Monday, March 31, 2008

Back in the saddle...

You and I are tight, right? I feel like I can tell you anything, and I feel like you're always there to gimme some skin, too. That's why it was really hard for me to look you in the eyes and pretend nothing was amiss, when all the while I knew I was about to go AWOL on you without even leaving you with so much as a note on your pillowcase or a slap on the ass on my way out.

I've been away a couple of days, but I was on a covert mission to surprise my husband with the You've Just Turned Thirty Now Pop a Viagra, Swap Out Your Depends, And Let's Go Relive Your Often Shamefully Libidinous But Most Usually Gangsta Fresh College Days of Yore tour. This little weekend took quite a bit of planning. Here are the important ground-laying ingredients to absorb in order to fully appreciate the nitty gritty details of the event: 1) I was the national titleholder of America's Worst Planner four years in a row, and I earned an honorable mention (and most photogenic) in '03. That's why planning a surprise for my husband, Nosey von Nostrum, is a UGE (that was huge without the h for some juicy emphasis) undertaking.; 2) Several lovely assistants and myself managed to assemble a thirteen person all star squad to convene in Athens, GA to give the miniskirted, Blackberry toting, Croakies adorned, Miller Lite imbibing, randy young freshfaced college kiddos a run for their money. I think we were pretty victorious. Here are some points of interest:

The lessons learned on our debaucherous pilgrimage are far too numerous to itemize here, but I will hit some randomly selected weekend highlights so you and I can be caught up to speed.

When the night begins with moonshine, clearly, only success can ensue - You're most likely nodding your head violently and singing a chorus of Amens after that no duh pronouncement, but I can now attest with 100% certainty that swigging peach flavored moonshine that was brewed with love and packaged in a cloudy mason jar by a guy named Shorty who's tight with our buddy Chris' kin Bobby Gene from the windy backroads of Jasper, Alabama tastes oh so right out of the Holiday Inn Express standard issue styrofoam cup, especially when in the company of great friends. This equation obviously features all the required elements of the perfect precursor to a flawless evening.

Baiting, luring, and hooking your male or female prey is a far different game ten years removed from college life - I have some pretty fine looking lady friends, if I do say so myself; these days, however, let's just say, hypothetically, that some of my hot looking sistas and I are laaaid back, happily sipping on (gin and) juice cocktails, sitting around a table in the dimly lit basement of a newly remodeled bar while our husbands are off comparing detached body parts or having a danceoff or whatever it is husbands do away from wives when, let's just say, a set of nineteen year old fresh meat rascals come to take a load off at the ladies' table. Let's just say then, just when the lovely ladies are thinking, "AHA! I've still GOT it!" those pesky husbands return to swoop in to ask the precocious college sophomores who have recently joined the ladies' table if they are "Cougar Hunting." What a nice invented phrase, eh? Also wonderful is when that phrase sticks around for a whole weekend and the ladies can then sporadically receive melodically beautiful serenades of: "Cougar, Cougar, Cougarcats are on the move, Cougarcats are loose, Feel the magic, hear the Roar, Cougar cats are loose." Roar, indeed! As a nice footnote, apparently males ten years removed from the college environment now have a new go-to move in the lady-enticing repertoire that includes button down shirts and an ample supply of chest hair. You go, male Cougars (Manthers?)!

Even though you aren't 19 anymore, your friends can still get chucked from fine establishments for a variety of reasons - When we were 19, getting booted was usually for the standard issue, yawn-worthy fake ID protocol. Now, we can chalk up three seperate bar boots in less than 24 hours to: a) passing out on a comfy pleather sofa in a bar; b) too many consecutive maternal f-bombs coupled with a few "douche"s and some gds for good measure in a diner; and c) going topless but lovin it, sitting comfortably in a bar after a friend throws your shirt behind the bartender. If only we had a few more hours, we probably could have come up with at least four other creative ways to not let the door hit our party on the way out.
There are so many other adventures that I want to share with you, but those are for a future time, my friend. For now, though, I'll just say that I am glad I can now come clean about my absence. Until later: Cougarcat, Out.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

You give me something, I can hold on to!

Awwww, Shiznitz! You know what today was? Today was one of those days that will be highlighted in my obituary. Today, my heart rumbled, my head rolled, and my loins quivered. Today, I discovered Jenny Jones' website.

My friends, I thought that my radiant beacon who brightened my days for years upon years had abandoned me for dead. Little did I know, she was simply waiting for the day that I would rediscover the sexier, virtual Jenny, and she does NOT disappoint. People, when I opened Jenny's website, I hit the mother lode. Jenny is a veritable knowledge messiah; I kid you not - I can not think of one area of learning that Ms. Jones does not cover - and cover masterfully. To wit: the information superculdesac that is features smackyourass fantastic cooking tips and a for real though? nutrition quiz and a oh no she didn't advice column penned by The Divine Ms. J. herself and Jenny's own soft as a baby's butt made of five other really soft baby's butts 10 Tips For Beautiful Skin and Jenny's I can't believe this is only six steps 6 Step At Home Facial and a has this woman for real not been sainted and/or kidnapped and living in my basement biography and an I dominated all 12 questions on the first try Jenny quiz and a four section no (Alan) Cox allowed For Women Only quadrant featuring nod your head yes pet peeves, lolololololol Is it Just Me?s, you know that's right rules for the sexes, and a when did you yoink my diary, Jenny Jones? man quiz.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! JJ also covers the ups and downs and heys and hos of her amazing talk show and feeds my jones with a Jenny Jones Junkie quiz and whets my whistle with her snappies of like I'm looking at Jenny's soul butterflies and naughty bugs need love too creatures and like Sisqo with wings dragonflies and these rival your innocence, Jenny flowers and you're not crappin us other stuff that looked cool. Was that Ansel Adams? No; that was J. Jones. If you can stand the heat, do some clickin on Jenny's photo album, featuring a plethora of lovely Jenny shots, including (but not limited to) I've already downloaded these from I Tunes Bands Jenny Has Been In, by bad you must mean AWESOME bad hair days and I can't believe you'd tease me with this title Wardrobe Malfunctions. Getcha some live action Jenny Jenny with her how to video series: including my rings now shine like Jenny's eyes "How to Clean Jewelry like a Pro"; that's not the only thing that's open "How to Open a Jar Every Time" and much, much more! Finally, the original riot grrrrrl Madame J's standup schtick is highlighted in Vintage Videos, and lemme tell you: Bob Saget could learn a thing or two about delivery from Jenny's no shite "How to Impress a Woman" bit and her Are you There God, It's Me Jenny "My First Bra" gag. Holy freakin wow.

Anyway, I now know how I will spend the rest of my days. It's me and Jonesy 2gether 4eva. FYI, she posts an online diary, too. At first read, I couldn't remember if it was Jenny writing, or if it was me. Today, she had me at "I'm taking shorter baths to make my pedicure last longer." Hopefully your tub holds two, J, because I'm with you, Jenny. Forever.

after bowing down to the Jenny gods, visit and

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Passion Explosion Version 5.0

It is on, my friends. It is sooo on. I am bursting at the seams to bring you this week's technology aphrodisiac; that's right, it is that sublime time of the week once again when we are slapped upside the head with a heapin helpin' of libidinous protocol. Grab a chair and hold what you got, because you are about to meet one of the most luscious kernels of love to ever hit Sexy Programmer Thursday.

Our beefcake of the week is a feast for the eyes hailing from the other side of the pond. Meet the hottest British Studasaurus to ever hit the free software operating system arena: Well, hello there, Alan Cox. You say free software, I call it free love; what's the difference? Our hunka hunka codin' love is one of the most important (I think the most important, but nobody asked for my opinioneering) developers and maintainers of the Linux kernel and dominators of Red Hat, Inc. Oh, Alan. You tease us so.

Our master seductionist is working his magic, indeed! Alright, alright: I'll cut to the chase and get to the goods. Here are a few TANTALIZING TIDBITS about our red hot red hat, Big (Alan) Cox:

1. Though the crazy wack mistress, the internet, keeps forcing me to compare Our Amazing Alan to another Linux engineer, Linus Torvalds, I say that Cox Rocks, and he compares to NO ONE! Look how Alan schools Linus, our hot programmer's adversary: "Sometimes I don't agree with his big picture, but since the debates are always technical issues it can always be solved by actual code." We don't doubt, at all, Alan, that you are the coder rocking the BIGGER picture! Snarl! And, on that note, I am sure I am not alone in thinking that Coxix would be a far bosser name than Linux, am I right, my peeps?

2. Our boy is looking out for you, Free World! He's a sensual supporter of programming freedom. We, too, fancy keeping people's paws OFF software patents and user interface copyrights, Coxy, but we can't help but daydream about our needy paws grazing you!

3. While we imagine being served up a heaping helping of Alan A'la mode, he is busy perfecting his mad chef skillz. Mmmmm! Flambe' the hotness, why don't you, Al? In particular, cuisinalicious Cox hollaz that he's "been having fun trying to figure Chinese, Mexican and Indian cookery." What I wouldn't give to have AC steaming up my kitchen sporting his apron and chef hat. Aaaaaah. Can somebody flip on the fan? It's getting hot in here.

4. When he's not sexying up the kitchen, he's making plenty of stems rise outdoors, as he's heating up the garden. Alan's "been trying to stop things growing and pruning them." Did you just say "prune", Alan? I've got a thing or two that needs some pruning, you hottie. Check this: "at the moment [his plants] are growing quite well enough without assistance." Oh yeah? Well you can plant your seed around here anytime, Alan. ANY time!

5. Finally, succinct, spicy Alan spews profound messages for the masses, and readers, this particular thought wad is not blown on Yours Truly. On January 3, 2008 at 2:41 a.m., our manmeat opined, "Repeatedly posting crud does not make it right." Oh, Alan, are you trying to send me a message, because I get it - loud and clear! I'll change for you, Alan! I will!

I'm thirsty: I'll take a Gallon of Alan and call it a day! My friend, you are one tittilating addition to Sexy Programmer Thursday! Oh, Cox the Fox: how will any other programmers compare to your brand of sexy?

Need a laugh? How about hitting up here: or here:
Oh, one more thing: It just so happens that today, on this most appropriate day of hotness, my supersexy programmer husband turns 30. So, Happy Birthday, Old Man! You rock this browser's cache like nobody's business!

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

We rejoice in you, most wonderful week of the year!

Readers, I have wronged you.

My filthy negligence could very well have robbed you pantiless of what is probably the most important week of the entire Gregorian calendar year. That's right, players and playerhaters alike: this week, March 24 - March 30, 2008, is noneother than National Egg Salad Week!

Happy NESW, my friends! This is OUR week to get our mad mastication on with the ovum saladus extremus bonerus. Do not hate me for waiting until Wednesday to break the news to you; instead, let's just get wrecked in double time off of our favorite mayonnaisy, relishy, yolky, whitey, eggsalady treat of the gods.

In honor of this most kickasstastic occasion, I have applied for a series of patents for some new products that are going to knock North America, South America, and parts of Northeast Asia on their collective asses. I can't give away too many of the deets, but I do have a couple of questions for you, as we are still in the "testing phases", if you will: 1) Hypothetically, would you prefer an eggsalad gum in chewing or in bubble variety?; 2) Off the cuff, were your clothes to smell like eggsalad, would you rather your fabric softener be in sheet or in liquid formation?; 3) The return of Hypercolor clothing: For it or against it?

Alright, readers. You have spent too damn much time reading and far too little time enjoying this blessed holiday week of celebration.

My friends, this week is eggsalady. Salut!

If you must read while enjoying your eggsalad: peruse this - or this -

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

It's time for a clean break.

This might be a little awkward. I've never been good with breakups; I am really bad at being the Doctor Doom in any relationship. The thing is - and I am speaking solely on the limited experience of my mostly drama-free past - when the other party on the receiving end of my loveboat becomes just a little bit too touchsies feelsies for my taste, then I begin to feel sorta holy crap get offa me smothered, and I start to get the itchy itchy cold-sweats, and I imagine life without that person, and, you know, I sometimes picture myself walking down the mall hand in hand skipping gleefully along the way to pick up a perfectly salty Auntie Anne's pretzel and medium Coke with someone else.

And, well, this is where the 2008 election comes into play. You may have previously read about the relationship issues I harbor with my betrothed candidate; it seems that said candidate experienced a bit of a popularity ejaculation a short time ago, and, well, I kinda feel that my candidate has perhaps gone from being underground to being quirky to being cool to being needy to being stifling to being insecure and to now having the damn campaign with which that candidate associates e-mail me two sometimes three times a day to donate whatever I can afford (even five dollars - five dollars! - is enough!) to this damn candidate.

I wish the presidential race was more flashbang than goodgod I'm already looking forward to the 2016 candidates because I am already over the 2012 ones. But, you know, no one asked me. But, I would like to officially say this: I remember when I was a young, naive supporter of you, Candidate. You and I were both bright-eyed and happily prancing through the posies, out to change the world. We were idealistic and fancy free. But, it has been sooo many months since we began this battle. I am tired; I am weary, and your damn minions will not LEAVE ME THE FRICK ALONE! I would say that we should still be friends, but, I just don't think that we can leave things that way. We both know that's just too hard.

I wish you well, former candidate. Let's chalk it up to timing. Let's chalk it up to emotional Diff'rent Strokes. (It don't matter that you got, not a lot - so what; they'll have theirs, and you'll have yours, and I'll have mine. And together we'll be fine...) I mean, I really think one day we'll look back at this and laugh. But, just so you know, right now, if your lackey - we'll call him "Aviday Ouffeplay" - e-mails me one more damn time, I'm going to file a restraining order, mmkay?

Anyway, we had a really good run. Good luck with all the obstinate feminine itches that may stand in the way of what you want. I wish you well. Good day.

vote for these, please: and

Monday, March 24, 2008

And the Pigs' Blood Shall Be Doused Upon...

The residual leftovers of my whinefest of an illness coupled with the Tylenol PM fog through which I am wading has caused a vertitable deadness of my mind. Therefore, in lieu of writing nine paragraphs analyzing the obvious intricate parralels between Charles in Charge's dimwitted yet lovable beefcake Buddy Lembeck and everyone's favorite absolutist French monarch, Sun King Louis XIV, instead, I am going to bestow upon some very worthy recipients the first ever
"My God, Will Someone Please Just Go Ahead And Throw A Giant Vat of Pig Blood on This Tool Award."
The very special inaugural award is a combo effort, aimed at the two biggest queafheads on the planet. The fact that I am, again, wasting valuable this blog is eggsalady space on these two ragbiscuits shows just how diphenhydramine-addled my brain really is. Oh, well. Here you go, spacewasters. The first ever My God, Will Someone Please Just Go Ahead And Throw A Vat of Pig Blood on This Tool Award goes to not one, but two tools: the festive Easter craptards, Spencer and Heidi Assmunch. Congratulations, Prince and Princess Played Out, on making me really pissed at one of the best holidays out there solely because you are pretending you are the plastic representatives of said holiday. You blow.

watch out, kid: doucharama is contagious.

Tomorrow I will do my best to be lucid enough to omit any urges to include craphounds such as these two. Until then, though, check out and

Sunday, March 23, 2008

It's time turn away from the melons.

Warning! Warning! This is a very important up to the second warning!

A rogue salmonella outbreak traveling in a round, juicy vessel is currently smiting North America and is threatening to spread its poisonous secretions throughout the world! 50 Americans and 9 Canadians have become sickened by dirty, plump Honduran canteloupes, and the FDA is warning YOU, readers, to toss your sweet, luscious melons as though they were yesterday's spoiled milkjugs. Do not, I repeat, do NOT suck the juice from these accursed rotund fruits. Please do not take this warning lightly.

In unrelated news: My, Angelina Jolie's Madame Toussaud wax likeness has incredibly lifelike nipples, eh?

For more succulent goodness, visit here -, and also here -!

Saturday, March 22, 2008

More Than Words

I am sick, and apparently I am being a big infant about it. Rumor has it I have mentioned the crappitudinous suckitude that I feel maybe a time or ten too many to garner total sympathy. So, instead of unloading my verbal menstruation on you as though you were my husband, instead, I shall just show you how I am feeling through a series of pictures. Interpret them however you see fit.

To: You
From: Me

With: Love

How about clicking here: Mmmkay.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Thanks, March Madness, for bringing my ineptitude to light.

Right now, the sports world is going all Mickey Rourke kinds of CRAZY with the INSANITY that is MARCH MADNESS! In honor of the festival of full court press LUNACY, I am going to unload a little of my own El Donzer Loco on your lap like it's hot.

I have handpicked for you Ten Nutjob Things in My Life That I Assumed to Be True, But Then Turned Out to Be Quite False.

1. Surname Stupidity - I believe you know I'm married, yes? Well, long before I was a member of the Donzer party, I had a maiden name that became quite a popular joke on some hilarious stylin' t-shirts back in day. You probably had a zany neighbor down the street who got just a little bit too blitzed at the neighborhood potluck, fed Bootsie, the schizophrenic German Shephard, Schlitz from a water bowl, felt up your mom, and rocked this t-shirt. Have you pictured the shirt yet? That's right: It was the classically hilarious Big Johnson tee. This, however, is not even the source of the stupidity. You see, I was a little white girl Johnson, but apparently I didn't notice. For, I thought - nay - I believed that each and every Johnson was my cousin, and I told everyone. Including my entire first grade class. That Magic Johnson was my cousin. Right. Ridiculous. I argued this point to the death, and I religiously wrote Magic each and every Tuesday night to check in and inquire as to when he was going to return my letters and come for a visit. Imagine how pissed I was when, on a very special episode, Maury Povich ripped open that fated envelope, looked into my innocent eyes, and said, " ...NOT your cousin." My idiot vanilla life has never been the same.
2. Sex Education Screwiness - Pardon the pun. I believe we've already established
I wasn't the quickest on the uptake. Well, lemme just tell you my mom might have handed me the What's Happening to My Body Book For Girls just a little too late. You see, I was a pretty damn big fan of Barbie playing. And, I couldn't help but notice that Barbie and Ken's clothing had the ability to be removed. Sexual experimentation ensued. Wanna know how Ken knocked up Barbie 4,847 times, begetting the lovely Skipper over and over again? Well, he'd simply rub his flesh-colored tightywhitied phallus all over Barbie's mysteriously un-nippled boobies. I swear, until I was fifteen I was sure that's how I was created. Preposterous.

3. Deep Vein Dementia - Alright. I am going to be quick with this one. I can
honestly tell you that for the first sixteen years of my life, I pretty much subsisted on Chicken McNuggets alone. I don't know if it was a disarmingly defensive case of denial, but I was convinced that the - gulp - veins included in the tertiary butylhydroquinone / polydimethylsiloxane / chicken (?) mixture were actually better-for-you bits 'o protein. Hahahaha. Naïveté. Dumbass.
4. "Leave Us Alone, You Loon" Looniness! - Oh, 1993: You were a simpler time. The Real World, she was but a dewy, doe-eyed youngling, just beginning her second season of life in Los Angeles, CA. We've established the occasional mental lethargy of my past; however, even I, a fourteen going on fifteen year old lass, could recognize that stupid Beth Stolarczyk was an abominable casting choice. She was whiny and needy and the lamest of the lame. But, at least I recognized the fact that soon her season would come to pass, and she would be out of my life for good. Oh, God: what funny jokes You play! Yet another case in my life in which I was oh so wrong. For it seems just when I have stopped hearing her haunting cackle in my head, that Skanky Stolarczyk pops back into my life to make another nails down the chalkboard cameo. Even ridiculous Boot-Scootin-Boogie-John thought Beth was the worst. I-seriously-wired-my-jaw-closed-like-an-ass-Tami recognized Beth was crap. I did the math. Beth was 24 in 1993, so that makes her like 68 years old now! Why won't you just leave me alone, Crazy? We get it: Fake boobs are the tops! Now Get Off My MTV!

5. Mephistopheles' Melodious Moronitude - I feel that the more I share with you about my past, the more you picture yourself sitting behind me wiping your boogers on my back during social studies class. Why don't I lean over for you: here's more dumb to fuel the fire. Remember INXS? Remember that song Devil Inside? Well, let me just say, I waited for years for God to punish me for bearing witness to Beelzebub's message. I knew if I didn't switch the station from Y-102 within 6.66 seconds of hearing Michael Hutchence breathe heavily into my ear about my sinful capabilities, then lightning was sure to strike me down. I was such an idiot! I made it eleven seconds once, and after two weeks, I fully recovered from the electroshock. Take that, Satan!

6. Monkey on My Back Mania - This one really stings. I have sworn over and over - a thousand times over - that I would quit you, The View. My God, what you ladies do to me! I was ready to abandon you for good, but then someone upstairs heard my pleas and Debbie Matenopoulos was taken out and dropkicked to cable. I was back. But, just when I was ready to jump ship again - for Lisa Ling had finally filled my nausea threshold to capacity - she was gone, and I was lifevested aboard yet again. The pattern continued. A slew of grating guest hosts, Rosie, Elizabeth (thank your lucky stars you become impregnated frequently, or else you'd be the impetus to write my permanent eviction notice, Betsy), the list goes on and on. But something keeps me coming back. Betsy, Babs, Sherri, Whoopi, Joy friggin Behar, for crying out loud! I thought I could leave you! Why must I always need more?

7. Spelling Star Screwiness - This is getting pathetic. Okay. When I was in elementary school, I was kind of convinced I was the hot shiz based on my damn fine (and I do mean damn fine) spelling prowess. Yeah. I got a little high-horse-big-britches-shut-the-f-up-kid all up in here, and I needed to be knocked down a notch. You see, I believed - I KNEW - that my in-yo- face spelling skillz would one day land me in a high-powered, multibillion dollar salaried career in which I'd be spelling my junk off each and every day. Did I mention that this blog is eggsalady is that omnipotently high-paying job? Prophecy: Fulfilled!
* Here's a little kick to the nuts happy ending: I won't get into the nitty gritty details, but there just so happens to be a very juicy story involving me being the 3rd grade spelling rep for the entire school, wearing my Valentine's Dress, in a fast-paced, empassioned spell-off, and - oh yeah - me violently spewing a stomachfull of Conversation Hearts all over the spelling wanker to my immediate left. Embarrasingly pathetic personal comeuppance? You betcha.

8. Colored Sugar Crappitude - I am just sorta piggybacking off my last story, but, for whatever reason I believed that there was never, ever a limit to the amount of Fun Dip deliciosity one could physically ingest. I am here to tell you that six packets full of pink and purple love and six Lik-M-Aid sticks later, my mom's carpet begs to differ.

9. Neuterific Nuttiness - Again - no pun intended. The gist of this lesson learned? Well, I was kind of under the impression that when the nuts go away, the pencil can't play. Boy, was I ever wrong. I have a seven pound weiner dog who'll gladly whip out his magenta magic to prove it to you. No nuts? No problem. Thanks, Timmy.

10. Lupine Lunacy - Finally, what has been perhaps proven to be the most painful lesson of all. I think I'll just write this in code to save myself a little embarrassment.

Dear Wolf,

I guess this is it for me and you. I thought that you and I were destined to be together; I thought that it would be forever. But, it seems as though you have changed your locks and gotten a new number. I guess I can see now that the world is not ready for our love. Lesson learned. For real this time.

W.A. Donz.
p.s. - I'm kidding, W! Call me!!! Please!!!

Wow. Cleansed. Thanks for holding my hand through the madness.

Perhaps you need a little rinse. How about visiting here for a soapy cleansing: