete driveway, and I would be listening to Christian music.

Is there anything dorkier than skating in your driveway while listening to Christian music? I can only think of one thing. Skating in your driveway while listening to Christian music, with your hair in a ponytail on the side of your head, wearing culottes and a t-shirt with I’m a Sunbeam for Jesus emblazoned across the front, and actually thinking you were cool.

Ann’s father had a crew cut, and washed their pale turquoise car every weekend. My father had a Baptist haircut and was a total prick. At Ann’s house there was a hanging oil lamp with a NAKED lady in the middle of it. Our house had an 18 x 24 headshot of Jesus hanging at the end of the hall. Ann’s hair was straight and shiny. Mine was curly and unruly. Ann wore short shorts. I wore dork shorts. Ann had air conditioning, I had fans. Ann had a Slip ‘n Slide, I had garbage bags and a garden hose. But the biggest difference between us, when it came to material possessions, was our Barbie dolls and the array of paraphernalia that goes with being a Barbie owner.

Which was actually the point of this whole story, but I started rambling and then I couldn’t stop rambling. It’s like some sickness I have. So, I’ll wait ‘til next time to tell you about our Barbies and the mini-epiphany I had while thinking about them.

Take Care,
Babs

That Jesus and His Mama Sho' Get Around

I don't think this has happened before, and I don't think it will ever happen again. The planets must be aligned just so for something this wonderful to happen. Jesus AND his mother have shown up at the same place. The same place at the same time on the same pancake. That's right, I said pancake. A pancake made by none other than Marilyn Smith from Port St. Lucie, Florida. Now, Marilyn thought the images were only vaguely Jesus-esque. In fact, she said they could be Jesus or Moses, or hell, some other bible dude. But, Marilyn's daughter, Dana stated, "Being a very spiritual person, which I am, when I saw that, I said, 'Jesus and Mary!'"

That's odd, because when I saw it, I said "Double dong pancake!" But then again, being a very non-spiritual person, WHICH I AM, what would you expect?

Dana also stated that she thought this was a direct message from the big capital G guy. "I think the message is extremely clear that the world had better clean up its act."

Let’s see. Pancake. Clean up. Pancake. Clean up. Nope, I just can’t come to the conclusion that pancake = clean up. I mean, if Jesus and Mary were on a sponge or a Brillo pad, then I could see the clean up connection, but it's a pancake. I think the message is that you could be just a tad touched.

You know what's really cute about this whole story? Now, instead of using the severely profane expletive, "Holy cow!", Marilyn and Dana use the only mildly profane expletive, "Holy pancake!"

I am making an official declaration that from now on “Holy pancake” is my expletive of choice. Just think of what you can do with it:

• Why don’t you just shove it up your holy pancake?


• What smells like holy pancake in here?


• You are one holy pancaking moron.


• God holy pancake it!


• Oh, go to holy pancake.

And, should you just become extremely pissed holy pancaked off, you could say, "What the holy pancake is holy pancaking wrong with you, you mother holy pancaking piece of holy pancake."

Take Care,
Babs - who is wondering if anyone else is having trouble with the bitch known as Blogger

Stuff. Just stuff.

1. I got some spam the other day and it read, "Slut flashes big tits and eats a dick." And I was all like, "Yay for cannibal porn!"

2. I received an email from a client and she was writing about her koi pond, but she kept writing it as her coy pond. It will flirt with you, but in a painfully shy manner.

3. If we go through one more account manager and I end up having to take up the slack, I'm going to quit my job and fulfill my life-long dream of being a champion pogo stick jumper. It will be a flaming pogo stick. And I'll wear lots of sequins, and have Come on Get Happy by the Partridge Family playing on a circa 1985 boom box. And I will totally rock.

4. I'm beginning to hate all things wireless. This wireless Internet we have here at the apartments? Complete crap. And my wireless mouse at the office has some kind of internal issues going on. I think it may have Parkinson's disease. If anyone uses the shredder the mouse just stops and refuses to point at anything. I think it's probably because it's a great big pussy and is scared of the shredder. Or it could just be some interference, but I'm leaning towards the pussy explanation.

5. If anyone cares, Wal-Mart is going to hold a conference call for their vendors to discuss some new something or other. Isn't it amazing that even after them sending me 5 fucking emails about it, I still managed to totally ignore what the call was about?

6. I haven't driven by a good church sign in a long time. Something is wrong. Horribly wrong. I even drove out of my way last week to check out two churches that have never let me down. I think Church Sign Guy is mad at me. Probably because I refused to make out with him in the baptismal.

7. This is how my day started: I woke up late because I forgot to turn on the alarm. The first thing I did when I got to the office was put my tea in my little, baby refrigerator, but while attempting to do this simple task, a jug of orange juice, a tub of honey nut cream cheese and a container of yogurt fell out. When I bent down to retrieve my foodstuffs, I slammed my forehead into the corner of the filing cabinet. Unfortunately, it did not knock me out and I had to endure the rest of the day.

How was your Monday?

Take Care,
Babs

Your Sunday Sermon

I read Post Secret and find it quite fascinating. Although, very few of the postcards actually make me laugh out loud, this one did.

Ahhhhhmen. <---You're supposed to sing that part, thus signifying that church is now over.

Jesus + Puppy = Precious Overload

It seems to be pet day around my favorite web spots. The Exterminator wrote a very poignant post about his cat. Fwig has a photo of various and sundry objects on Claudia's cat. And Claudia has pictures of her cat minus the random objects balanced on its head. And then when I went to Jesus of the Week I found a link to Pet Tribute Creations and since I don't have any pets of my own to talk about, I decided to make fun of educate you about this website instead.

Have you ever lost a pet that you loved so much that you wanted a special way to express that love? Like maybe a photograph, but oh so much more. I'm talking about a picture that is so special that you get that flutterly feeling in your belly every time you look at it. One that screams, "Hey people, I loved my pet so much that I had its picture taken with Jesus!" Yeah. That kind of special. I can't tell you how many times I've wished and hoped with all my being that I could figure out some way to get my long-lost pets to magically leap into the arms of Jesus.

Well, guess what? Now you just hop over to Pet Tribute Creations and you can have a photo of your pet lovingly Photoshopped into one of the shots from a virtual smorgasbord of Jesus pictures. And by smorgasbord, I mean four. But you can also have your pet lounging beside a cross, or being held by none other than Jesus' Mama. There's also one that I think is supposed to be an angel, but it might be a gargoyle. But I'm sure it's a virgin gargoyle, or has been baptized at the very least. Here's a sample shot that I snagged so you could see just how wicked awesome this is.

Here we have long, skinny-headed Jesus and, by jinkies, I think he has hazel eyes in this pic. What's up with that? There's also the obligatory holy halo that makes Jesus look like he's either standing directly in front of the sun or the back of his head is on fire. And Jesus is giving us a royal wave with his pierced hand. Always with the pierced hands. I've often wondered how come the Big J could pull off raising himself from the dead, but he just couldn't muster the energy to heal those darn puncture wounds. And is it just me or does Jesus have a bit of a Mona Lisa smile goin' on? Almost a come-hither look. Oh, Jesus you're such a bad, bad boy, but I think you should go a little easy on the blush. You look kinda whorish. But the eyeliner? Totally sizzlin'.

Now about the dog. The little puppy that Jesus is holding in his eternally pierced hand? The dog is fuckin' possessed. If Satan's not camped out in the very heart of that pooch, then, well, then George W. Bush is bright. What the hell has happened to cause the dog's tongue to be growing from the top of its mouth? And those eyes! Those damned, soulless eyes. Whatever you do, do not gaze directly into the eyes of this hell-hound unless you wish to experience a horribly painful death. Just don't come running to me when your entrails are scattered about all over the floor and the dog is using your spinal column as a chew toy. But I just adore how Devil Puppy has his own little light bulb spot of holy halo. Like he just had a really good idea. And that good idea was probably to eat Jesus' brain or something equally Satan-induced. Bad, dead puppy. Bad dog.

Take Care,
Babs

I'm Goin' Up the Country, Baby, Don't You Wanna Go?

Autumn, the finicky bitch that she is, has been late coming to Arkansas this year. But she finally decided to make her arrival and the trees are finally starting to change. So, Sunday morning, Thomas and I decided to go for a relaxing drive out in the country to look at the trees. And I mean out in the country. Out. Really out. We drove way past Bum Fuck. Then we drove some more. Then we ended up in the middle of nowhere, but I think the proper geographical name is, "Where's That Banjo Music Coming From?" So, we're driving and stopping once in awhile to take pictures of the trees. See for yourself, I'm not making this up.

Pretty trees, huh? And we saw lots of them. I tried counting them, but I lost track at around number four. I have poor concentration skills. So we're driving along in the middle of Where's That Banjo Music Coming From?, and I decided I needed to pee. Now, peeing in the woods was out of the question because I was wearing a brown sweater and brown and white knit hat.

I'll bet you're wondering why I can't pee in the woods wearing such an ensemble, aren't you? Well, it's a long story so I'll have to save it for another time. No. I kid. It's really because it just so happens that it's deer hunting season here in the grand old state of Arkansas and I had no desire to go into the woods when I was dressed exactly like a deer. Well, not quite exactly. I had opted to not wear my antlers because they so did not match my shoes.

To make a long story even longer, we finally came across a "town" with the name of Fallsville. Fallsville. What an adorable name for a town. Doesn't that conjure up images of a place that still has the original General Store with worn wooden floors? And oh lookie, that sure is one swell looking soda fountain across the street, and I'll be darned if every house doesn't have a white picket fence and a tire swing in the front yard. Hey, whatta ya know? There goes Doc in his '49 Ford making a house call to the Brunner house, because Bertha Brunner is on the verge of popping out her 12th kid. Golly gee, I sure hope this one's a girl because 11 boys are enough. Hiya, Doc! Good luck on catchin' that baby.

Doesn't Fallsville sound like it should be quaint and oh so picturesque?

Well, it's not.

Fallsville seemed to be comprised of one establishment. A gas station. A gas station with some totally bitchin' circa 1973 gas pumps. And this place didn't have the usual array of junk food on the shelves. No it was kind of a gas station/flea market blend. A magical puree of junk and junk food, if you will. You could purchase a package of outdated cheese and crackers that was mere inches away from a gigantic, wooden, outdated chicken.

Anyway, Thomas asked if there was a restroom, and the woman behind the counter said, "You can use the mmmpph", and pointed towards the door. At first I could have sworn she said "outhouse" and I was all like no fuckin' way. She just didn't say outhouse, because it's 2007 and I know we're in Arkansas and everything, but outhouse?

But then Thomas looked at me and said, "She said you could use the outhouse. It's outside." So then I was thinking that by "outhouse" she meant port-a-potty or just one of those bathrooms that was on the outside of the gas station where you have to ask for the key, and the key is always attached to a four-foot long piece of wood. Because we don't want you to steal our key, and the huge hunk of timber makes for a good weapon should you find yourself being attacked in the restroom.

So I walked outside and I didn't see an outhouse. I did see a red metal building, though, and I thought to myself, "Hey Self, there's the bathroom". But then Thomas said, "See it? It's over there." And I'll be damned if he wasn't pointing right at this thing.

So for the first, and probably last time in my life, I peed in an outhouse. And you can bet your sweet ass that I hovered like nobody's business. In fact, I was tempted to just climb up on the bench and straddle the hole, but then I had images of me losing my balance and knocking over the outhouse and well, that probably would have made the front page of the Fallsville paper or something. And that's just not the 15 minutes of fame I so desire.

I do think it's lovely that they have flowers planted next to it, though. I may have to retract what I said about Fallsville, because I really can't imagine anything being more picturesque than flowers planted next to an outhouse.

I peed in an outhouse. Who the heck would have ever thought that would happen?

Take Care,

Babs - who may not have mentioned it but she peed in an outhouse this weekend. An honest-to-goodness outhouse.

My Miraculous Saturday Morning

Every Saturday morning for the past month, I've meandered down to our local farmer's market. And by meandered, I mean drove. So, this morning, armed with my white oak basket looking like much like Red going to Grandma's house (minus the cape and the annoyingly chipper attitude) I arrived at the market and began my exploration. Much to my delight, I came upon these. They're stalks from a castor bean plant, and although I've seen the plant before I never knew that the berries and seed pods were so pretty.

But the best part is that when the seed pods (the furry, Muppet-looking things) dry out, they explode! And from what I was told, they explode violently enough to make noise.

I can't wait! In fact, I let the guy keep the change just because he sold me something that has the potential for me to have exploding seed pods in my apartment.

I also filled my basket with sweet potatoes, green tomatoes and turnips. Little, baby turnips. At first glance, I thought they were just lovely, but as I was looking at the photo, I noticed something disturbing. These were not ordinary vegetables.

Oh no, mi amigos, there was something different about my basket of veggies. In my basket was something that defies all manner of explanation. Something that may melt my cold, black, heathenistic heart and cause me to turn from my sinful ways. I mean, who would have thought that this miracle would happen to me? It was, well I'll just have to show you. It was this:

Sweet Potato Baby Jesus

What do you mean, you can't see anything? You seriously can't see Baby Jesus in this potato? He's right there. On the potato. Baby Jesus. Potato. Where's your faith, people? Okay, if you can't see the Baby Jesus in this, I'll show you.

Alright, so the face looks more like a winking fox, but you have to admit the umbilical cord is pretty darn convincing.

I thought about selling Sweet Potato Baby Jesus on eBay and using the money to support my raging drug-habit, but instead I think I'll mash him up and eat him with butter. Amen!

Take Care,
Babs

Take Me to Your Leader

Zero, Zilch, Zip

That's exactly how many trick-or-treaters I got to poke in the eye last night. I didn't have one single little goblin come to my door. So, the guys at work are thoroughly enjoying the 8 pounds of candy I bought.

Speaking of Kooky

Quick! Are you a starseed, a walk-in or a lightworker? What the hell am I talking about? I don't have a pissin' clue. I just came across this website and started reading all about how there are some of us on this earth who aren't really Earthlings. Holy Ray Guns, Batman! Some of you reading this right now could be aliens and I wouldn't even know it. 1. Because I can't see you and 2. Even if I could see you, I wouldn't know if you were really were an alien, because you'd be disguised as an Earthling. You aliens are some sneaky little fuckers.

Just for clarification (and I use that term ever so lightly): a starseed has at least one parent that is an alien, a walk-in is an alien who all of a sudden takes over someone's body and a lightworker is a person who has chosen to seek spiritual knowledge. (Cue really bad 80s-synthesizer-space music).

Are you confused, yet? Me, too!

But wait, there's more! Act now and you can learn how to recode your DNA in just 4 easy steps. Four steps, Babs? Is that possible? Well, duh. Of course it is. Here are the 4 easy steps:

1. Activate your Crown Chakra Crystals. They're located at the top of your head. Just touch your head. I think a lot.


2. Activate your MerKaBa antenna. Well, I know where my antenna is, but you'll have to look around for your own.


3. Activate your hypothalamus. Just cut your head open, locate your hypothalamus and flip the switch to the "on" position.


4. Cleanse your liver. Requires more cutting, but your liver should be much easier to find than your hypothalamus. Use a scrub brush and a healthy dose of liver-cleaning soap. You should be able to find liver soap in your local grocery store on the canned soup aisle. No, I don't know why they keep it on the canned soup aisle.

Before you know it, your DNA is completely recoded. It's that easy! Who the heck knows what you'll turn out to be? You might turn into a banana or maybe a Baptist. You might even turn into some kind of marsupial. Okay, I just threw that in because I love the word marsupial.

I could go on and on about this website, but I'll leave you with this: The website is the official website of the Nibiruan Council. And all their members are connected to the planet Nibiru. And, um, well they're also serving the worlds of the Galactic Federation. And it's not a parody site. And I think I'm finished now.

Take Care,
Babs - who is from the planet Weqwoprkeislm. (The k is silent.)