Crime Doesn’t Pay But It Sure Makes Me Laugh

I live in a fairly small town. That means other than the occasional single-wide trailer blowing up from meth heads who failed even the most basic of chemistry classes, there isn’t much to report here in terms of crime. Let’s face it, there’s a reason Barney Fife carried that one bullet in a hip pouch.

In order to understand our crime problems, you have to first understand that THIS SHIT made the front page of the paper. Front page news, folks. Of a paper that only gets delivered once a week. And it comes in the mail since hiring delivery drivers isn’t in the budget.


Thank the lord they cleared up the misunderstanding. For a minute there I thought Lori was into all kinds of animals, but it’s good to know she’s now working on limiting herself to dogs.


Yes folks, this man does love to grill. I’m not sure how that made the news, but if you don’t plan to report on things like your own governor removing the fake Confederate flag from the courthouse or the SCOTUS decision concerning gay marriage, then this shit becomes really, really important. Please also note that the intrepid reporter uncovered even more dirt on this man: not only does he like to grill, he coaches Little League.

But here’s where the crime report gets really seedy. Please bear in mind that these were actual 911 calls, and that our brothers in blue put themselves out there to respond.

Shit just got real, y'all. That shoe was damaged in the scuffle.
Shit just got real, y’all. That shoe was damaged in the scuffle.
SIX PILLS, PEOPLE! There were SIX of them bad boys! They later turned out to be Excedrin, but so what?
SIX PILLS, PEOPLE! There were SIX of them bad boys! They later turned out to be Excedrin, but so what?
NOOOOOO! Not the phone cord! I mean, "Hands up, not my phone cord! Hands up, not my phone cord!"
NOOOOOO! Not the phone cord! I mean, “Hands up, not my phone cord! Hands up, not my phone cord!”
Dammit, if I had a dollar for every time somebody stole a $50 mower, I could buy... a $50 mower. You throw in the fact that the officers who responded then went on to find a stolen bicycle on the scene, and it's just a crime wave, I tell you what.
Dammit, if I had a dollar for every time somebody stole a $50 mower, I could buy… a $50 mower. You throw in the fact that the officers who responded then went on to find a stolen bicycle on the scene, and it’s just a crime wave, I tell you what.

For the rest of the country who’s veritably wallowing in news like the riots in Tunisia and the fact that Putin wasn’t invited to the G8 summit for being an asshole, I give you what it’s really like to live in a town with its head shoved in the sand. Or up its ass. Take your pick.

On Getting the Duck Outta Here

There’s a really great story hidden inside every embarrassing tragedy. I’m sure of it. Hell, I’m living proof of it.

My friend had a fundraiser last month known affectionately in our part of the world as a Duck Derby. Stop it. I know what you’re thinking, and no, even we’re not redneck enough to race live ducks. Basically, you find a body of moving water and you dump a bunch of rubber duckies in it. You’ve numbered the ducks ahead of time, and the person whose duck crosses the finish line first (thanks to high levels of rain, swift currents, and more than a few water snakes) wins the prize.

It’s basically gambling…on rubber ducks and Mother Nature.

Fortunately, I got to skip this clam bake recently by having something better to do. I don’t remember what it was, but I seem to recall wine and pretending to clean out the linen closet might have been involved. Apparently, a good time was had by all, and no ducks were harmed in the derbying of these things.

(Interesting note: I’ve only had two glasses of wine, but I’ve already mistyped “ducks” as “dicks” four times in this blog post. Make of that what you will.)

This week, I took another friend kayaking at the creek in a neighboring county and happened to see a sign advertising the other friend’s duck derby. We stopped the car, jumped out, and rescued her sign in case she decides this year’s fun wasn’t nearly enough plastic duck in her life and opts to do it again. Farther up the creek, lo and behold, another sign. We rescued that one as well.

Then later that night, it’s entirely possible this happened:


No. As a matter of fact, they weren’t her signs. I literally stopped along a roadway and stole someone’s signs. Twice. I felt so guilty (the wine made me weepy about the whole thing) that I started investigating online and discovered to my absolute horror that I had not only stolen someone’s signs, I’d stolen an environmental protection organization’s signs advertising a fund raiser that was earmarked for cleaning up the very creek the duckies would swim to financial gain and freedom on.

(Another interesting note: I can’t envision a duck derby without thinking of that episode of WKRP where they didn’t know domesticated turkeys can’t fly.)

After a tearful, incoherent apology voicemail on that charity’s phone at ten o’clock last night, I snuck off to replace the stolen signs. After this happened, of course:

Because if you’re going to steal a sign with a rubber duck on it, you need to go all gangsta on it and threaten it like a jacked up cross between Anonymous and the Unibomber, just in case you ever need to extort money from this charity. Okay, that’s a lie, but it was still funny considering I was already a wanted criminal.

The derby signs are back in place, I’ve made a generous donation to the environmental charity to make up for my wrongdoing, and now I’m spreading the word. Go to this link, adopt a duck, and help clean up the creek. If you actually win the derby, I’ll send you pictures of me stealing your/my new kayak.

I’ve Never Been a Professional Hooker…

My husband got me a massage for Christmas. There, I said it. He actually paid for two massages, and the first one went so horrifically awkward that I still haven’t used the second one. It wasn’t an entire fiasco, but it was certainly not the most comfortable I’ve ever been.

Right off the bat, I remember driving to the appointment at this frou-frou medical spa, thinking to myself, “I’m about to take off all my clothes and let a stranger touch me without making eye contact. Kind of like the gynecologist.” And seriously, at the risk of sounding ungrateful about my present, that is kind of how much I was looking forward to it as evidenced by the fact that I got it for Christmas (because apparently my husband thinks the new spare tire I wanted for my camper “isn’t a gift”) and hadn’t used it by April. I’m not big on strangers touching me while I’m not wearing my delicates.

I checked in at the spa and realized I was the only person there–patron or employee–who hadn’t had anything freshly botoxed. These people were so polished and buffed they were shiny. The attendant showed me to the locker room where the towels and robes were stored, then pointed me to the shower.

Let’s get one thing straight: there are times when it’s appropriate to take off all your clothes and shower with strangers around. A) You’ve just finished a grueling CrossFit class and your muscles are screaming for cool water, B) you work in a nuclear power plant and you’ve just been exposed to dangerous levels of radiation, C) you’ve been hiking in the wilderness for four days and your body odor is scaring away bears, and D) no, there is no D. Those three reasons are all I can think of that justify standing in a communal shower with strangers.

I skipped the shower, since I’d read online before my appointment that showering is considered polite and I’d therefore just stepped out of my own (private) shower before getting dressed and getting in the car.

Then there’s the robes. I’m on the bigger end of the big girl scale, but even I can unabashedly say that I’m by far not the biggest girl on the block. I’m pretty sure I still field dress under 110lbs. But these robes were made for people who wrestle in the peewee weight class. After three attempts, I found one that actually met in the middle, let alone crossed over and belted. Since I wasn’t sure about all the rules here for hygiene (and since they were kind of hung up on the need for a shower), I threw all the ones I’d tried on in the laundry bin. It looked like I’d gone rampantly down the row of lockers and stolen all the robes, then hidden them inside my robe. Sadly, I couldn’t have hidden a box of Tic Tacs inside my robe.

The actual massage part wasn’t horrific because it turns out the licensed massage therapist has a niece on my kid’s cheer squad, so we’d at least seen each other before. We spent the hour dogging the other cheer moms. It was kind of funny in a shallow, bitchy way once I got over the desire to scream, “I need an adult!”

When I made it back to the locker room, THAT’S when I felt like a shower might be in order. I’d just spent an hour with a mostly-stranger’s hands on my body. I referred back to my rule about three acceptable times to shower with strangers and decided to shower back at home with only my children barging in to watch. I got dressed, dropped robe number six in the laundry bin, and went to check out.

Since this was all on a gift certificate (because I didn’t get that spare tire), all I had to do at the register was leave a tip for the massage therapist. I’d also been told to expect that, and yes, it was clearly printed on the gift certificate as well. I handed over my credit card since I don’t believe in cash (because I suck at math, not because of a conspiracy theory involving the pyramid and George Washington’s eye, or anything) and was shocked to discover that my 20% gratuity came to twenty bucks. Even I can do the math there…I just paid a stranger $100 for the privilege of taking my clothes off and letting her touch me for an hour.

Now, I’ve never been a professional hooker, but I think that just happened in reverse. They should have paid me for this. I didn’t even shower, but I did wear the outfit they left for me to put on and then strip when they told me to so someone could spend sixty minutes of my life groping me in a semi-dark room with music playing. I read 50 Shades of Grey, and I’m telling you, that scene is in there word for fucking word. Sadly, when I got home and my husband wanted to hear all about it, I was then stiffed the $19.99 a minute phone sex workers get paid for this. I’m starting to see why hookers need unions (and no, that’s not a pimp joke), because us freelancers are just left hanging.

Okay, I Finally Have Peenis Envy

I’m gonna let you in on a little secret…I’m actually a really normal person. Bwahahaa! I just spit coffee on my computer screen for even typing those words!

No, let me try again. I have multiple personality disorder (more coffee spitting!) and only a handful of my personalities should probably be under medical and/or FBI supervision at all times.

What I’m really trying to say is I actually write for about twelve different blogs, and only some of them are weird as half-broiled shit. Some of them are normal, and dare I say, some of them are even quite useful. There’s all kinds of serious, newsworthy information on them, and they’re chock full of intelligence.

Then there’s this blog that you’re reading right now. Sorry.

Here’s why I’m telling you this. On my normal blogs, people reach out to me with press releases, software updates, secret news about all kinds of cool inventions and gadgets and doohickeys, and if it is in line with the blog’s readership, I’ll write about it. It’s pretty cool. Random packages of cool tech gear show up at my house at all times. I received a product almost a year ago that is a direct competitor to a device that rhymes with Crapple Gotch. See? Cool things are happening over in normal land.

So what do people send me to write about on THIS blog?

Urine Funnels.

Yes, a lovely product that claims to let women finally a) pee standing up and b) write their names in the snow showed up at my house unannounced. All thoughts that this could be a revenge plot to give me an STD by sending me a used urine funnel flew right out of my head the second I opened the package. This product…nay, this invention to beat all inventions…this device that surely Bill Gates and Steve Jobs and the United Nations had all come together to create was MINE!

So how do you NOT try it? Duh.

Here’s the problem with holding a funnel over your hooha and peeing (no wait, there are lots of problems with this):

1. If I ever walk into a seedy-looking ladies’ room and all the feet in the stalls are facing the wrong way, my ninja skills are gonna flare up like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.

2. This particular model does not go all compact for easy carrying, so unless you want to clip this thing to the outside of your purse or just stop carrying a wallet to make room for it inside your purse, it’s not going with you.

3. Here’s the real bitch: once you’ve actually used it (Yes, as a matter of fact, I tried it…I’m morally obligated to try out the product before I can review it. Plus I was peeing standing up! I haven’t gotten to do anything dramatically different involving my own urine since college!), you’re now stuck holding a funnel that is dripping with your own urine. You not only get to wipe yourself while holding it, you then get to attempt to get your pants up one-handed without letting anything drip on your shoes.

4. If I’m ever washing my hands at a sink in a public restroom and a lady comes up to the sink next to me to wash out her urine funnel, I’m gonna cut her throat and use that funnel as her new breathing tube.

So dear manufacturers of the Lady Pee Funnel 5000, I’m sorry. You just didn’t think this through all the way. Make it small enough to go in a handbag but big enough to still make us feel like men when we pee, then make it out of some magically hydrophobic material that ejects ALL of the pee droplets when you’re done, and you might have yourself a winner. Once we do finally get that peeing standing up thing working like clockwork, maybe then we can close the wage gap and finally resolve this whole reproductive rights broohaha.

I crap you negative, this thing is for real.
I crap you negative, this thing is for real.

This really happened and I’ll never be the same. 

I don’t really consider myself to be much of a “Southerner.” I certainly wasn’t born here, I refuse to use the typical Southern terms like ain’t or y’all (and I put the apostrophe in the right place, instead of writing ya’ll), and I think sweet tea is directly related to the diabetes epidemic. 

It’s a wonder they even let me stay. 

And I used to think that after more than twenty years, nothing could surprise me. I can see things like THIS…


…with nothing more than a fleeting feeling of amusement. But then some so offensive to the universe had to happen that it shook my very definitions of all things holy:


Yes, escargots in a can. From Walmart. It’s okay, go throw up. I’ll wait. 

Better now? No? Me neither. Yes, this is a can of packaged snails. The thinking is you get home, put away the toilet paper and fabric softener, then sit down to a yummy $9 dinner of canned snails. After shoving the little fuckers back in their shells. 

The really weird thing is…no, there are lots of really weird things about this. 

First, those same shells are available in the arts and crafts department of that same store for that same price. It’s like they should be giving you a discount for taking the snails off their hands. Also, I’m Southern enough to know what a shell-less snail is. It’s a slug. They just sold you a can of slugs, and no, you weren’t over in the sporting goods department buying bait. 

People, for the hundredth time, this is why the rest of the country laughs at you. 

It Hurts a Little When Children’s Dreams Die

I remember the precise moment in time when I learned the world was a cold, cruel, unfair place. I was a little kid, and judging by the car this story takes place in I had to be between the ages of two and five. I was riding down the road with my mom and I asked her a truly profound question:

“When blind people drive, how do they know where to turn?”

The resulting conversation was heart breaking. I was bereft with unadulterated hurting at the thought that someone wouldn’t be able to drive just because he’s blind. It left me reeling, wondering what other seemingly arbitrary “rules” had been forced upon us as a society.

But now, I’ve had to sit back helplessly while my own beautiful, wide-eyed, innocent daughter struggles with the reality of the cold hard truth. She sent me this text message:


You can just feel the pain coming through the phone, fourteen words that speak volumes about what it means to have your dreams die, even if they’re dreams of living in a world where you can actually dance in a castle owned by a man who wears garters and a bustier all day. He’s the embodiment of Hugh Hefner joined with Frederick’s of Hollywood, and now it will never happen.

All because Janet (she’s a cow, I tell ya) probably has a cell phone with her. Of course, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Janet’s a bitch who would probably have insisted that Brad pull off the highway at the first sign of car trouble, so the whole thing would never have happened. And Brad would have had to have actually listened to her for once for them to end up at Dr. Frankenfurter’s castle, so it’s a moot point anyway.

My Shitty Mother’s Day Gift Might Have Been Used

If you’ve read this blog for a while or even had the misfortune of standing behind me in line at the grocery store, you know that I am NOT a high maintenance individual. No, I don’t mean that I’m not a regular bather… but there’s an excellent chance that my daily shower does not involve shaving and didn’t include putting on makeup or a bra after the fact.

That means I’m pretty hard to shop for, especially when it comes to sentimental holidays like anniversaries, Valentine’s Days, or Mother’s Days. It’s like you know you SHOULD get me something special and meaningful, but you also know that’s totally not who I am and you’d be wasting your money and wasting my “I get a present!” holiday. Instead, I want the far-out things that I really could buy for myself but that I don’t get, mostly because I wasted our weekly budget on vegetables, polio shots, and orthodontia for the kids.

Last year, after squirreling money away for a long time and arguing with my husband for years about whether or not it was actually a good idea, I bought myself the World’s Ugliest Camper. To most people, that’s an accurate description. To people in the “camper world,” it’s the most glorious object ever to grace the highways. It’s a 1966 Serro Scotty Sportsman, and yes, it even has the teal-blue color scheme. I love it! It sleeps three, tows easily behind my little Toyota, has a fridge and a microwave and an AC unit, and most important, it has a toilet.

All of my camping horror stories are for another blog post, so before you start bitching about how “that isn’t camping!” let me tell you that my first camping trip happened when I was 11 days old. It lasted three years, and I was in college before my parents finally admitted that it wasn’t a camping trip, we were just homeless. They called it camping to avoid any finger pointing from the school system and to prevent damage to our self-esteem. Trust me, folks, I’ve roughed it.

Unfortunately, one thing this camper doesn’t have is what’s known as a holding tank. Luckily, I read a lot, so I happened to find that out the EASY way through online research into my new camper instead of by actually taking a poop in my camper without having it hooked up to a sewer. Those ABC After School Specials were right… it pays to read.

So when I told my husband–to his face, even–that I wanted a poop box for Mother’s Day, you’d think by now he’d have been used to it. Instead, he did that thing where he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while thinking really hard about how to respond. When his vision returned to normal, he just said, “Where would a man buy one of these poop boxes if he was going to purchase one for his wife?” He actually had the good sense to smile and looked relieved (haha! RELIEVED! AS IN, HE RELIEVED HIMSELF!) when I told him it was already in the Amazon shopping cart online.

Because Amazon is awesome and they actually care about both Mother’s Day and hygienic pooping, my giant box arrived two days ago. I only ordered the 12-gallon poop box because I wasn’t really sure I could lift and dump (haha! DUMP!) the larger sizes without causing a biohazard cleanup. Trust me, I’ve had two kids and changed diapers for a grand total of seven years… 12 gallons of piss and shit is more than anybody should have to put up with at one time.

This morning, in honor of Mother’s Day, I snuck downstairs to the front porch to open my gift. Inside the Amazon box was another box, this time from the fine poop-boxing folks at Thetford. It contained my poop box!


I inspected every angle of this thing for any tell-tale signs that it had actually been used, short of actually putting my nose to the hose opening and inhaling. I checked the wheels for signs of scuffing, I checked the hose connectors for anything suspicious. I did find a horrifying smear of something that turned out to be a lubricant around the hose lid and, after convincing myself that it was very unlikely that this poop box had been connected to a trailer where they filmed porn movies and this was the remnants of pooped-out anal lube, I realized it was to make the tiny cap spin on better.

As you can imagine–also from reading this blog for any amount of time or standing behind me in the grocery store–I’m a little unstable. This box could have been hand crafted in my front yard by OompaLoompas and I still would have wondered if one of those little shits (get it? SHITS!) had defiled my poop box when I wasn’t looking. It’s good to be suspicious about these things, nay, healthy even. And now, much like my parents’ alternate reality of my childhood, I get to complain for years to come about my husband buying me a Mother’s Day gift that had been soiled. My poop box is actually very clean (thanks to the bleach it’s currently soaking in) and now I don’t feel bad asking for something crazy for my birthday.