Jesus Hates Your Kitten

If you thought the Vagina Song and seeing pictures of a chicken having a shampoo and blow dry were wondrous and indicative of the offerings of the internet, wait until you hear about this:

Eternal Earthbound Pets - for $110 animal loving atheists will guarantee care for your pets after the rapture.

Yes, YOU might have a friend in Jesus, but He hates your pet. Apparently. At least that seems to be the gist here. You go up to heaven; your pet is screwed.

If you're not particular about your animal's surrogate owner being an atheist, there's always JesusPets, which doesn't guarantee atheism but asks the following:

Imagine being taken to streets of gold while your dog starves to death walking around in his own feces trapped in your small house or apartment, subject to fire and earthquakes or even being eaten by heathens searching for any remaining morsel of food. Do you want that to happen?

Yeah. That would kind'a put a damper on heaven for me too.

Eternal Earthbound Pets has a question and answer section to reassure potential clients, such as:

Q: When the Rapture occurs, how long before my pet is rescued?

Isn't that sort of like asking when we'd have electricity after the hurricane? I mean, who around here has even been through a rapture? I imagine it's going to be a totally new experience for most people.

Eternal Earthbound Pets, however, says they're targeting 18-24 hours from realization of the rapture. Well okay then. What can you even say about a service like this?

For my part, I'm extremely torn by the discovery. On the one hand, I'm endlessly amused by the extent of what's available on the internet. On the other hand, it's so incredibly sad the lengths people will go to to screw each other over.

Unless of course, the atheists are really serious about being compassionate to your pet for a price. Which opens up a whole 'nother set of PR opportunities for other groups.

Like, how about: Jews! In the event of the rapture, we'll care for your houseplants for FREE!

Reading, Writing, 'Rithmatic, and Crying in the Bathroom

For reasons that might be unwise to really reveal to the greater blogging world, the beginning of the school year has been eating my lunch more than usual.

I say it's "eating my lunch" in the sense that it's leaving me feeling like I've been run over by a train each and every day. But it's sort of an ironic use of the saying in that I really haven't had time to eat lunch during the school day.

I only cried in the bathroom once though. When I explained my little excursion to the bathroom to The-Guy, he said something along the lines of, "Sometimes I wish I could do that." "Oh you CAN!!!!" I replied, "Because nobody really knows!"

Except when you announce it via your blog and make it available to every last person with internet access the entire world over. Then it's not really so much of a secret. Oh well. In any case, my class is sweet and wonderful and my school is wonderful. And it's going to be a GREAT year, but it has been SUCH a tough start.

I think I've mentioned that I was incredibly, incredibly lucky enough to send my own kiddies to a religious school this year. Here they are all happy on their first day:No, my gal isn't actually allowed to wear her skirt that high in school. Since you asked. Oh you didn't ask? Ok, everyone else who has seen the picture has asked, so I just thought I'd be proactive.

We've put our noses back to the grindstone here at Camp Twipply Skwood. Here's to a great new school year!

You'd Think That Man Would Have Given Up Putting Me on Speaker Phone By Now

I try not to call The-Guy at work all that much, because for one I have that whole, "men should do the calling" thing and for another I figure, well...he's at work. He's probably busy. You know, working and all.

But then I realized there's a third reason why I shouldn't call, and that's because the conversations tend to follow the same pattern. They start with me asking if he's coming home soon and end with him declaring me unfit to be broadcast to the general office environment.

Yesterday we had a typical conversation:
Me - "I got a pop up Jesus at the teacher supply store! It was only fifty cents!"
The-Guy - "For school, or for home?"
Me - "NO SHUGUEE!!! DON'T EAT JESUS!!!!!!"
The-Guy - "Ok, I'm taking you off speaker phone now."

But then that very same man of mine wanted me to send him a link to the My Vagina is 8 Miles Wide song, so you just never know what's appropriate.

I thought ahead and sent it to his personal address instead of his work email. Except, I'll probably accidentally make up for that lapse in bad judgment later, when I ask him if the link worked while I'm on speakerphone.

Yeah. Anyway, back to pop up Jesus!I love it as much as my cat Sugar does. Although, I must admit that I'm suddenly aware of why depictions of God are prohibited in Judaism.

My other discovery is that maybe I got the (originally) $500 speeding ticket not because I was concentrating so hard on my failing transmission, but perhaps because I was paying too much attention to the signs whipping past my car.

For instance, shouldn't this be a career in "broadcasting", not a career in "broadcast"? I know, it's a little hard to read. But that happens when you take pictures from a moving vehicle:Should a haircut really require a leap of faith?I'm thinking if that's what's needed, I might just get my hair done someplace else. This church advertises itself as a "place to begin again". Which means, I assume, that you screwed up so badly at your old church that you had to worship somewhere else. So then if you begin again at their church but you STILL screw up, do you have to go find a new church?

Yeah. Well, anyway...I'm pretty sure it WAS my transmission that caused my speeding ticket. But if they really wanted to encourage us to pay attention to the speedometer, they'd take down all the billboards and advertisements. I, for one, am going to concentrate on learning the words to the vagina song on my drive to work today, because The Blogess says there's going to be a sing along.

Shamelessly Mining the Google Searches. Again.

I hate to shamelessly mine the Google searches that have landed people here, but when people arrive here having used the search words, "slutty pumpkins", what the heck is a gal to do?!?!? Besides, how do you even know if your pumpkin IS slutty? Do the pumpkins tell you themselves after you've carved them a face?

I had a search recently for "orthopedic bodily functions". What does that even mean? I suggest stopping by a blog that's a little more medical in nature.

I still get searches wondering who should call during dating. And I continue to insist that it's the man's job. The man should do ALL the calling.

Now it happens that I do call The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken these days, but that's only because I live with him. Up until moving in together though, I'm certain it's the man's job to do all the calling. Except, a friend did tell me once that an engagement ring also serves as license to call a man.

So, shacking up and/or engaged and the women get to call. Otherwise, still the guy's job in my book.

Somebody searched "What do I do if I'm dating a guy that does cocaine all the time." Obviously this person was a day late and a dollar short for my best dating advice: don't date cokeheads.

I got this search: "i ran over a dead armadillo can i get leprosy." Now I don't know a heck of a lot about leprosy, besides the fact that it's hard to spell. But I'm going out on a limb here by saying that unless your driving is REALLY unconventional, most of the germs from what you drive over end up on the tires, not on your body.

"Untouched boobs" isn't coming up quite as often as it used to, although predictably "vibrating boobs" is coming up in the ranks.

Way more people want to know about lips than boobs though, specifically "sun burnt lips" and "pictures of sun burnt lips." LOTS and LOTS of people want to know about sun burnt lips.

I hate to disappoint half the free world (or at least that portion of the free world that is landing here having sought pictures of sun burnt lips), but sun burnt lips look pretty much the same as regular lips. They just feel sort of puffy and raw. They could be a little more red I guess, who knows.

So that's the best I have to offer here at Google-Searches-R-Us, folks! The picture at the top of my cat making yoga toes, by the way, has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I just thought the post should have a picture. And, y'know...a picture of sun burnt lips wouldn't really have looked any different than a picture of regular lips.

My Jeans Totally Have Syphilis Now. Or Maybe Herpes.

The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken and I went to New Orleans and so I am in HEAVEN on Bourbon Street. Because I'm always in heaven in the French Quarter. It's the law. And plus, how can ANYONE not be in heaven in a place where dressing up as a fire hydrant is an acceptable career choice?

Look, here's a New Orleans fire hydrant:And here's me with a guy whose job it is to dress up like a fire hydrant and stand on the street:So I'm all happy because I'm in the French Quarter, breathing the French Quarter air. But my jeans aren't happy. Because I wore flip flops and so the bottoms of my jeans were all dragging in the muck and spilt beer and pee and stuff on the street and getting all brown and disgusting. And now I'm pretty sure they at least have syphilis. Or maybe Herpes.

But that's okay, because I made up a greeting card just for them. To make up for it, because I was having such a wonderful time while they were getting diseased. You know those cards that say, "When I count my blessings, I count you twice."?

Well, my new greeting card would say, "When I count my blessings, I count not having herpes twice." And I really do. Because that would suck. Although that particular greeting might not work for my jeans, because they probably already GOT herpes from being dragged along Bourbon Street.

Here's the interesting thing I found out today: All those drunks on Bourbon Street aren't really alcoholics. They're only drinking in order to forget all their gambling woes.

It's true! I've been seeing these signs EVERYWHERE, all over New Orleans:This one's on the door of a pub, no less.And so you see, obviously gambling is the serious problem in the French Quarter, not drinking.

I'm going to post in a timely manner, so that I can encourage anyone planning a trip to New Orleans to wear more appropriate shoes than I chose, thus helping prevent the spread of herpes among blue jeans.

This computer doesn't seem to have spell check though, and also it's one in the morning. So appologies in advance for any typos, mistakes, or ill advised mentionings of STDs.

Fire hydrant photo

I'm Pretty Sure a Total Stranger Is Going to Buy Me a Transmission

First off, I promised some pictures of the green living room. I didn't really have any good "before" pictures, but here are my best:

Come to think of it, my "after" pictures aren't really the greatest either:
I love how it came out - lime green in the light, olive green in the shadows. It needs touch up, or perhaps a third coat in places, and I'm procrastinating on that one. Because only the first coat of paint is really any fun.

This has been my week:

The transmission in my car is out. I'm pretty sure I could buy a rust bucket clunker car for the same price as fixing the transmission.

My tooth needs a crown. That costs almost as much as the transmission, but insurance should pay half.

I got a speeding ticket that should cost about the same as the tooth.

'Cause when you're driving down the road just hoping the transmission doesn't fall right out on the pavement, speeding seems like a reasonable option. It's like that old joke - "Officer I'm only speeding because I'm trying to get home before I run out of gas."

"So your life is shit right now, huh?" asks my brother yesterday. "No," I answer, "I'm doing okay."

I'm doing okay, because I can take traffic school AGAIN to reduce the price of the speeding ticket, at least to an amount that mere mortals can expect to pay in one lifetime.

And I'm doing okay because I saw this bumper sticker the other day: And I thought, "He loves me!! That total stranger loves me! And all because I'm driving! And sober!" And so I think that means he's going to buy me a new transmission. And maybe a new tooth too.

But then I thought, "Well, that's only because he's never actually seen my driving. I'm pretty sure that taking snapshots of the car in front of you cancels out whatever advantage driving while sober offers." So he probably doesn't actually love me all that much. Or if he does, it's totally unrequited.

So that's about it from Camp Do Try This at Home. I'm just spending my time pouring money into my mouth or the car or the police department, waiting for my kids to get back from camp and for school to start back up.