The Bug Who Wanted to Kill Me OR It Was the Bug That Got Away ("It Was THIS BIG!")

One evening there was an insect on the ceiling in my bedroom.  I don't know what it was.  I didn't stop to ask if it had its correct species name.  ("Why, yes, Fat Woman, I am Ceilinicinous Badeous Bugicuss, commonly known as the Ceiling Crawling Insect and now I wish to consume your dessicated flesh, mortal mammal enemy.")  Instead my words were something like, "CRAP!  There's a BIG ASS BUG ON MY CEILING!"  Four lettered words might have been involved.


Not actual size except in my imagination

There was an unidentifiable bug on my ceiling above my bed just as I was going to go to sleep.  I didn't think this was a tenable situation.  In fact, the bug didn't know it but I was about to Def-Con-1 it.  You see, in my mind, an unidentifiable bug on my ceiling above my bed just as I was about to go to sleep could lead to only one situation.  I will illustrate for I cannot NOT illustrate.

If the bug had actually dropped from the ceiling onto me or near me or in my immediate vicinity this might have happened.  Also screaming, shrieking and imprecations would have commenced.  There would have been ritualized beating of the bug with the largest thing I could find in the area.  Weapons could have included the night table lamp, HIM, or the novel 'Breaking Dawn.'  Whateveh.

As it was I looked at the bug on the ceiling and I did the next best thing.  I called HIM.  What I said was, "Sweetie, there's a bug on the ceiling."  HIM was in the living room reading a book and drinking a glass of wine.  HIM knew what I wanted but he wasn't going for it.  "So?" HIM called back.  "Would you...take care of it?" I called back.

You see, I knew I could appeal to HIM"s vanity.  Allow me to illustrate again.

So, of course, HIM came swaggering into the bedroom to kill the fabled insect beast before it drug me off to its lair to slowly consume my living flesh at its leisure or whatever evil plan it was planning.

At this point the story should end.  It should.  It really should.  HIM came back to the bedroom, killed the threatening buggie, and returned triumphantly to the living room, having proved his manhood in a incontrovertible manner.  HIM would flex his biceps and leer at me saying, "The big bad bug is all taken care of, so give me some sugar, baby."  End of the literary tale of a bug's woe.

But I'm still writing because my life never goes just like that.  Not my life anyway.

HIM had to take a minute to decide which was best to kill the beast.  Item number One - a Harlequin Presents book of approximately 180 pages.  Light enough to swing adequately and best of all it had already been read by me.  Item number two - a Kindle.  Nice heft but electronic in nature.  Does not respond well to being pummeled against insects, ceilings, or other implacable items.  Item number three - a Sci Fi book by David Drake.  A 500 page novel, it would certainly squash any insect within its path.  But it's one of HIM's favored authors and what fan really wants to get bug intestines on one of his favored authors?  What does HIM pick?

The Harlequin book.

HIM climbs up on a trunk and discovers that the flat surface of the book won't squish the bug on the ceiling because the ceiling is a popcorn ceiling, a design remnant from the 80s that lingers in this 80s house.  Perplexed HIM attempts to use the end of the book in a battle ending maneuver.  No can do.  The insect starts crawling away.  I am watching from the security of the door where it cannot leap.

So here's the spot where things get a little...weird.  ("When do they NOT get weird in your house, Fat Woman?")  HIM takes the book and, instead of smashing the insect into the obscurity of a distant memory, kind of flips it off the ceiling with the end of the book.

Directly at me.  I could see the trajectory in my head like a smart machine calculating it.  (I'm thinking like the Predator did with Arnold Schwarzenegger.  "Madam, I've met the governator, and you ma'am, are no Arnold Schwarzenegger.")

Anyway, there was more screeching involved.  The neighbors thought about calling the police.  People up the street thought there was an air siren and took cover.  The guys from Andrew AFB did a flyby to see WTF?  The President was interrupted in the middle of a joke about a dog walking into a bar with a blonde under his shoulder to be briefed.  It was very ugly.

And amidst all of the chicanery the stupid bleeping bug got away.  It's out there, you know, watching me, waiting for it's moment.

A New Bubba Book - Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas

Hey, guess what.  The second Bubba book is here and available on http://www.bn.com/, http://www.amazon.com/, and http://www.smashwords.com/.  Coupons to come on my website, http://www.clbevill.com/, for free copies so keep an eye out.

Here's the scoop:

Bubba Snoddy’s got some problems.  His family has descended for the Christmas holidays and not in a good way.  His cousin wants to own the Snoddy Mansion, decrepit, falling down columns, termites, wood rot and all and isn’t above using manipulative behavior to achieve his ends.  Miz Demetrice is up to nefarious and illegal activities while trying to entertain relatives.  His cousin’s ten year old son is the personification of a demon and has hobbies of looking at medical photographs, making stun guns from scratch, and causing havoc wherever he roams.  The woman of Bubba’s dreams, Deputy Willodean Gray, is still evading his romantic pursuits.  Patients from the local mental institute are wandering over the town, ostensibly assisting with the Christmas Festival thanks to a program established by the mayor to cut costs.  And Bubba has just found the dead body of a man dressed as Santa in the Christmas scene at City Hall.  Oh, Pegramville, Texas is just the best place to be at Christmas if a fella has a bullet proof vest and a linebacker’s helmet.  All the folks think Bubba might have done did it…again, even though it was proven that he didn’t done did it the first time, and Bubba has to move quickly in order to catch a murderer.   

It'll make you happier than a tick on a fat old hound black and tan or as happy as a pig in slop or my personal favorite, as happy as a two-peckered billy goat. 

And for my fans without a kindle or nook or ereader.  You can download the reader to your computer or an ap for them to your smart phone ifin you've a mind.  Happy reading!

Oh, Those Wacky Publishers! OR What The Heck Were They Thinking?

Long story short.  I published a book with St. Martins/Thomas Dunne in 2002.  It was called Bayou Moon.  It's a mystery set in Louisiana.  (Did the Bayou part give it away?)  It sold okay.  About 4000 copies give or take.  Then it dwindled into the place where authors go who don't sell a million copies on the first hit.  (HIM and I still giggle about when I first sold the thing and HIM's boss seriously asked if HIM was going to quit his job because I was going to be an AUTHOR.  Haha.  She had no idea how much authors really make.)

Here it is:

Bayou Moon by me, a mystery
2002 by Thomas Dunne

Anyhoo, there it is.  It's not my best work.  But it's okay.  Southern Gothic mystery.  An artist returns to her Louisiana roots to find out what happened to her mother, who's been missing twenty or so years.  Lots of dripping Spanish moss and y'alls.  It was originally another name but my editor, who shall remain nameless for the sakes of all, said, and I'm quoting because it was funny, "It needs to have a name with 'bayou' in it because bayous are sexy."  Never mind the fact that I had to go back and change a couple of the swamps mentioned in the book into bayous.  Never mind that I got people from Louisiana saying I never lived in the south and I cornfused everything.  (Yes, I meant CORNfused.)  (It's FICTION, y'all.  It's made up.  And I did live down south for a long time and I'm married to a man who's from there.)  So Bayou Moon it became.

The editor at Thomas Dunne passed on my second effort and I tried like hell to do my stuff.  (I found another literary agent.  The literary agent dumped me.  I kept writing books and trying to find another 'good' agent.  It didn't work out.  It's beginning to sound like a very lame soap opera.)  Then ePublishing came around and wow, I went ahead and put out just about everything I have.  (Damn the torpedoes!  Full speed ahead!)  Some of the stuff is genre.  Some of the stuff was meant to be published under a pseudonym.  Some readers don't like that I genre hopped.  Some readers love it.  I won't apologize.  I love to write and I tend to have a little romantic thing going on it each of my books.  (The one that a lot of people seem to dislike is The Life and Death of Bayou Billy, probably because it's pretty raunchy, but it's also funny as hell.  An infamous outlaw dies and two neighboring towns fight to get the right to bury his body in their town.  Corpse-napping and other hilarity ensues.)  But I'm digressing.  Once I got all the books out there, I made most of them free just to give people a taste.  Unfortunately I couldn't do this on Amazon but I did it on many of the other epubs, notably Barnes & Noble.  And some of them are doing very well.

For example, Bubba and the Dead Woman is a favorite.  Bubba is a good old boy involved in a genuine murder mystery and everyone thinks he done did it.  (Incidentally this is FREE at B & N and http://www.smashwords.com/, so if can download it, YOU REALLY SHOULD.)  It's so popular I wrote a second one that will be published in the next couple of days.

Here's the second one, Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas for the Bubba-ites.  Good old country boy Bubba gets involved in another set of murders, except it's all funky and to do with Christmas.  I'm just finishing with the editing so next month it should be out there.  Yea, Bubba.

So as soon as things start getting popular what does St. Martins do?  Well, for years and years Bayou Moon has been available on Kindle at Amazon for $10.99.  The price alone made me wince.  (And in case it's not clear, I am NOT the one who set that price.)  However, as soon as Bubba and the Dead Woman does a booming business on B&N, guess what happened?  St. Martins puts Bayou Moon out on Nook and some of the other epubs.  And surprise they lowered the price to $6.99, which Amazon matched.  And because some of these readers really like some of my other work, they're buying Bayou Moon.

All of which should be a happy thing for me.  Except I'm not fond of publishers who want the authors to do all the work and then only reap 7.5% of the proceeds and in this case, St. Martins ain't paying me dick.  My literary agent went out of business in the middle of the last decade and St. Martins won't send me any of the quarterlies.  (I'm going to have to find a lawyer who will write them the dreaded LETTER and threaten them with some kind of legalities that frankly make me irritated at best and have a rash in the nether regions at worst.)  I don't expect the royalties to be much but they should be paying it to me.  Hell, I've even bought a couple copies of Bayou Moon on Kindle just because I got a Kindle and people I know have Kindles.  (Incidentally, I'm probably going to buy a Nook, too, because I like both of them.  Yea, ePublishing!  Power to the paperless!)

Am I saying don't buy Bayou Moon?  No, that would be like shooting myself in the foot.  But all of the melodrama aside, there's more.  I was recently googling my book names because a) I'm vain, and b) I want to see if people are repeating things about my books.  So I found a little thing about Bayou Moon that I hadn't seen before.  (The technical phrase for this is to, 'add insult to injury.')

Here's the link: http://readingthepast.com/gallery/reusable-covers.htm  It's got stuff about recycled cover art.  Some of it is similar stuff.  Some of it is exactly the same.

Case in point:

Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

published by Virago, 2003



The Chatham School Affair

by Thomas H. Cook

Published by Indigo, 2000



Bayou Moon
by me
Published by Thomas Dunne, 2002
Hmm.  This seems to be suspiciously
familiar, doesn't it?

Anyone can see the first one is a little different.  But the latter two are the same damn picture.  And I remember the editor yammering about how hard the illustrator worked on the stupid iron gates.  Hah.  (He worked hard at copying the jpeg of the iron gate.)  I wonder who was fooling whom?  Thpppt.  I never realized how much the publishers are recycling.  I've seen romance stuff that has been uber recycled but here's the other stuff.  And it's a bunch of stuff.

It's a lesson to authors.  It wasn't like I had a choice in the cover.  A word to the wise to would be writers out there, marketing is the publisher's forte.  They don't want the author having their input in the cover or the artwork.  (Of course, if the author wants to plunk down thousands of dollars in separate publicity, then by all means, go for it.  They love it when authors spend their own money on making the publishers more money.)  When the editor first sent me a jpeg of the cover I really liked it.  I thought it was cool.  There's this whole descriptive thing about the gates in the novel and I was thrilled to death that their graphic artist had picked up on it.

What a goober.  I'm glad I do my own publishing now.  I hope my fans will forgive my less than sterling editing on the books in exchange for free or very low priced books.  I hope they understand that I work hard on the books and try to be entertaining because it's what I truly enjoy.  I hope they like the work.

So who did my covers for Bubba?

Me.  Nothing complicated.  A program called Gimp.  (Free software rules!)

May free enterprise never die.

COMMENT, damn you, COMMENT!

Okay.  It's cool.  I can live without comments.  (HIM, the man to whom I'm married, comments sometimes, but HIM doesn't really count.  HIM knows what I mean.)  However, one anonymous person out there felt the need to comment this, 'Fair words break no bones,' on the blog about 'Pain in the Ass Man OR How my Husband Invented a NEW IMPROVED Super Hero.'  (I know.  I know.  Is it fair to ask for comments if when I get them I then proceed to make them into a blog?  And possibly make fun of them, too.  Probably not.  But hey, it's my blog.  Haha.)

I'm going to center this comment and make it bold and make it a larger font and put it in color so everyone can see it, and absorb it, and let it soak in:

 'Fair words break no bones.'

I'm not sure.  Was that criticism?  Does this person think I'm insulting HIM, the man to whom I'm married?  I can assure you, Anonymous, that HIM reads 99% of my blogs before they are posted and HIM has not complained once.  HIM has never once said, "OH, Jesus Christ, Caren, don't write that!" or "For the love of gawd, that's TOO MUCH DAMN INFORMATION!" or even "WTFWYT, woman?"   As a matter of fact, I'm going to ask HIM to come in and type something just for Anonymous.  (I'd like to reassure Anonymous that HIM is psychologically and socially okay with my rantings and wry humor so Anonymous has a good day.  I'm having a sudden image of Anonymous skipping happily through the forest with a picnic basket holding hands with a cute blonde stripper.  Dude, I've got to get more sleep.)

Here is HIM's comment on the comment: 

"My wonderful, magnanimous spouse is the best woman in the world.  Her beauty exemplifies the word, 'beautiful.'  Her sarcastic wit thrills my ears.  Never shall she offend me by her satirical and mordant badinage.  I worship even her little toes.  As a matter of fact, I love her little toes to death.  When she dies her toes will be soaked in gilt and mummified."  (Okay, this isn't HIM's real words, but it's what he meant.)

I wish.  Okay, HIM just read the above and here's what he really says.  No, HIM isn't speaking, despite my entreaties to versify the matter.  HIM is staring at me in a way that indicates that HIM thinks I am amusing and that he is not going to comment.  So I'll ask HIM, "Did your feelings get hurt?"  "No," HIM said.  (Now HIM thinks I'm being silly and well, HIM may be right.)  So I ask, "Are you embarrassed by my blogging?"  "No," HIM said.  "Do you still love me?" I asked.  "Of course I do.  Where's the beer?" HIM said.

There.  See?  His bones aren't broken and actually HIM thinks most of my witty repartee is hilarious.  Good thing we're married.  (Keep in mind that HIM's birthday is coming up and HIM might be buttering me up for a better present.)

So when I put out the blog about Alternative Barbies and some of the illustrations got, shall we say, somewhat offensive, I thought, 'There.  People are going to comment about that.  For sure.'  So what did I get?  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  Which leads me to put in this one just to shake things up.

Then of course I had to do this:

Oh, hell yes.  Fat Woman is on another roll.  Here's my nod to my daughter, Cressy:

I thought about doing something really offensive like painting a picture using my whoa-mammas as the paint brushes but then there was a moment of 'how do I get the paint off me when I'm done?' and that was the end of that.  Surely that would get comments.  (Isn't there an artist who paints with their ass?  Talk about paint removal issues.)  (Think about the names of the artistic works.  'Blue Ivory Blush Upon Crushed Umlatters.'  'Sprinkled Tatas Melting into Red Sienna.'  'Sweater Puppies Meet the Crimson Valley of Alizarin.'  I'm feeling inspired.)

So zooming off on a tangent, I actually looked on the Internet (Google and Bing ROCK!) and found several artists of a mammary gland nature.  Surprisingly enough some of them were very interesting.

Here's one who uses her 38DDs as a paint brush and sells her stuff on eBay:

Kira Ayn Varszegi - Tata Artist
Not sure how she walks without falling
forward.

Anyway, am I digressing?  Probably.  I really wouldn't want to scrub the paint out of every nook and cranny.  But here's one of her works and I'm having an issue trying to figure out how she does the details with her boobies.  (Her nipples must be like stiletto heels, I'm thinking.  Or is that just my dirty brain?  Let me ask HIM.)



Anyway, I kind of like her work.  (Maybe she keeps a lot of ice on hand while she paints.)  (Think about it for a while, I'll still be here.)

How did I get from Barbies that should have been to painting with titties?  I'm not entirely certain.  Ah, yes, shock value.  Here's my final volley into the comment issue.  (My Sis said I shouldn't do it, but I felt compelled.  I mean, really, I had to do it.  It's awful, terrifying and wholly inappropriate but I was obliged.)

Be WARNED!

Not for those with sensitive stomachs or those lacking in resolute mettle.  This could be very frightening to the uninitiated.





Bet you didn't know Fat Woman was invited.  Did ya?







ATTACK of Alien Barbie! OR Oh, No, Little Green Martians Have Disintegrated My Toy Miniature Poodle Named 'Scaramanga!'

Upon doing the Barbie blog ('Bleeping Toys That Should Have Been.') I got this comment via email from my old Army buddy.  (Seriously, Fat Woman was in the Army and Fat Woman has old Army buddies.)  This is great stuff upon which I will elaborate because it bears elaboration.  Here it is, but first I want to let people know that it's called 'The Alien Barbie Hypothesis' and it's originated by Jennifer Llewellyn. 

JENNIFER LLEWELLYN wrote this:

Ok. Barbie dolls. You really wanna go there? I am dead serious about this... when this theory came to me it was a life changing experience.

It was maybe 15-20 years ago and I was looking at a TV Guide. Remember the GOOD TV Guide? When it was the size of Reader’s Digest? Before it got all “magaziney”... I had a subscription. I loved TV Guide. I swore by it. THEN THEY SCREWED AROUND WITH IT and I haven’t know what was on TV since. That’s why I watch all the voyeur shows. But I digress...

I saw an advertisement where you could order a replica of the very first Barbie Doll. If you’ve ever seen it, it’s the one with the bathing suit on with horizontal black and white stripes. (No right thinking woman would ever wear such a thing). And I noticed the eyes... THOSE HORRIBLE EYES. Clearly they are not human. Oddly almond shaped eyes. Very thin spindly neck. Triangular head. This is not a human doll, it is vaguely alien. WE ARE BEING INDOCTRINATED THROUGH THE TOY INDUSTRY TO ACCEPT ALIENS AS OUR FRIENDS.

It’s been years, and the toys are getting creepier and creepier. Bratz – look at them - the eyes now are HUGE. The heads are malformed. Now the kids play in actual alien Halloween costumes. And I heard on the radio some song the other day about some chick wanting to have sex with an alien. “I unrobed ya, now I gonna probe ya. I abducted ya... Now I gonna F_ _ _ ya.” When they do come to enslave us, we won’t run and scream in fear, because we and our children have been gradually getting used to them for years and years. WE’LL PROBABLY RUN UP AND ASK FOR THEIR AUTOGRAPHS right before they ZAP us!!

This is an actual conspiracy in mind control, we have all been subjected to it, and it frightens the hell out of me.

Written by JENNIFER LLEWELLYN.

(I think it's some funny sh*t.  Seriously.  She'll probably never let me print another response on my blog again.  Also she'll probably never respond to me ever again.)

So here's a close-up of the first Barbie ever made in 1959:

Here's an artist's interpretation:

Yes, it's been pointed out that I misspelled the word, 'weird.'

And now just for clarification I went and found this:

I think this is a hippie alien from the 60s

See the amazing similarity.  See?  Come on, See?  Okay, another image just to prove my point:

Why is Marvin the Martian's face black?
Is he like concealing his true identity?
Is there a Barbie under there?

Undeniable.  And look at the progression of Barbies:

This is obviously an Alien-Inspired Barbie.
Look at the size of her feet, for gawd's sake.
And this Barbie appears only TEN years
after mysterious events at Roswell, NM.
Hmm?  X-Files?  Scully!  Mulder!
Where are you?

Then there's Ken, who came out a few years later:

Candy striped shirt.  Little feet.  Hmm.
You know what I'm thinking, right?
Potty mind.

So here's Barbie and Ken, circa 1990.  This is getting progressively weirder.

Either Ken & Barbie are eking out the last
vestiges of disco OR
they're secretly alien imports
from Planet Tranvesto.  I mean, look
at his hair.

Okay, all of this means there should be a new Barbie:

And look, someone already made an Alien Barbie:

See, you can hardly tell the difference.

So all of this conjecture leads to an inevitable conclusion:

And you thought he wasn't born in Hawaii...

Hah.  Someone needs to call Donald Trump and let him know.

P.S.  A note to the NSA.  Fat Woman is not a communist.  Fat Woman makes other people laugh.  Fat Woman does not need to be arrested and put on the ban list for events in Washington D.C.  Also tell Barrack that I missed my invitation to the last event he had.

P.S.S.  Fat Woman WAS in the US Army.  Here's proof.


Man, I look stupid.


So I was forced to add this:

Hahaha.  Blogging is fun.

Bleeping Toys That Should Have Been

Since blogging about my daughter's toys, I have thought of something I have wanted to say about Barbie for years.  I mean, freaking, flipping, bleeping YEARS.

So my daughter, Cressy,  likes Barbie.  But she also likes some of the other ones.  She has two Monster High Dolls, Frankie Stein and Draculaura.  For those of you without children or with children who are too old to appreciate the finer qualities of the doll, these are actual toys who are reputed to be the daughters of Frankenstein's monster and Dracula.  They go to Monster High and have all kinds of girl issues that are related to being monsters' daughters.  (I can only imagine since I am not a monster's daughter, only a perverse writer with a wonky sense of humor.  "OMG, my leg just fell off."  "Are my teeth in your neck, like, for real?")

Draculaura

Frankie Stein

So there's those two.  Is it just me or does Draculaura and Frankie Stein look a little slutty?  I had to tell Cressy that she couldn't wear a skirt that short today to school but she took it well.

Anyway, so Cressy's got those and she's got a Bratz Doll, which is a whole different kind of slutty.  Also she's got a buttload of Disney Princess dolls like Snow White in a mini skirt and Cinderella ready to do ballet.  (Funny I don't remember ballet in the movie while she was scrubbing the floors and singing to the mice and the birds and getting repressed by her step-monster.)

But hey, I've got a suggestion.  (Actually I thought of these years ago.)  The reality line of Barbies.  Seriously.  Cressy's got a Dentist Barbie.  (She has high heels and a kicky smock, but she's by God a professional.  And I'm pretty sure she doesn't have elephant fingers.)  There's also a Vet Barbie wandering around somewhere.  That's veterinarian, not veteran, incidentally.  (Although Barbie looks more like a Vet tech, I'm not complaining because at least she has a job with some benefits and makes slightly more than minimum wage.)  There's even an older Barbie (in age, not appearance) who was traded in a toy swap with the six year old fiend from hell living next door.  I think it's is one of the Olsen twins (the Barbie NOT the fiend) but I'm not sure.  It's someone I'm supposed to know.  There's a couple of Fairy Barbies and they have their own DVD's, which make me want to ralph when Cressy brings one out to watch.  (Yes, vomit magically appears in my mouth when I'm forced to watch 'Fairytopia.'  Try it and you'll understand.  I've been tempted to magically 'disappear' this DVD, but haven't managed to pull that off yet.)  I almost bought Twilight Barbies for Cressy but she thought Edward looked "Really freaky, Mommy."  Maybe Cressy knows something we don't.


Look, he does seem freaky.

 Back to the point of the blog before I really get sidetracked.

The Reality Line of Barbies.  (Attention Mattel.  This is parody.  Don't sue me.  Parody.  Couldn't be more made up.  It's supposed to be funny.)  If Mattel can't take a joke, they should just go look at the bottom line of their bank account.  No matter what hilarious crap I come up with here, you'll still be making beau coup loads of money.  (And suing me might get you my collection of old Harlequin Presents and a vintage swinging tail cat clock.  Seriously not worth it.)

First up, Hooker Barbie.  This one is for all those budding young women who want to get into a real service industry.

Then we have Pimp Ken.  And let me be the first to say that I didn't have to dress him up like this because he came this way in the box.  (REALLY.  This Ken came this way right in the bleeping box.  I did not have to dress him this way.)  This is sparkly silver lame and all he needs to be a stereotype is the pimpy hat.

And just because we're on a theme here.  She gets caught and this is what happens.  (Pimp Ken got away in his Coupe de Ville, because he saw the po-po coming down the street and his Coupe's got a V-8 under the hood.)  Prison Barbie:

But I'm not done.  Oh, hell no.  Fat Woman is on a roll.

The reality line of Barbies includes some down-to-earthiness, not just melodramatic stereotypes.  After all, we want to be able to touch all the children, right?  We have Fast Food Barbie.

And if there's Fast Food Barbie, then there's got to be Welfare Barbie:

And I've thought of other people to offend, too.  There should definitely be a Transvestite Barbie, or in this case, Transvestite Ken, which is a lot funnier than Transvestite Barbie:

Of course, just for me, there's PMS Barbie (What every growing girl should learn about):

Yes, PMS Barbie is wearing sweat pants and fluffy slippers.  Fellas, if you don't know about this, then you've never been married or you live under a rock.  (Hey, I make a point of warning HIM, the poor bastard to whom I'm married, that the BIG event is about to occur and that it would behoove him to take shelter, say, in the Bering Straights in a Russian fishing trawler, but does HIM listen to me?)

So kids, today's lesson.  It's fun to have a blog.  You get to play with your daughter's Barbies and take pictures of them and make fun of them while your daughter is at school.  Isn't life wonderful?

And BTW, I was thinking about a FAT WOMAN Barbie, but I couldn't make one beautiful enough to suit me.  So phfft.

Finally, Barbies who didn't make the illustration cut: S&M Barbie, Serial Killer Barbie and/or Serial Killer Ken, HIV Barbie, Mortgage Company Barbie (She's the one who calls to tell you your house is about to be auctioned off), Redneck Barbie (I should really do that one.  I'm thinking of all the accessories that could go with it.), Stripper Barbie should definitely be there, Pirate Barbie popped into my head complete with peg leg, eye patch, and dreads, Punk Barbie, Depression Barbie (comes with Prozac), Bulemic Barbie (you could make her eat and then throw up, what fun.) and Zombie Barbie, because I'm thinking of Cressy's story 'Attack of Alligator Girl and the Zombie Kids.' (Go read that blog.)

There, have I left anyone out?  Feel free to make suggestions on any one I didn't offend.

MORE KooKoo Bird Madness

The KooKoo Bird business won't leave me alone.  See 'Guilt and Mommyhood OR How My Daughter Got Sick During Spring Break OR How Raising Children is Like Getting Pecked to Death by a Chicken.'

Here's the bird again, in case you missed the previous blog:

KooKoo Bird:
Amazing Toy OR invention created
by a man who wanted subtle revenge
against a pregnant woman
(Lots of Freudian implications here.)

I defy anyone to say that that bird does not look ticked off.  That bird looks miserable.  And an egg comes shooting out of her ass.  Furthermore, the egg may be rammed right back up into her body and it's permanently attached.  Of course, she's pissed off.  Her life sucks.  And here's a demonstration by Cressy on how KooKoo Bird works.  Except Cressy says the egg gets, and I'm quoting, "Pooped out," by KooKoo Bird.  (OMG, this bird needs Metamucil badly or maybe Vaseline.)

All of which makes me think of some of her other weird toys.

And I took photos for clarification.  Behold the rubber chicken.  A rubber chicken of dubious comedic origin...or is it?  No one really knows when the rubber chicken started being funny.  Some comedian said, "Oh, my God, a plucked chicken is hilarious.  I shall use it in my act.  I will swing it about and people will think it funny.  How can I go wrong?"  Should have patented it, bubba.  According to Wikipedia, the authentic resource of impeccable veracity, "A rubber chicken is used as a prop in comedy. The phrase is also used as a description for food served at speeches, conventions, and other large meetings, and as a metaphor for speech making."  Oh, how can I go wrong with using Wikipedia as a source?

The Rubber Chicken in question

There ya go.  From Wikipedia.  Must be gospel.  Or close enough.  But at the end of the article was a section about rubber chickens in the news.  "During the fifth end break (curling's version of halftime and/or a seventh inning stretch) at the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin, Italy, a man ran across the ice wearing nothing but an online gambling ad and a strategically placed rubber chicken. Chief referee Keith Wendorf tackled the man, and an umpire covered him with a coat before he was led out of the arena by the Italian police."  I like this.

A naked guy with a rubber chicken placed across his schlong while running across the ice!  (At least he was getting paid by doing guileful and cleverly placed advertising.  Of course, I'm thinking NO ONE was looking at his chest.)  (I see two problems there and one involves cold shrinking certain anatomical parts.  The other problem is that how big was the actual rubber chicken?  I hope for the guy's sake that it was a BIG rubber chicken.  You know, comparatively speaking and all.)  Having allowed my mind to go into that lurid direction I felt compelled to look and see if photographic proof existed on the Internet.  And lo and behold, it does.  Here he is.  (For those interested, this is Mark of the Rubber Chicken fame.  His website is www.thestreaker.org/uk and he likes to show his saucier side at large public events.  His parents must be so proud.)

Okay, he wasn't technically neked,
He's got shoes and socks on.  And
the BIG rubber chicken.
Yowza.  What exactly does
that expression on his face mean?

I've stopped to consider how I got from KooKoo Bird and the Magical Pooping Egg to naked guys running across the ice at the Olympics with a rubber chicken placed across their little weenies.

Ah yes.  Rubber chickens.  My kid's weird toys.  My train of thought goes wacky sometimes but I have a lot of help.

So back to the rubber chicken.  We went to Pier I one day.  I like to look in there.  Cressy went in because they have a small toy section.  And because we give her a small allowance, she bought this.  (Hey, it wasn't porn and/or grain alcohol, so I'm thinking it's not negative.)

The Rubber Chicken in question again.
Sorry about the blurry bits but
the chicken kept moving.

Initially I was like, "It's your allowance.  Whateveh."  I mean, I looked at the rubber chicken, but truthfully since I was enjoying a rare moment of mommy shopping in the actual store that mommy likes instead of the stores that Cressy and HIM likes, I didn't really think much about the toy.  Pier I.  Yessirreebob.  I was shopping and looking at things I wanted to look at, instead of Lego's or rocket missile components.  (Wow, the thrills in my life.)

I didn't think that Cressy appreciated the long and varied history of the Rubber Chicken.  After all, Cressy doesn't even know how to get to Wikipedia and I'm pretty sure she missed the 2006 Olympics.  (Her main interests in 2006 included Baby Van Gogh and chasing Siamese cats across the living room while laughing insanely.)  So I asked, "Why do you want that, baby?"  "Because it's funny, Mommy," was her answer.  Ah, simple answers are often the best ones.  I should have asked what she thought was funny about it but I missed that opportunity.

But later when I got home, I heard a suspicious giggling.  I went to enquire as to the state of funniness and she showed me this.



One turns the rubber chicken over
and squeezes.  Great hilarity ensues.
Yes, that is some thing coming out of it's ass.

 Yes, this isn't merely a rubber chicken that can be placed strategically over a naked man's genitalia.  But if you squeeze the poor plucked rubber beastie, out pops a large balloon like object from the vicinity of the rubber chicken's aft area.

Squeezing Rubber Chicken's guts out
or rather, her egg out.

And if one squeezes REALLY hard, out pops that.  See above.  And it's hard to tell from the picture, but that's a little yolk that floats to the top in the midst of a bunch of cloudy white stuff.

I could make a correlation between the KooKoo Bird and the alien-like egg that shoots out of her nether regions and the Rubber Chicken with the rapidly expanding balloon-like growth that pops out when generously squeezed.  But I don't think that Cressy was aware that the Rubber Chicken had that feature when she bought it.  Unfortunately I can't say the same about KooKoo Bird.  (She had seen the commercial and it was on her mind.)  But I can say that KooKoo Bird's popularity has dwindled swiftly once the indecent thrill was gone.  My blogging interest in Rubber Chicken has rekindled Cressy's interest in that toy instead.  Now there's sound effects that go with the exploding ball of white and yolky ickiness that threatens to explode if pressed too hard.  (Cressy's internal reasoning: Mommy thinks this is gross so this is something I should really continue to play with.  Yea, grossing Mommy out!  Maybe I can make her blow chunks.)

Yes, I'm OFFICIALLY grossed out.  But I suppose this is really my fault because I let her buy it.  WTFWIT?