Eat me.

I do my best to be a good mom. I shop the organic produce. And I try not to overload the brussel sprouts with too much bacon. Heh, I said too much bacon. As if. But seriously. How else are you supposed to get those evil little things down? Ok, I confess, they’re not so bad. My son and I have actually taken a liking to them. Or maybe it’s all the bacon and cheese. Not really. Well, maybe a little bit. Ok, a lot. My husband, however is not a fan at all. And no amount of bacon or cheese will change that. But I’ll keep trying. I know he envies the impressive post-brussel sprout pants cannon. I’m sure he’s considered crossing over to the dark leafy green side just for the prospect of the sheer volume of ammo. I mean who wouldn’t, right?

But really, I do what I can. I even bought kale today. Not sure how that’s going to go. I guess if all else fails that shit will be drop-dead gorgeous in a floral arrangement. I’m seeing it with some really nice peonies. Right? So, admittedly we tend to be a little leafy green deficient here. I try to compensate by keeping frozen blueberries for snacks. Now that’s some good stuff. However, as I’m well aware, not a perfect sub for the green farter starters. But we do our best.

Now, I know that all the judgy-mommy types slather the hate on us vitamin-doling moms. But hey, a little multi-vitamin can’t hurt, right?? I figure it’s kind of like a little extra insurance. Not like the kind of insurance that the car rental people try to sell you, even when your credit card insurance will cover damages. (Thank you AMEX. Side view mirrors in some of those old Spanish cities are just doomed anyway.) But we’re talking like the good kind of insurance. Like pet life insurance. Oh wait. Do they have that? OMG they totally should. Genius, I tell you. I’m a fucking genius. Flo, have your people call

So every morning I put out vitamins for everyone. And the good ones too. The gummy bears. Because seriously, good moms put candy out for their kids in the morning. Right? Hell yes. And you know what? My family just doesn’t appreciate my efforts. Half the time those poor gummy bears sit their, so lonely, all day long. There have even been days that they’re still there the next morning. What the hell with that?? I even write whorey notes on behalf of the poor little guys. My humor is lost on these people.

Look. My family is lucky. I’ve not been one of those moms who sneaks spinach into the brownies and pretends it’s just nummy. You moms are sick, by the way. What the hell is wrong with you? Is nothing sacred to you people? Trust me, they can taste it. Just because it works with pot, does not mean it works with spinach. Stop it. You’re making all moms look bad. *pffft* You scoff at me for giving my family vitamins? Well here’s a news flash for you. Your kids are tossing your nastyass Popeye brownies into the dog’s bowl on the way out the door to their friend’s house, where they’re getting the real deal. With no fucking spinach.

At any rate, I’m slowly figuring out the guerilla produce-pusher tactics. I’m actually full of shit. I’ve tried to hide stuff in smoothies. My kids have fucking ninja noses. It’s a no go, people. I’m just envious of some of the hiding techniques you guys have out there. Except the spinach brownies. Stop that. Nuts, people. That’s the only thing remotely healthy that go into brownies. Nuts. Got it? If rabbits like your brownies, there’s something wrong with them. Squirrels are ok.

But honestly, I feel like my priority should be for my kids to know what they’re eating, and to decide they like it, rather than me hiding it. Because when they grow up, no one will be there to trick them into eating their spinach. I’ll make them like it if it kills me. Or not. I’m realistic. If all else fails, put it under a coat of bacon and cheese. Meanwhile I’ll keep pimping the gummy bears and hope for the best.


Confucius say, “He who talk stupid, drink alone.”

I really should send thank you cards to people at times like this. Some of the things I overhear are far more comical than anything anyone could dream up.

This was from a very young couple, behind me at the grocery store, buying beer… I assume with a fake ID.

Boy: (loudly) Check this out. Do you want to read about Angelina’s double masta… masta-cot-omy?
Girl: (quietly) Mastectomy
Boy: Oh ya. That’s some kind of girl surgery, right?
Girl: (again, quietly, and obviously embarrassed) Um….. ya.
Boy: Ya. Ok. Whatever gets you off. Stupid Hollywood chicks.
Girl: Oh my God. You’re an idiot.
Boy: What?
Girl: Moron. She had her boobs removed so she wouldn’t get cancer.
Boy: Fuuuuuuuuuuck. (short silence) I hope they kept those. You could totally sell ’em on ebay.
Girl: (silently walks out of the store, leaving him in line alone)

She really should have curtsied. It was pure awesome. I couldn’t help hoping that she drove off and left him there.

Happy Monday!


You’re a little skeevy, Google

Wow, people! A whole new level of interest has just been added to Bullcasm. Someone brought it to my attention, that if you google “bullcasm,” not only does “bullcasm” not come up anywhere on the first page, but google is so very kind, and assuming you meant to type “bullcams,” they go ahead and search “bullcams” for you. Isn’t that nice of them!? And, let’s just say there’s a whole “bullcams” world out there that I didn’t know existed. Although as the name would imply, it seems to have little to do with large male bovines. Though horny animals seem highly likely to be involved. Who knew… bullcams was a thing? Cleeeeeeeeearly I need to get out more. There’s a very spankalicious world to be explored out there. Hey, you’re welcome!


Stuff that cracked me up this week

This person would be a fun neighbor. Until she's not.

(I hope she’s not MY neighbor. Not that I’d have stupid stickers on my car.) Original image.

I’ve felt kind of like the hamsters in this video for most of this week. (Watch this. It’s funnier than anything I’m going to write here.) I’ve been a little busy. And people are annoying the shit out of me. And won’t get out of my way while I’m trying to do important stuff. Like writing my blog. Really important stuff, people. I’m sure the hamsters can relate.

I’ve seen some things that cracked me up this week. And I thought I’d share some of it. Like this. Check it out, you guys… I hate it when I forget to listen to my brain before I speak. But I like it when others do. You’ll love this. I swear.

And here’s a thought for the next time someone cuts you off on the 405 during rush hour… Watch this. (Fast forward to 1:00 in.) I think this is way better than flipping someone off. And far more effective at telling someone how you really feel. But if you do this, don’t take video… as much as I’d love to see it. It would be admissible in court.

Or you can do like I do in traffic, to keep myself from shitting into someone’s sunroof. NO, I wouldn’t do that. I was talking about the cat in the previous video, that if you watched it you’d know what I’m talking about. Keep up, y’all. In traffic, I prefer to daydream about vacations. We just booked ours for the summer. I’m already getting flight anxiety. Breathe. Breathe. I’ve never seen anyone sum up a transatlantic slice of hell better than this. So funny. (As I rethink my upcoming flight to Dublin.) Shit.

If you still need a giggle, check this out. I have no idea who this guy is. But I love him. Poor James. He needs to pick his friends more carefully.

I plan on having the kind of weekend, like where you say, “Ya, I’ve totally got this, bitches. Just get the fuck outta my way.” (anyone have a photo cred for this?)

And if all else fails, amuse yourself. My son suggests drawing a penis sword to fight the dragon. (You’ll see what I mean.) He says it’s way funnier. Ya. He’s weird like that. I have no idea where he gets this shit.

I hope your weekend is as fabulous as a titty scarf. Or a flying cat with delusions of grandeur. Happy Friday, y’all!

Lloyd Lives… mon.

Ok, seriously now. I never intended for there to be countless follow ups on the Lloyd post. Because I just don’t think beating a dead horse (or dead, glue-dipped, glitter-crusted lizard) is necessary. Nor wise. Karma, y’all… right?? I’ll bet some of you have no idea what I’m talking about, so go catch up….

Lloyd and his Tiny T-rex Arms
Lloyd Karma

You’re welcome. Now you know, since you just read “Lloyd Karma,” that the last time I had a chuckle, mocking the peril of one of nature’s children, I received a message from one of Lloyd’s kin. This is some scary shit, people. The universe and I usually try to stay copacetic with one another. Or, at least I do with the universe. I’m pretty sure the universe doesn’t give a flying fart in space about me.

So recent developments tell me that the universe now reads my blog. Which is kind of cool. But a little unnerving. Just yesterday, I wrote about something that made me laugh hysterically when I was twelve. Something that involved two helpless creatures in a predicament. It was pretty twisted. But I had nothing to do with it. And I defy any twelve-year-old to not laugh at that.

Lost again? Jeez… keep up, people. Read yesterday’s post.

You’re welcome. Again. You know, you can subscribe over there on the right, so you can keep up.

lizard-buddhaANYHOOOO….. so ya, the universe reads my blog. I know this because right after I posted the piece about Magic Rover, I walked out to grab an iced tea, and there he was. The lizard mafia boss was back. Draped across the chest and shoulder of the Buddha statue like a Miss America sash. And he was giving me the eye. He seemed kind of pissed that I just wrote a piece about finding humor in the dog situation. I’m pretty sure I’m fucked. Bad Karma is mine. I managed to get a pic this time. He was totally flipping me off. It’s hard to see in the photo.

I’m a little worried. I mean, bad shit happens when the universe gets pissed at you. Pissed enough to send the lizard boss to warn you. Right? So, not to be outdone by my Alabama cousin, who is now extending her crafts from glitterated lizards, to stuffed, bedazzled armadillos, dressed in hooker boots, I made a sweetass hat for my lizard pal. I thought a peace offering might help with my ok-ness with the universe. I think it’s pretty rad. Now he looks good chillin’ on my statue out there. I’ve decided from now on his name is Ziggy.lizard-buddha-dreads He looks like a Ziggy, right? I’m pretty sure the way he whips his little lizard dreads around that he’s cool with his new persona.

The best part is, since Ziggy has gone all rasta, he’s much more mellow. I think he’s been spending more time in my neighbor’s yard… he grows weed. But I’m just glad Ziggy and I are cool. And I think the hat’s pretty sweet. Right?

Hopefully the universe and I are good for now.


Magic Rover and his Amazing Disappearing Paw

It really bums me out when my friends are having a shitty time of it. I just had a long conversation with one of my favorite people ever. I love this woman like she’s my sister. And she’s going through some really. really. shitty times right now. I wish I had the power to wave my magic wand, or sprinkle some unicorn fart dust (which is magic glitter, y’all), that would make it all better. But I can’t. I suck that way.

Honestly, I’m in my own boofuckinhooness this week. My mom passed away a year ago on the 19th of this month. And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to remember anything lately, but that awful morning. Clearly and vividly. Yuppers, I need a little therapy. Or medical marijuana. Just kidding, kids. Pot never fixes anything. Ever. It’ll give you hairy palms. Oh wait. That might be something else. Let’s just go with, never fixes anything, and leave it at that. Ok, kids?

Seriously, the only thing I’ve ever found that helps anything in a time like now, is a big fat martini. Just kidding…. Ok, kids, stop reading this paragraph and pick up with the next one. The big people are gonna talk here…..
Hang on.
Are they gone?
Yup, ok.
Yes, the martini helps. But the only reason I find that it helps, is because it seems to lube up the giggle flow. So really, it’s less the alcohol and more the laughter that helps here. Right?

Hi kids, you can start reading here again. Though I can only imagine that this will freak the shit out of you. Mama’s gonna say “vagina.” Not talking about my own… but anyway…. proceed at your own risk. Brain bleach not included.

So when I’m feeling cruddy, I try to think of something funny. My friend, I hope you’re reading this, because this is for you.

I will never forget, one afternoon on the way home from school, I saw two dogs. And they were, uh, connected. Now, I’d seen dogs connected before. Because somewhere along the way, nature decided that a pooch’s privates were going to remain stuck in the mating mash-up until the lady-dog’s vagina-vice says the party’s over. Rover may decide when he’s going to throw her a bone, but Lassie will drag him around for a nice, long, post-pokie parade lap. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a pair of pooches in this position. Lassie dragging Rover around by his snausage, while Rover has a look on his face somewhere between, “WTF!?” and, “Can ya help a guy out here!?” It’s pretty comical.

So on this particular day, many, many years ago, on my way home from school, I saw the two dogs connected. However, somehow the poor guy had got his hind leg stuck in the vice of Lassie’s lady grip. In retrospect, I find this horrifying, and can only imagine that some cruel person, did this to these dogs for sick shits and giggles. I have trouble imagining that Rover was hiking his leg for a squirt, and Lassie tripped and got her vagina stuck on his paw. I mean, stranger things have happened. There are guys who are really, really bad at sex. I guess there could be dogs like this as well. But I doubt it. There were some really sick fucks in our neighborhood. And this resembled their past handy work.


Thanks to these guys for the pic…

I’ve wondered many times over the years, what happened to those poor dogs. I only saw them briefly as we drove by. But that sad little visual made a lasting impression. (I was twelve. I laughed my ass off.) I just imagine Lassie dragging Rover through the doggie door at home. “Hi mom! I brought a friend home for dinner. Can ya help us out here? I think we’re gonna need a cigarette as soon as we can figure this shit out.”

My friend, I know life kind of blows right now. And it’s hard to find the humor in things, at times. But if all else fails, think of “Magic Rover and his Amazing Disappearing Paw,” and remind yourself, that things can always be worse. At least your foot isn’t stuck in a dog’s vagina.

I’m ADD, and… what was I saying?

Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes, knows that I am completely and helplessly ADD. My mind is like a bag of fucking squirrels that….. have you ever thought about what that would be like… a knapsack of squirrels? Have you? Like one big, giant squirrel orgy. Whoa… not a pretty sight. And surprisingly loud.

Anyway, hi… some people say reading my rambling is an adventure that usually ends up somewhere completely different from where you bought the ticket to go. But the trip is always by way of the fun route. It’s the same for me. I used to make an attempt to control it. But then I decided that lacked fun and spontaneity. And how boring is that?

Take yesterday, for instance. I was determined to sit my ass down and write… more than my usual blog entry. I’m seriously trying to write a book, people. This is important stuff. (Not really.) So I finished and posted my blog entry and opened the file that has my ramblings, that some day I hope will become a collection of thoughts. Otherwise known as a book. (Ya, right.) This is separate from the novel I’ve been trying to pry out of the shit storm that is my head. The story is in there. I just keep getting in the way of its escape onto paper. Both projects are doomed. Doomed, I tell you. I wish the squirrels in my head would get their nuts out of my way, and just go harass my dog or something.

And, I swear to God, my dog has sleep apnea. She sleeps next to me on the floor. I’m serious. She sounds like she’s having to struggle to breathe. You should hear her right now. Do they make Breathe Right strips for dogs? I’m thinking the hair is probably an issue. Maybe they could make like velcro Breathe Right dog strips? It makes sense, right? I’m a genius, I tell you. Just send me the royalties, Breathe Right people.

So ya, lemme get back to you on what I was going to say. I don’t remember. I think I was talking about squirrels. And my dog. My dog likes squirrels. Actually she likes chasing squirrels. And if she caught one, she’d probably like eating squirrels. But she’s kind of dumb, and I have trouble imaging that she could ever catch a squirrel. They’re all content to sit in the back yard—my dog on the grass, and the squirrels in the trees—and bark at one another. It’s pretty damned funny. My house is like a circus. Or is that my brain? My brain is like a circus. Ya, that’s it.


This is my painting, by the kickass artist, Kelly Reemtsen. Her work is amaaaaazzzzing, and I’m proud to call her a friend. Google her. Swear to God, y’all. You’ll love her work. And apparently she’s kind of a mind reader. That part is a little creepy. Stop that, Kelly.

I have a painting on my circus-house wall. It’s a girl in a beautiful dress, wearing rubber gloves, and bubbles are floating all around her. This is how I feel sometimes. I’m all dressed and ready to go somewhere. But along the way, I remember I’m forgetting to do something. So I throw on the gloves, make a huge mess and forget what the hell I was doing to begin with. And why am I all dressed up? The artist totally got me, without really trying, she captured my essence. Or wait, did she? It’s all kind of like this post. One big non sequitur mystery.

Wait. What? I was saying something about squirrels. Right?

Conformity is for Dickweeds

Pretty much every day of the week, when I pick my 15 year-old son up from school, he has some sort of comment/critique on my daily blog post. This always makes me stop and think. And wonder what the hell I’m doing. I’d always wanted to write something that my kids could be proud of their mom for. Yup, I know that sentence structure is grammatically abysmal. I used abysmal correctly. I give myself half credit. So bite me.

I didn’t really set out to write a blog full of potty mouth ramble-fests, that would make me the envy of every Stepford Wife in the OC. (I’m not really the envy of anyone.) It just kind of happened that way. (Not really.) Which is pretty much the norm for me. Not much planning, and a whole lot of flying by the seat of my pants. Yes, really.

I’m not saying that I’m bummed that my son reads my blog. He seems to take some sort of pride in his warped mom. I love him for that. He’s the kind of kid that has a lot of pride in the fact that he’s not a generic, cookie-cutter, conformist, OC kid. And I rejoice in this. Honestly. I’ve always felt like the worst thing I could do was fit in, disappear and fade into the background of conformity. Why? We should be rejoicing in our differences, people. Conformity is for douchnozzles. Boring. ass. douchenozzles.

Timing is everything, my darling son. I’m talking to you. There’s a time and place for everything. That’s what cotillion is all about. They teach you how to act in those times. I had to do it. You have to do it. The most important thing I can teach you, is when it’s ok. And when it’s not. Some people take themselves way too seriously. Skirting the edge of conformity… it’s a balance of timing… a dance of sorts. Or for those of us who get a chuckle from the too too serious folks… a game.

I’ve been trying, for several years now, to hammer out an endearing novel with a sweet message that my kids can live by, and be proud of. I’ll finish it some day. I used to pressure myself to get it done, so they would have some nice little message to live by. Like somehow they needed this message to guide them through life. But as I’m watching my kids turn into the amazing individuals that they are, I realize that no matter what I’m doing here, they’re becoming kickass kids who can think for themselves. They’re growing up quite nicely. In spite of me.

I know we’re inappropriate at times. But we laugh. And, more importantly, we love. I had the most wonderful dinner  last night. We enjoyed some family together-time at the Bluewater Grill in Newport Beach. But it wasn’t lovely because it’s my favorite restaurant, in a quiet little location tucked away on Lido Island. Or because my husband and kids were spoiling me for Mother’s Day. Or because I had the creme brulee almost all to myself. It was wonderful because I laughed til I nearly peed. And yes, it was an inappropriate joke. Something about fish sticks. Has anyone else noticed how fish sticks sounds like fish dicks? Me neither, until I had a teenaged boy.

There’s really nothing better than sharing a side-splitting laugh with your 15 year-old son. I see a lot of teenagers looking at their parents like they’re aliens. Or dickweeds. Or alien dickweeds. There’s nothing better than knowing that, for now, he doesn’t think I’m an alien dickweed. Most of the time. And we all enjoy one another, however inappropriate the conversation may be. All I ask is that my kids don’t hurt anyone else, and they don’t hurt themselves. Laughing is the jelly in the doughnuts, y’all. Suck it up.

I hope everyone else had an epic day yesterday. And I hope you laughed til you almost peed too. It’s ok. Conformity is for alien dickweeds.

It’s all for Mom

My mom sure could rock the shutter shades.

She was a rock star. Thumbs up, mom. I love you.

My mom taught me that a positive attitude is the surest way to success. And laughter and humor carry you through adversity. The past year I’ve been challenged to live by these two things. It hasn’t been easy. May 19th will be the one-year anniversary of my mom’s passing. There’s not a day that I don’t miss her, and desperately want to talk to her. Every time I write something, I imagine my mom, covering her mouth and laughing, with her “I can’t believe I’m laughing at something so inappropriate” look on her face. I write because I know it would have made my mom laugh. It helps me feel a little closer to her. She was the

I love you mom.

So for today, it’s a tribute to my mom. Sorry this is a more solemn post. I promise I’ll be out of my funk next time, and back to my inappropriate self. But since I know you came for a laugh, I hate to think I’ve disappointed you. So here are some boobs to tide you over. ( • )( • )

Happy Mother’s Day, to my friends. And to mom… if you’re listening.

Survival Italian

I’m checking out a catalog of old folks’ classes at the community center, thinking my dad might like to get out of the house. Maybe learn a bit about jazz history, or take a creative writing class. And for those of you who know my dad, stop laughing. Ya, for sure, the history of NASCAR, or the art MacGyvering are both probably more on target. However, they don’t offer those. Yet. Perhaps he might like to teach a class….. helllloooooo, senior center, are you listening?


There’s always one lady who doesn’t fall asleep.

A few of the class offerings are actually pretty amusing. “Yoga for the rest of us” is a good one. I can totally see it. A dimly lit room with the heady bouquet of potpourri and Ben Gay, with an oaky fart-scented finish, complete with tinkly music and the calming tone of the instructor’s voice. Most participants walk in and throw their mats down, look around and say, “Ah, fuck it. I’m going take a nap.” And for the rest of the group, half way through the class, downward dog melts into side-slung pill bug. And the sound of snoring is so overwhelming, the instructor and the one lady who’s still awake pack up and cut out to Starbucks, before the rest of them know what’s happening. Ya, I really don’t see my dad fitting anywhere into that scenario. Well, perhaps the napping group.

Then there’s “Laugh and Learn – You’re Retired.” I imagine a bunch of old dudes sitting around telling inappropriate jokes, laughing at all of us non-retired dickweeds who still have to pull a paycheck. I think they take that class before going across the hall for “Longevity Stick Exercises.” I swear to God, people, that’s a real class. Remind me to audit that one when I’m old enough. Because the name alone is all the description I need. Maybe they should combine that with the video making class. Then they’d really have something. But I refuse to imagine my dad taking any part in that.

We’ve also got the old folks’ standards you’d expect: bridge, poetry, drawing, and “Critic’s Choice – The Movies.” Old people are fucking naturals at that critics thing. Why do they need a class in it? I have to imagine there’s no teacher. Only a moderator, who is fast on her feet and good at ducking flying objects. At any rate, I don’t see my dad signing on for any of those. Too many old people there. He doesn’t like old people.

They offer German 1, Spanish 1, French 1. But the Italian class is called, “Survival Italian.” This is actually hilarious, and quite accurate, given my Italian travel experiences.  You get to learn phrases like:

“Grab my ass again, and I’ll kick your balls up into your throat,” along with my favorite,

“Give me back my wallet, you skanky tramp.”

And, “It’s behind that fake-ass arm you’ve got around that doll, that’s supposed to look like a baby.”

Also, “Get your eyes off my fanny pack. I’m not stupid enough to put valuables in there,”

and, “I’m sorry sir, my euros smell like ass sweat. They’ve been in my money belt”

Or the old favorite, “I heard you have a hooker in your government,”

along with the two optional follow-up phases, “You sick bastards,” or “Whoa, cool.”

I think I need to take that class. But for my dad, who is overtly critical and highly vocal, if not dangerously so, travel to any foreign country isn’t really a good idea. This should probably include New York, most of L.A., and anywhere that a large population of heavily tattooed or pierced folks tend to congregate. So… I don’t see foreign languages really working out for him.

There’s got to be something in the catalog to interest my dad. It’s hard to say. The guy stockpiles toilet paper like a squirrel hoards nuts for the winter. Maybe “Realistic Disaster Preparation” is right for him.  After all, what’s more realistic than a fear of running out of toilet paper right before the zombie apocalypse? Yup, I’m thinking that could be the class. I’ll have to run it by him.

I wonder if they teach you how to say, “Excuse me. Can you pass some TP under the door? My stall seems to be out,” in Survival Italian.

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