Saturday, May 31, 2008

What's Up With All These Hideous Marc Jacobs Ads?

I'm not much of a fashionista.

I hate shopping and never buy fashion magazines. Most of my clothes are from Target or the thrift store. My typical outfit consists of jeans and a tee shirt or a gauzy, hippy type top. I don't spend a lot of money on clothes.

That said, I do like to splurge occasionally on an expensive, silky dress or fabulous shoes or something girly that makes me feel pretty. Sometimes an ad for a designer will catch my eye and I will take a look at their stuff when I do shop.

Which is why I don't understand these Marc Jacobs ads starring Victoria Beckham at all. They are hideous. The clothes are butt fugly. The lighting is bad. Vicky looks like she was put into a dehydrator. Lots of times I'll be flipping through a magazine and see ads that make me go WTF? But these - well dayum - these make me think I should have gone to art school. The people who designed these clothes and styled these pictures probably make ten times more money than me and obviously artistic talent is not a requirement. Seems like a good scam to get into.

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This one was kinda cute, I guess. Fashion is supposed to be whimsical, I get it, ha ha. But the first thing that struck me was how ugly and stoopid those shoes are. Seriously, if I saw someone mincing down the street in those shoes, I'd point and laugh.

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This picture is so appalling it sent me to the thesaurus to find the right adjective to describe it. Wretched works pretty good. Beastly brown fits too. That purse looks like the one my grandma used to carry to church. The dress is just....ewww, and is that a feather duster on her head?

Posh was always my favorite Spice Girl (yeah, I liked them back in the day. What can I say, I was young!) and she seems like she has a good sense of humor about herself, but dizzam! She really must be a cool chick. If that was my picture splashed all over the internet, I'd be crying and threatening lawsuits.

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This dress reminds me of one of those crocheted doll toilet tissue covers. Is that thing on her head a question mark? How fitting. Overall she looks like an evil tooth fairy hovering in the air, ready to whip out a pair of plyers if there isn't a tooth under your pillow.

These ads are a joke, right? They've got to be.

Pros and Cons for Victoria Beckham

Pros: - ????

Cons: - Too numerous to list.

Pros and Cons for Marc Jacobs.

Pros: - Before these ads I'd never heard the guys name and knew nothing about him, so now he has name recognition.

Cons - Now I know the name of the person whose products I will never spend money on.

Attention fashion designers!!! If you want me to spend $500 for a dress or some shoes then you'd better make them pretty, by god. What's so hard about that?

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Pros and Cons

There are pros and cons to everything in life, huh? Who'da thunk?

As a person with A.D.D. I have a lot of trouble making the simpliest decisions. I can literally dither for hours over what brand of shampoo to buy and it's maddening! Who wants to waste their time like that?

Recently I found a useful tip in one of those how to manage A.D.D. type books. It suggested making a quick list of pros and cons to whatever situation you find yourself confronted with. Dopey as this sounds, it has actually been pretty helpful to me. I love making lists. It's fun, and has made decision making a bit easier. But the bad part is that it's sort of addicting too. Now I find myself making quick lists of the pros and cons of absolutely everything! For instance, I just found out that I will be receiving one of those economic stimulus checks. Which is a good thing, I guess. I can certainly use it, but I don't really feel all that jazzed about it.

- Woo hoo! Free money!

- There's another bazillion we owe China.

- At least if we are going to owe bazillions anyway, I'm getting a tiny chunk of the pie for once. And why should I worry so much about it since our fearless leaders obviously don't?

- Uneasy feeling in pit of stomach.

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This picture popped up when I googled "Economic Stimulus Check."

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So did this one. I'm sensing a theme here.

At least I can add it to my new transmission fund. I should be able to get that fixed soon, thank goodness. I miss my crappy little Honda. My mom loaned me her PT Cruiser to drive around while I save money for the trannie and I gotta say it's not real impressive, although it does have some nice features.

- Good gas mileage.

- The radio works.

- The transmission works.

- it's a stoopid looking car! I'm sorry, but it is. So upright and goofy! I feel like Minnie Mouse driving around in that thing. Like old timey cartoon music should be playing while I drive down the street whistling and wearing a hat with a flower on it.

- kinda hard to see out of the back window. It's like there's a blind spot on the right hand side.

- the air conditioning doesn't work.

I shouldn't be such an ungrateful brat, though. It was really nice of my mom to lend me one of her cars. Otherwise I'd be forced to hitch hike. She's a wonderful woman, my mother. I love her like crazy, but like everything else she has her pros and cons too.

- very sweet and loving to me even though I was a breech baby who ripped her all the way to the rectum while being born. All the way to the rectum!

- gives me hope that I will still be as cute as she is at age sixty.

- always making deelicious cakes and muffins.


- my God, the woman can nag!

- forever trying to decorate my pad in "the country look" which can best be described as lots of gingham and pictures of ducks.

- always making deelicious cakes and muffins.

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Just kidding, Moms. Ha ha ha.

Well, at least I can always blog about her. Blogging is mostly a big positive to me (so creative and fun!) but even it has a few problems.


- loads of fun to write blog posts.

- you get to meet so many hilarious and cool people.

- comments! Leaving them and receiving them, but especially receiving them.


- impossible for me to keep up with day to day.

- it can be really hard to figure out how to end a post sometimes.

Friday, May 23, 2008

He Finds My Lack of Faith...Disturbing

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Last night was trippy. My back was hurting, so I took half of a Vicodin at 9 PM and sort of putzed around in a happy little cloud until midnight when I went to bed. Then I had a panic attack.

Ugh, I haven't had one of those in ages. What happened was this – I was lying there under the covers listening to some music, eyes half closed and dreamy, when I started to experience a bit of cotton mouth, you know, very dry - so I got up to get a glass of water. I was just standing at the sink, sleepily filling the glass from the fawcett when it occurred to me that my throat could close up and I wouldn't be able to breathe. I'd seen that happen to a patient on one of those reality medical shows and it looked like an awful way to go. The doctors had to cut a hole in the person's neck to open up his airway but he'd still died. My heart began to pound in alarm at the thought that it might happen to me. In fact, it seemed entirely possible that I was having an allergic reaction at that moment.

Now I knew it was a silly. If I were going to have an allergic reaction it would have been immediately after taking the Vic, not three hours later, but you know how panic attacks are. (If you don't consider yourself lucky.)

I could picture it happening so vividly it was almost real - the horrifying feeling of my throat swelling up tighter and tighter, the desperate gasping for air, the frantic fumbling for the cell phone to call 911 and not being able to find it (I always misplace that sucker) and finally collapsing on the floor and dying, with my hands clawing my neck and my eyes bugging out of my head. Gah! Damn immagination! My heart was racing and my breath became ragged and a horrible feeling of doom descended on me.

"Doom, doom, doom," my brain bleated over and over, and the room became a bit spinny and I nearly fell.

But my rational mind recognized this as merely an anxiety attack, so I put my head between my knees and took deep breaths and told myself I didn't have time for this bullshit and it went away a few moments later. Freaky. They are so awful.

Afterwards, I got back in bed and started thinking about prayer. A panicky friend once told me that she prayed during her attacks, and she found that it helped hers to go away quickly. That led to me thinking about the time my grandma taught me the proper way to pray when I was a little kid. She showed me how to kneel in front of my bed and put my hands in the steeple position and recite this little ditty:

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Now I'm sure she meant this as a comforting thing as most people find comfort in prayer, but it terrified me. I spent a lot of time analyzing those lines as I was wont to do as a child. They made me extremely uneasy. I mean, if you break it down it's not really very soothing.

Now I lay me down to sleep --- okay this line was fine since it was true, although I never really liked going to sleep as a kid. I had terrible fears of being attacked by monsters, or possibly having a freezing cold, demonic hand reach out from under the bed and grasp my ankle and suck me down. Plus, it was just so boring to lie in bed.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep --- wait a minute, what exactly was I authorizing here? Was this really a good idea? I wasn't so sure. God seemed like a mean bully from the stories I read in my children's bible. He made a flood and killed everyone but Noah and some animals! He turned Lot's wife in a pillar of salt just for looking back at her old home! And he kicked Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden just for eating fruit from a forbidden tree. How unfair! Why did he put the tree of knowledge there if he didn't want them eating from it? The Sunday school teacher never did answer that one satisfactorily.

I knew I'd have gone straight for the tree. No snake would have been neccessary to tempt me. I was always getting into trouble for stuff like that.

After seeing the movie Star Wars, I began to picture God as looking like the Emperor, all shadowy with his face half hidden. Did I really want him keeping my soul? Heck no!

If I should die before I wake --- I'm convinced that these words are what initially started off my panic attacks. They set off gong sized bells of alarm in me. You mean I might actually die while I was sleeping? What the fuck? Why then were adults always poo pooing my fears of being killed by monsters during the night? Apparently it wasn't so far fetched.

I pray the Lord my soul to take – This was also disturbing. I pictured Jesus lumbering into my room with a hobo sack full of other people's souls, grinning dementedly at me as he prepared to pluck mine. And then what would he do with it? I knew my chances of getting into heaven were dubious at best, and besides, the way my grandma described the afterlife - full of choirs of angels playing harps and singing praises unto the lord as they flew around gold lined streets - well, frankly it sounded really boring. Almost as dull as church which was tortuously dull except for the part in Sunday school when we got to eat donut holes.

I knew I'd scream and fight Jesus if he tried to take my soul and he'd get pissed off and end up throwing me into the gaping jaws of Hell. Is it any wonder that I've had life long insomnia?

Even now that prayer strikes me as creepy. It didn't take long for me to substitute my own prayer. It went like this:

Dear God,

Please don't kill me while I sleep.

Thank you.

Your friend,


(Although I just put the "your friend" part in there to butter him up, I was still terrified of him. Religion depressed me as a kid because I was convinced there was no way I'd ever be able to get into heaven unless my mom and grandma could persuade the angels to let me in. Otherwise I was screwed.)

I'm still not much for organized religion - none of them appeal much - but I do sort of believe in some higher power. Nowadays when I try imagining God I see him as looking more like Obi-Wan-Kenobi. The old Obi-Wan that is, not the hunky, Ewan McGregor version. (That would lead to blasphemous and improper thoughts!)

Yes, I am a huge Star Wars geek, thanks very much.

Anyway, maybe for the next panic attack I'll try praying. I know just how to start it off:

"Help me, Obi-Wan-Kanobi. You're my only hope."

**I guess this isn't a novel idea. Click
  • here
  • to read about a Jedi church in the U.K.

    Wednesday, May 21, 2008

    Ode to Juan Valdez

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    This is pretty much how my brain feels most mornings. I need some coffee.

    My brain is like a lazy hobo
    wandering around from place to place
    babbling nonstop crazy nonsense
    and swiging bum wine
    till it collapses in a sodden heap
    refusing to move and stinking up the joint.

    And so I reach for the coffee
    and make it extra strong.
    Because caffeine works like a great big cop
    who prods my brain awake with a swift kick to the ass
    and a hissed suggestion.
    "Get moving, Rummy!"

    Thursday, May 15, 2008

    The Ballad of Paul and Prunella

    Sitting here at my kitchen table
    eating oatmeal and wearing a thong,
    I think back on my recent trip to England
    and wonder how it all went so wrong.

    Cripes! Golddigging ain't easy
    didn't know how hard it would be
    all I wanted was money for a new transmission
    and possible sex with Paul McCartney.

    Meeting up with Paul was so easy
    this is where it helps to be a cute chick.
    He was backstage looking for a light for his ganja
    so I sidled up to him, smiled, and flicked my Bic.

    Paul was so friendly and a gentleman
    I liked his crinkly, smiling eyes
    As we spoke I hiked my skirt up
    so he could get a good look at my creamy thighs.

    We talked and laughed and flirted
    as we sat back enjoying the pot.
    I teasingly called him a total GILF
    he winked and said he thought I was hawt.

    But it was when he gently kissed my palm
    that the flame between us ignited.
    And when he asked me to accompany him back to his room
    I answered, "Why, I'd be delighted."

    And so we strode off hand in hand
    into the soft spring night
    Blissfully unaware in our giddy lust
    that we'd soon be in for a terrible fright.

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    Paul and me strolling through London before the incident.

    She confronted us as we walked through an ally
    Paul's looney tunes ex-wife.
    There was hate in her eye and crazy spittle on her chin
    and in her hands she a held a very large (gulp) butcher knife!

    "What the hell do you think you are doing?" she snarled.
    "Step away from my husband, you skank!
    I don't care if the judge says that we are divorced,
    I haven't yet finished taking him to the bank!"

    Paul got real mad then and yelled back at her
    his face turned a bright shade of crimson.
    In a shaky voice he urged me to run away fast
    just in case she tried to pull an OJ Simpson.

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    Heather Mills showing her displeasure at seeing me with Paul.

    Well, I am not very tough, not by any means
    in fact I'm really quite wimpy
    my only real weapon is a brazen smart mouth, so I said,
    "Why don't you hop your ass on out of here, Gimpy!"

    Bellowing with rage, she charged at me then
    brandishing the wicked sharp knife
    and I thought to myself, "what would MacGuyver do?"
    God, I've watched way too much TV in life!

    Paul managed just then to take away the knife
    but the madwoman just wouldn't quit
    quick as a wink she snatched off her peg leg
    and began to pummel me with it!

    She was quite strong and those blows really hurt
    so in order to stop her attack,
    I karate kicked her good knee out from under her
    causing Heather to fall on her back.

    Swooping up the fake leg I held it high above my head
    like that guy in The Highlander movie,
    and then I quoted the line, "there can be only one!"
    because I thought it was funny - you know me.

    The next thing I knew there were cops everywhere
    and Heather screamed that I'd started the brawl.
    They cuffed me and carted my ass off to jail
    so I never did get to bang Paul.

    Of course, there is a lot more to the story
    but for now this is all you can know.
    I've saving up all of the juicy details
    for my appearance next week on the Dr. Phil show.

    Wednesday, May 14, 2008

    Fuck it

    Fuck this no cussing bullshit!

    Sorry, Mom.

    Sunday, May 11, 2008

    A F**king Great Mother's Day Gift

    I'm a grown up, dammit! And as a grown up I should be able to cuss like a truck driver in my own home if I want to. And I do want to, pretty much daily. There is just so much to cuss about in my life. Plus it's fun.

    But it looks like I will have to start watching what I say. My mom has asked me to clean up my language as a Mother's Day present to her. Can you believe it? Here is how the conversation went down:

    Me: What do you want for Mother's Day?

    Mom: Oh, you don't need to get me anything, honey. You need to save your money so you can buy that new transmission for your car.

    Me: It's not that bad, Mom. I can afford to get you something and take you to lunch. So what do you think you'd like?

    Mom: No, no. I don't want anything.

    Me: Mom! Come on.

    Mom: Well, okay then. If you want to do something nice for me for Mother's Day, then what I'd really like is for you to stop using so much profanity - especially taking the Lord's name in vain. It hurts my ears and makes you sound uneducated. That would be the best present you could give me.

    Me: Fuck, Mom! Wouldn't you rather have a pair of earrings instead?

    I wonder why I love to curse so much? Neither of my parents did much of it. My dad absolutely hated bad language. He thought it was low class. My mom thought the same although every once in a while if she broke a dish, or stubbed her toe, she might cry out, "oh, hell's bells!"

    When that happened my dad would be shocked.

    "Really, Sarah," he'd admonish. "There is no need for that kind of talk!"

    Thus chastened, my mom would look suitably ashamed.

    My dad's favorite insult was to call someone a turkey. He was prone to road rage and loved to scream and complain about other people's driving, but the most he would ever do was roll down his window and shake his fist at the driver who'd angered him and yell out, "why don't you get off the road, you turkey!"

    Hmmmm, now I'm wondering if he got that expression from watching the show Good Times?

    I must have been about eight or so, the first time I heard some older kid utter the word bullshit. I loved it. It seemed so thrillingly bad.

    "Bullshit," I'd whisper over and over to myself, liking the hissing shhh sound of it.

    I always had an attitude problem at school, and muttering "bullshit" under my breath felt satisfyingly defiant.

    "What did you say, young lady?" my third grade teacher would ask, glaring at me suspiciously.

    "Nothing," I'd answer with an innocent face, but inside I'd be thinking, "heh, heh."

    Ahh, the sweet memories of youth!

    Well, anyway, it looks like those days are over. I promised Mom to clean up my language and I will. It's going to be hard though. I'm a verbal person who doesn't believe in bottling up feelings. So I've decided to come up with a few cuss word substitutes.

    This is what I've written down so far:





    double dogdangit


    God's Nightgown!

    For some reason, everything I can think of sounds like dialogue from an Erskine Caldwell novel about southern degenerates. Does anyone have any good suggestions?

    Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you so cottonpickin' much!

    Friday, May 09, 2008

    Four Bitchy Poems About The Boobie Barn

    Hang the DJ
    I suppose I should start tipping the DJ better
    so he won't play Air Supply songs when it's my turn to dance.
    Passive-aggressive little punk!

    She Does Not Bang
    There is a girl at work named Paris
    who dances like she's having a seizure.
    Kind of jerking her limbs around and flailing about.
    Really, she makes Elaine on Seinfeld look like a ballerina.
    So I refer to her as The Epileptic
    since I'm mean like that,
    and also because she called me flat-chested.
    Yeah Paris, your boobs are bigger
    but bitch,
    you cannot dance!

    Mouth Breather
    My boss is a mouth breather
    his lips are never closed
    even when he's not blathering.
    He looks like P. Diddy
    only goofier, if you can believe it.
    Someday I'd like to kick him in the guts.

    Wow, An Original Question
    Customers, oh customers!
    What the fuck is your deal?
    Why are you constantly asking
    whether or not my tits are real?

    Thursday, May 08, 2008

    Springtime Freshness


    According to Vogue, May marks the official start of Jesus sandles and electric blue toenails season.

    Tuesday, May 06, 2008

    My Plan to Get Out of Debt

    Being strapped for cash really sucks, doesn't it? It seems like there is never ever enough. My debt refuses to get smaller no matter how much I pay on my credit cards. No sooner will I get one of them paid down then something will happen -- like my car's transmission will die, forcing me to plonk down $3000 for a new one. Since I have no savings to speak of it has to go on the plastic.

    "Cha-ching, cha-ching!"

    That's the sound of the good people at Visa tap dancing with glee on the shreds of my hopes and dreams.

    It's truly shocking how much life costs these days. I can easily blow through a hundred dollars just filling up my gas tank and buying three measly little bags of groceries. Unbelievable! Do you know how long it takes me to earn a hundred bucks at The Boobie Barn? Well, only about an hour or so, but still, it's a hideous godawful hour. Believe me, the nights go by slooooooowly at work.

    The obvious solution to these money problems would be to work more, I suppose, or get another job, but these ideas hold little appeal. My delicate, artistic soul cannot handle the nine to five drudgery of an office job. Been there, done that a million times. And I already spend way too much time at the strip club. Damn, it's a nasty place. I used to secretly delight in and be amazed by all the stupid drama that went on, but it got old fast. Now I barely even blink when a used tampon whizzes past my head as some pissed off stripper expresses her anger by throwing it at the smug faced manager. Gross, huh? Oh, the stories I could tell! Why they'd make you barf they would.

    The thing is, how can one get more money without working or robbing a bank? I ruminated over this question for many days. Using a technique learned from watching the Oprah show, I envisioned myself with a brand new car, all my student loans paid off, and giving the finger to the credit card companies as I closed every last account. I asked the universe how to make this happen.

    The universe never answered. That book The Secret is a total rip off! So I've just decided to get myself a sugar daddy.

    This should work out fairly well though. Of course, I'm kinda picky. I don't want one of those run of the mill, idiot, record producer dorks who are constantly giving me their business cards and bragging about how they live next door to Tim McGraw. Ick! No, the man I'm looking for needs to be a creative type, cute, fun to be around, and super-duper loaded. Preferably a bazillionaire.

    I'm thinking Paul McCartney would be pretty much perfect.

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    Back off, bitches! This sexy grandpa is going to be MY new sugar daddy! You guys can have Donald Trump.

    Maybe you think I'm being unrealistic. Why would a big star like Paul want to spend time with an ordinary girl like me? Well, we actually have quite a bit in common.

    -- We are both dedicated vegans, even though I cheat all the time by munching on cheese. Well, have you ever tried soy cheese? Bleh! Also PETA seems kind of stupid to me but if it pleased Paul, I'd be happy tag along with them when they throw fake blood on some fur wearing bitches. Heh heh, take that you rich hags! I mean....let's save the animals....yeah, that's it.

    -- We both have a healthy appreciation for nature's finest green herb.

    -- We are creative types. He fills the world with silly love songs, while I do my best to fill the web with stupid poetry.

    -- I always tend to go for muscians anyway, I just usually bring home the young, skanky, penniless types. True, I've never yet been with a guy old enough to be my dad but hey, he's Paul McCartney! A Beatle! My third favorite after George and John. Ringo would be okay too if he'd shave off that scrubby facial hair.

    -- Paul seems to go for plain-faced blondes with great racks and that pretty much describes me to a tee.

    -- I'm younger than his kids but not so embarrassingly younger like say, Miley Cyrus or whatever the heck that girl's name is, would be. I'm a mature woman of the world! But if he wanted me to dress up like a slutty Catholic schoolgirl or something that would be fine.

    -- I'm not interested in marriage at all -- gah, hell to the no! -- so I wouldn't be bugging him for a commitment. And I'm not a crazy ass gold digger like his last wife. A million or two would do nicely.

    -- He'd never have to take me out to fancy parties. The jet set life doesn't interest me much. I'd be happy to hang out with him at his castle estate in the countryside, making up songs and crank-calling Heather Mills. That would be great!

    -- Did I mention my rack? It's fantastic.

    Yeah, Paul would like me a lot. His daughter Stella would probably hate me, but that poor little rich girl can fuck off. The old man deserves some fun and I deserve to pay off my credit cards.

    So, my mind is made up. Instead of paying $3000 for a new transmission, I will head over to England to find Paul McCartney. It shouldn't too be hard. Years of watching bad television sitcoms has shown me that meeting a famous person is easily achieved by dressing up in a bell boy uniform and sneaking into their hotel room. Lucy did it. It worked for Marcia Brady too.

    Oh sure, some wacky hijinks will probably ensue and various hilarious misunderstandings might make things a little more difficult, but it will all work out in the end. At the very least I'll get to meet Paul and possibly learn a "Very Important Lesson" which will turn out to be something really, really stupid, like all rich people are miserable and I should be happy being my poor yet spunky self, gosh darn it!

    Good plan, huh? If for some crazy reason things don't work out I suppose I'll look into getting another job, but really I don't see how this could fail.

    Friday, May 02, 2008

    In Case You Were Wondering Why the Polygamy Wives Have Such Dopey Looking Hair

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    C'mon, you know you were. Even Meredith Viera couldn't stop herself from asking such a stupid question during her interview with them. They told her there was no signifigance in their tinny robot voices. Yeah right! They were, of course, lying. Allow me to explain how their hideous hairdos came about. The following story is 100% true! Ish.

    It happened a few years ago. You see, I was time traveling back to the year 1969 to visit my groovy hippy lover and attend Woodstock, when something went wrong -- I'm not sure what. Maybe I zigged when I should have zagged -- and the next thing I knew I found myself lying on the ground, surrounded by a bunch of chicks wearing Little House on the Prarie dresses. At first I thought I'd gone waaaaay back to the 1800's or something but no, the women told me it was 1969. I was just at an FLDS compound in Texas instead of the dairy farm in New York.

    I slowly sat up, feeling a bit dizzy. Time travel is hard on the body. The women gathered around, fussing over me and made me drink several cups of Mormon tea. My sudden appearance out of thin air had awed them. Between that and the red tee shirt I was wearing (the color reserved for Jesus) they were convinced I was some sort of an angel sent from heaven.

    Well, I couldn't resist going along with it. "Of course, I was sent here by Jesus to check up on you people," I said.

    Knowing it would take a few hours to reset the coordinates on my time travel thingee (too technical to go into here) and feeling hungry and curious about their beliefs, I said to them, "please bring me some food and tell me what goes on here."

    "We are all sister-wives who love each other almost as much as we love our dear husband," said the one in the light blue dress.

    "We are modest in dress and thought and do exactly what Dear Husband tells us to do," recited the one in a darker blue dress.

    I tried not to be too judgemental, but as they revealed more about their lifestyle I started to get nauseous.

    So I took a stab at reasoning with them. I talked until I was blue in the face about how marrying off thirteen year old children to old men was creepy and wrong. I ranted about women's rights, and asked what they thought happened to their sons after the older men drove them off, but you know how hard it is to change people's minds. They simply sat and stared at me, smiling like zombies, till one lady started muttering that maybe I wasn't sent from God after all. Maybe I was an agent of Satan.

    The other wives began to look alarmed at this thought. It occured to me that I had better turn things around quickly, since I was going to be stuck there for a few more hours.

    "You're right," I said to the disgruntled chick. "I was just testing you all to make sure you were holy. Good job!"

    They relaxed then and I breathed a sigh of relief. Who knew what these whack-jobs would do to an agent of the devil? I had visions of being burned at a stake or thrown down a well, while these gentle women threw rocks at me and chanted, "Satan! Satan! Satan!" Thinking about it pissed me off, so I decided to fuck with them a little before I left.

    "You know, sisters," I began. "The Lord is very, very pleased with you all. Really, you are doing so well. But there is one little thing.....well, it's your hair. He finds it quite frumpy."

    Their eyes grew very big. "But...but we grow it long so that we may wash His feet with with our locks when He comes back, just like we are supposed to," a Laura Ingalls look-alike sputtered.

    "Yes, He likes that part." I said. "But He finds those flat braids and buns you wear too boring. He wants you to add a little more ooomph and dazzle. Maybe some poofiness in the front." I thought about giving them some big Bon Jovi type hairdo, but decided that might be a bit too messy for them. They were very tidy and neat. A mohawk would have been cool, but they'd never go for it. I sat and pondered the humiliating hairstyles of my youth till it hit me. Of course! Vanilla Ice!

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    So I spent the rest of the afternoon puffing and fluffing and getting jiggy with their tresses. The ladies seemed to like their new do's, and I have to admit it gave me tremedous enjoyment to see them sporting lame ass, suburban, wigga hair in the front. Helll yeahhh!

    "Word up, yo!" I said. "My work here is done and now I must leave you. Now remember, God himself has given you this hairstyle so you must never, ever change it no matter what your husband says."

    "Goodbye, sister-angel," they called, waving until I disappeared into a cloud of sparkling red dust. By the way, time travel is fun but that red dust can really ruin an outfit if you don't watch it.

    After that I went to Woodstock and took tons and tons of drugs, so I'd kinda forgotten about those poor, brainwashed FDLS wives and that mean prank I pulled on them, till they showed up on the news two weeks ago. It made me chortle to see their descendants still wearing that goofy style. Even though I do have a bit sympathy for these chicks, I'm glad they are losing their children -- the brainwashing has to end somewhere -- and that creep Warren Jeffs needs to go to jail.

    Of course, while watching Larry King interview them (badly, when is that old goat going to retire?) all I could think about was how much I wished I could have convinced the wives to wear a mullet. How rockin would that have been?