Habitable Planet Discovered in Sanjaya’s Mohawk!

Okay, although the newly discovered planet, 581 c, may not, in fact, be suspended within Sanjaya’s Mohawk, despite the girth of his gigantic, revolving head, not to mention its magical ability to bend the space-time continuum, this is still some kick-ass news.

Earlier this week, astronomers revealed the discovery of 581 c, a thrillingly Earth-like ball of goodness, merely 20 ½ light years away, that appears to have many of the requisite attributes needed to sustain life. It’s only 50% larger than our world (important to note, because too large a planet has too strong a gravitational pull, resulting in massive asteroid attacks, as well as inability to form mountains and continents -- very small planets cannot hold much of an atmosphere, thus causing water to either freeze or boil due to insufficient temperature regulation), has an atmosphere that might possibly be similar to Earth’s, do-si-does with a red dwarf (cooler than our sun, but hey, it's all good, especially due to the star’s proximity), with temperatures varying 34-104 degrees Fahrenheit, which are within conducive range for liquid water.

I’m sure you understand what this means, right?

Mama, Ozzy Osbourne and I are coming home.

In other news, Sanjaya’s Mohawk spontaneously combusted in Washington D.C. hot spot, “WTF?” late Tuesday night, injuring six. Counted among the superficially injured are Paris Hilton, best known for her droopy left eye and infantile behavior, and Katie Couric, who sustained minor scrapes to her gums.

The Sun...

Is out today. An estimated high temperature in the low sixties.

O Rochester, thine springtime is but a retarded tortoise whose smiling, wizened face, although late to my doorstep, is a welcome sight indeed.

I shall sit on my patio, beneath a giant umbrella (so that I may keep my ghoulishly pale skin as corpse-white as possible), and indulge in a Corona with lime -- perhaps two -- and just...Chill. You know, like the dead thing I am.

Random thought of the day: Anyone else feel intense embarrassment while watching Gonzales whimper and poop all over himself during the hearings?

Ah, probably just me, then...

One Hour, Thirty-Four Minutes, Two Seconds of Truth

“Kiddo, if the public knew the truth, there’d be thousands of idiots blowing their own damn heads off.”

--Circa 1971, my late father, Robert S. Howe, who served in the U.S. Navy 1959-1962, and subsequently, the Pentagon, in response to my asking him if extraterrestrial life existed. He never did give me a definitive answer despite repeatedly asking him for one.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God, Mom! What is that?”

--Me, summer of 1979, finally getting my answer.

Corn on the Bone

My girl said to me yesterday, in reference to a meal she once had during her school's "Civil War Day" a couple years back: "I liked the bread, but I didn't like the chicken on the cob."

I, of course, understood what she meant by "chicken on the cob." Plain as day to me. Chicken on the cob, for those in the dark, means a drumstick, something I rarely serve due to the disgusting visual of meat attached to bone.

Made for a good, long round of laughter for all present (including myself), but my girl was utterly perplexed as to the reaction.

Reason number 598 why people with Asperger's rock and roll.

It's a Beautiful Day

Here I am, sipping champagne, waiting on my Easter cake, which I will decorate with pink and green sugar sprinkles, and a brightly colored marshmallow egg set in the center. Turkey and all the fixings are ready to go in the oven at two o'clock. The Sopranos new season (and last, wah!) starts tonight, and I am looking forward to a lovely evening full of blood, profanities, chocolate bunnies, and more champagne.

I feel good today.

Cumorah My House, Cumorah My House…NOT!

Mitt Romney, former Massachusetts governor and devout Mormon, or “Mr. Creepy Pants,” as I like to call him, raked in 23 million buckensqueakers during the first quarter of his campaign drive.

Hillary Clinton, Hollywood darling (but not mine -- I’m an Edwards girl) and domestic goddess cum fashion plate extraordinaire, scored 26 million.

How, you may ask, did Romney, this heretofore barely visible zit on the ass of our rotund and cellulitic political machine, suddenly become a festering, unsightly herpes blister the size of Texas? I’ll tell you how…But not right this second. First, I must digress with three statements, followed by a bunch of hoohah…

1) If you don’t get the pun in this entry‘s title, you’re not only sorely lacking in religious knowledge, you need to brush up on all things Rosemary Clooney.

2) Or perhaps I’m just flexing my impressive talent for obfuscation, as usual.

3) Which is most likely the case.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Tainted pet food. Wait, no, that’s not it. I was talking about Creepy Pod People invading Washington under the guise of moral righteousness and sanctity of Constitutional rights. Yeah, that’s the unbearable ticket.

Why not take a minute and read some of Mr. Romney’s flip-floppy political views? Go on, I’ll wait.

Finished? Well, now, are you ready to don your hairshirt and abstain from Coca Cola? Not yet? How about after you consider these beauts, lifted from Mormon.org:

On homosexuality --

"We want to help these people, to strengthen them, to assist them with their problems and to help them with their difficulties. But we cannot stand idle if they indulge in immoral activity, if they try to uphold and defend and live in a so-called same-sex marriage situation. To permit such would be to make light of the very serious and sacred foundation of God-sanctioned marriage and its very purpose, the rearing of families" (Ensign, Nov. 1998, 71).

On polygamy --

In 1998, President Gordon B. Hinckley made the following statement about the Church's position on plural marriage:
"This Church has nothing whatever to do with those practicing polygamy. They are not members of this Church. . . . If any of our members are found to be practicing plural marriage, they are excommunicated, the most serious penalty the Church can impose. Not only are those so involved in direct violation of the civil law, they are in violation of the law of this Church."
[Yet they add the following. You know, just for the purpose of…Um, I dunno…Why did they add the following?]
At various times, the Lord has commanded His people to practice plural marriage. For example, He gave this command to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David, and Solomon.

In this dispensation, the Lord commanded some of the early Saints to practice plural marriage. The Prophet Joseph Smith and those closest to him, including Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball, were challenged by this command, but they obeyed it. Church leaders regulated the practice. Those entering into it had to be authorized to do so, and the marriages had to be performed through the sealing power of the priesthood. In 1890, President Wilford Woodruff received a revelation that the leaders of the Church should cease teaching the practice of plural marriage.

[Of course they don't openly condone plural marriages, but jeepers, their faith is based on King Prophet himself, Joseph Smith's doctrine, and they so love their unvarnished doctrine…Could be why, other than a finger wag and a showy boot-in-the-butt to those Mormons who do practice polygamy, it is rarely prosecuted in Mormon-heavy areas of the United States.]

On curious attitudes toward equality between the sexes:

Gordon B. Hinckley, President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, said:
"[Women do not hold the priesthood] because the Lord has put it that way. It is part of His program. Women have a very prominent place in this Church. Men hold the priesthood offices of the Church. But women have a tremendous place in this Church. They have their own organization. It was started in 1842 by the Prophet Joseph Smith, called the Relief Society, because its initial purpose was to administer help to those in need. It has grown to be, I think, the largest women's organization in the world with a membership of more than three million. They have their own offices, their own presidency, their own board. That reaches down to the smallest unit of the Church everywhere in the world . . .
"The men hold the priesthood, yes. But my wife is my companion. In this Church the man neither walks ahead of his wife nor behind his wife but at her side. They are co-equals in this life in a great enterprise."

[That's nice. Separatism is always nice...]

And finally, just for shits and giggles, on unholy nectar:

Your body is a precious gift from God. To help keep our bodies and our minds healthy and strong, God gave a law of health to Joseph Smith in 1833. This law is known as the Word of Wisdom.
In addition to emphasizing the benefits of proper eating and physical and spiritual health, God has spoken against the use of:
Tobacco.
Alcohol.
Coffee and tea.
Illegal drugs.
God promises great physical and spiritual blessings to those who follow the Word of Wisdom. Today, the scientific community promotes some of the same principles that a loving God gave to Joseph Smith nearly two centuries ago.

[Why that evil, EVIL Jesus, turning water into a Satanic love potion! And I didn't realize that Folgers was the gateway to Hell! Really, I had no clue!]

Shall I go on and on…And on, and on…? Nah, I didn’t think so.

Suffice it to say, I would break down and cry like baby Jesus if, God forbid, Romney somehow won the presidential elections, then decided to ban Folgers Crystals, Broadway shows, and monogamous marriage.

Oh, and the answer to my original question is this (bet you thought I'd forgotten, eh?): Powerful yet desperate corporations and Evangelicals who have a lot of money but no feasible Baptist candidates, and figure to themselves that it's better to have a homophobic, flip-flopping, Mr. Creepy Pants in office than no pious, special interest-sucking, crony-loving asshole at all.

Swamp Thing

Yesterday morning, as I was cleaning my bathroom, the doorbell rang. Now, for most folks, this is a non-event -- for me, however, it is an apocalyptic intrusion on my daily routine. If I'm not expecting company, I do not answer the door. I don't take kindly to unexpected visitations.

So I was cleaning away, and happy to be doing so, I might add, when the doorbell rang, which produced the expected shrill shrieks of excitement from my boy. I went into automatic panic mode, as usual, and tore out of the john, Mr. Bubbles circling my unkept head in a frothy, almost holy halo, and loudly whispered to my son to be quiet. Shhhhhhhh! Ohmygod, SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Be quiet, son, for there be unwanted visitors among us! ShhhhhhhfuckshithellSHHHHHHHHH!

He would not comply. He kept shouting that it was "DADDY! IT'S DADDY, MOMMY! DAAAAA-DEEEEEE! Waaaaaaaa-AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! DADDY!" And the more frantic I became, the louder his shrieks. I offered Pop Tarts, I offered Gummi Bears, I offered him a Harvard education and a BMW. He declined, and none too politely. As his shrieks grew louder, I knew that I had no choice but to answer the godamned door.

Warily, I approached the French door that separates the living room from the foyer and peered through to the front door's frosted window. I could tell immediately that the behemoth standing on my front step was not my husband.

Terror seized my very soul as I watched the looming shadow bend forward, ostensibly to peek into my home, then step back and ring the doorbell again. And again. So many thoughts rushed through my frazzled mind: Police? Dear lord, could it be the cops? I do have a sixteen-year-old, after all. She rides in cars with friends now, you know, friends who, although very nice, are still kids. Snippets of eleventh grade driver ed films depicting laughing youths, speeding tires, and sickening metal-crunching-on-metal slow-motion images danced in my skull. Tears began to well as I imagined the worst, but quickly dried up when my next insanely ridiculous scenario emerged...Oh, saints preserve us! It's G__ from across the street, and he's doing his yearly charity run and wants me to match or beat the $60 I sponsored him with last year! Shit! I can't very well tell the man that my generous sponsorship was due to my being mildly intoxicated, thus feeling exceptionally altruistic, and my husband, unfortunately, did not find my generosity endearing whatsoever. I can't say to G__, "G__, I'm very sorry, but the last time I sponsored you, I'd been hosting a lovely barbecue, and had been drinking Corona, you see, and well, you caught me at a vulnerable time, and, um..."

Weary of my own racing mind, I bravely answered the door, Clorox Bleach Pen gripped tightly in my left hand. At first, I was grateful to see that it was not a cop, nor the pleasant yet annoying G__, but that quickly turned to horror when I realized just who the beast before me was -- the meter man.

I loathe meter men. Apologies to any of you who might be meter men or women, but I just really hate you. You come unannounced, for one thing. Secondly, you refuse to give up and go away regardless of the fact no one answers the door despite your ringing the bell fifty times. Thirdly, you might be an ax murderer. Fourthly, oh, fourthly...You track mud and dog feces throughout my spic and span home. Yes, you certainly do.

So I let the fucker in. And the fucker, although not an ax murderer, thank goodness, proceeded to track great gobs of mud and dog feces throughout my freshly washed hardwood floors. And over my freshly washed kitchen tiles. And down my freshly vacuumed stairs, over my family room rug, through the exercise room, and back again.

I didn't know what to do with my rage. I was so enraged, I actually hallucinated, saw stars and red and decapitated Teddy bears...

I did the only thing I could do to release my rage -- I stabbed the fucker repeatedly in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen.

No, I didn't. But I wanted to.

My boy, though, being the son of Ms. Lori the Obsessive-Compulsive Clean Freak, said to the fucker: "You made a BIG mess all over Mommy's floors!"

The stupid fucker Swamp Thing bastard didn't even acknowledge his dirty deeds. Didn't even muster a weak apology. That's when I lost it. I stabbed Swamp Thing in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen over and over and over again until he ran screaming from my home.

I feel no remorse.