mostly untrue news 15th edition

IN TODAY'S COLUMN: House work - brilliant anecdotes and simple tips on how to get your way.
Today as I was putting laundry into the washing machine (ever notice if the laundry is clean it's "laundry" however, if it is dirty it is "laundry", what is that?), anyway - ... laundry into the washing machine, which is located in the bathroom. As I was working I realized my bathroom could use some cleaning because, in layman's terms, it was really gross. In husband and children terms it was pretty clean, but because I am anal about the cleanliness of my bathroom and kitchen and can see actual dirt molecules, I decided it absolutely must be cleaned. First order of business was washing the two bathroom mirrors and the large hand-held mirror so one can see the back of one's head in case there is anything one can do to make one's hair look worse than it already does. WHAT was on these mirrors? The medicine cabinet mirror looked like someone had poured milk down one side of it. It was also obvious that someone in the house with an electric toothbrush turned on the toothbrush and, before any teeth brushing happened, would let it vibrate and whirl in front of the mirror for a minute or two. The other mirror looked as though when the twirly toothbrush person finished leaving toothpaste splatters on the tall mirror, they went to the shorter mirror and gargled, head back, mouth open with the mirror lying on their face directly over the open mouth. The hand-held mirror looked much the same only with some kind of gooey stuff stuck to it. So, I washed the mirrors and and once again turned them into objects that could be looked into and would send one's brain back a signal that didn't make the person look like a half melted milk face with horrid spots and sticky wounds. TIP #1: permanently affix a thick towel to all mirrors so you will never have to worry with cleaning them again. Second order of business: clean the sink and counter area. I don't know how many readers are aware of a product called Simple Green. Simple Green is this engine grease, slime busting spray cleaner. This stuff will clean anything. It is only sold concentrated. My sink needed a combination of Simple Green and powdered Comet to clean it because my husband comes in every day and washes his hands, which are generally covered in oil from various construction equipments and dirt and money germs and pretty much anything filthy within a fifty mile radius from his job. He does this everyday and faithfully leaves the greasy, filthy water drops all over the counter and in the sink and on the handles (and I don't even have to ask him to do it). So, the toothbrush holders and the counter tops and sink and handles are cleaned before I clean the soap which is dirty from the husband who washes his hands with it and doesn't rinse it off. Also, the stray hairs and bits of stuff are cleaned out of it. TIP #2: soap is not self cleaning. Two down, two to go. The shower and toilet are all that is left. Here is a question I would like to pose to you readers: why is it that men seem to find the shower the only acceptable place to blow their nose? I'm not talking about civilized blowing into a tissue blowing, but simply blowing out into the shower stall. I know it isn't just my current uncivilized partner, because my last husband, a.k.a troll cave, did this too. Not only are boogers on the shower walls gross, they are also very hard to scrub off without using a COVERED UP thumb nail and scratching those suckers off. Somehow men have found a way to not only blow their noses on the shower wall but they stick them on with some sort of glue with permanent immortality properties. The best way I found to deal with this problem is TIP # 3: draw giant circles around all of them with red lipstick (that you will never use again of course) and write on the wall with the same lipstick (INSERT NAME OF NEANDERTHAL HERE) STOP LEAVING BOOGERS ALL OVER THE SHOWER, THIS IS GROSS!!! It makes said neanderthal really mad, but if the cleaner of the shower has to be mad and grossed out then it serves the neanderthal right for being such a snot nosed puke face. On to the toilet (oh goody). Now, I understand boys are differently equipped than us girls and as a result have decided somewhere along the line that real men stand up to pee. This is not too much of a problem unless you are raising two potential men who are 10 and 12 years of age. Apparently being smaller and closer to the toilet does not mean you can hit that big ol' bowl with any sort of accuracy. I discovered this today as I was cleaning our personal toilet. Some small person with the aim of a dizzy sightless person peed down the side of the toilet. The outside side of the toilet. As in that little place behind and under the toilet, where the toilet screws down into the floor was pooled in pee and the side was covered in dried tacky pee and the floor surrounding the toilet was peed upon. You could literally see the bacteria having a beach party in the nooks and crannies of the toilet and surrounding area. There was a housing community being developed by all the little enzymes while the younger bacteria played in the pool surrounded by hot bacteria lifeguards with sunscreen on their noses. TIP #4: invest in a port-a-potty. The family pees there. You buy a lock to the bathroom, hide the key and only go in when you are sure no one else is around to get in. Lock the door behind you. Take mercy on no one. Afterwords I cleaned and disinfected the cat box which was in much better shape than the non-feline waste depository, then swept and mopped and now everything is nice and clean. Well, it was, the kids are home now and I'm sure once bladders are emptied I'll have to clean the bathroom again tonight. At least I have job security for the next several years.

Have a great day and try to make at least one stranger believe you really do have an Australian accent.

mostly untrue news 14th edition

• TODAY'S ISSUE WILL BE ON WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER, EVER GO CAMPING (AT LEAST WITH ME)

This past weekend my dear brother, Andy and his fiancee, Tiffany, invited me to go camping with them. I am 30 years old and have never actually gone camping, so I excitedly accepted their invitation. After the phone call was over, I skipped cheerfully into my home office, which is where my Eagle scout husband and my two boyscout sons keep their camping gear. I found a black backpack that I recalled seeing going out the door on more than one boyscout camp-out. I grabbed it up and inside was some roll of some plastic stuff; I never did figure out what that was for, so I set it aside. There was a folded up blanket thing that was silver. Who needs something like that on a camping trip, I didn't even know what it was, so I set it aside as well. Then I found an orange thing! People wear these orange things in the woods so they don't get mistaken as deer and shot. Yes, must pack the orange thing, even though it looked kind of small, and I couldn't figure out how to get it on, I packed it, assured that my woodland brother would know what to do with it. I took the orange thing and the backpack into my room and decided right away that the backpack was not going to be big enough so I took it back to the office. Back in my room I pulled out my red rolling carry-on bag with gold Fleur-de-lis on it. This was bigger, and would work well, and BONUS, it rolls, I don't have to carry it! Feeling rather smug about my camping choices thus far, I began to pack. I packed four pairs of panties, because you never know when you will need extra. I was wearing a pair of pants, so I packed only one other pair of Old Navy button-leg pants, and my comfy Old Navy pajama pants with matching pajama shirt. I put in four pair of socks, just in case there was a sock emergency. I packed four shirts because I didn't know what mood I might be in the next day, so I wanted options. The only tennis-like shoe I own are a set of black and white checked Converse sneakers, so I packed those in case my cute flip flops were not enough foot protection. "Oh", I thought to myself, "what if we get attacked by muggers or something?" So into the red and gold fleur-de-lis rolling suitcase went a small, heavy bat shaped tire thumper, a screwdriver with pink, purple, green and yellow flowers on the handle, a pair of pliers (in case I had to pinch someone to death?) and a leather-man tool with three pocket knives in it. I am now armed to battle any force of nature that comes my way. Next, I packed my electric toothbrush, a pouch that had little soap sheets that I bought at some sporting store, Neosporin in a magnetic case that also had a keyring, a hair-pick and broad toothed comb for unruly curly hair, a headband, and two different packs of barrettes (again, so I had choices for hair styling depending on the mood of the next day), Olay SPF 15 rejuvenating cream with a touch of tint and two diet cokes. Here I come nature, stay the hell out of my path or I will be forced to unleash something awesome that I had packed! Next... TO THE KITCHEN. I would pack enough food to make sure that if this trip ended up being more than one night, I atleast, would be prepared. Feeling even more smug than before, I packed into one of my tupperware-like baskets with clear sides (so you could easily see what was in it) with locking blue lid with a handle, a pack of ramen noodles, a package of unopened crackers, a can of peaches and a can of pears, two cans of something called potted meat (chicken flavor), six slices of bread sealed in plastic wrap, a four pack of plastic silverware, a plastic cup, and a granola bar found in the pantry from God knows when. Food is taken care of. I'M not going to starve out there in the wilderness, darn it. I packed my plushy pillow into the suitcase, sat on the case and got that sucker zipped. I still had no place for my warm fuzzy blanket, so I called my Boyscout husband and asked what to do with it. He told me to attach it to the outside of my pack. "Um... ok, how do I do that exactly?" With string, I was informed. I don't have string. Well, I'll just carry it. After all, I can't freeze to death. I was so prepared by now that I was feeling the amount of smugness that the pope must feel after listening to pathetic sinners.

LATER AT THE CAMPSITE

First I give my brother the orange thing because we don't want to get shot. He looked it over, handed it to Tiffany, she looked it over and we all decided it must be some kind of face mask. Upon further inspection Andy found the tag and I had brought along a dog vest. Well, we could still hang it in the tree so no one shoots in this general direction, right? My well thought out question only brought well meant laughter my way from my brother and his fiancee. I'm sure they meant it in the nicest way possible. Andy unloaded my bucket of food and held it up and stared at me. "What?" I asked thinking he was about to compliment me on my food packing. He laughed and told me we were only staying one night, how was I supposed to cook the ramen noodles, and how was I going to open any of the cans as I had packed no can opener. Together he and Tiffany laughed at me. I was ok with that, after all, they needed to bond, this would be good for them; I was willing to oblige. Then he held up my warm fuzzy blanket and asked if I had really only brought one blanket. Well, of course I did, I didn't have room for more and this blanket was really warm. He told me it was going to be thirty degrees that night. I assured him it would be fine. Andy and Tiffany exchanged well meant looks and laughed another well meant laugh.

AS THE NIGHT WENT ON AND IT GOT DARK

I had eaten (off of a wild stick) a hotdog and a s'more. Suddenly my tummy gave me the rumble that meant I was about to rid my body of a hotdog and s'more. "Uh, Andy," I said "I need to do a number two". "Well, go that way (pointing to the absolute dark away from our campsite), I don't want to see you do it", he told me. "But it's dark out there" I smartly pointed out. I was told to just go. So I grabbed my toilet paper and went to a spot right in front of his truck and over just enough where no one could see what I had done in the morning. Well, cold air and stage fright took over and my body sealed itself so shut that nothing could have left or entered my body at any point. So, I pulled my pants back on, kept my toilet paper and walked back to camp. I sat in front of the fire a little while longer and digestion took over and insisted I try to do another number two. SO, I walked back to my spot, held myself up with my cane, and tried to relax. Finally nature took it's course and I managed to "let it loose". The only problem was that my body weight, being over 200 pounds was trying to stay up on leg muscles that had atrophied a bit due to a stroke and were burning at the weight they were trying to hold up. I finally finished my business and triumphantly went back to camp announcing I had made poo in the woods and didn't even get anything on myself. I was so proud. Proud people are often struck with something bad by God. Six diet cokes later, I really had to do a number one. I was taken to a tree that I could lean against, was told to "pop a squat" and handle my business. No one showed me how to pop a squat. "I am not popping this squat properly", I thought as pee flowed from me all down my right leg and into my shoe and down my left leg and into my other shoe. The problem was that I had had to force myself to relax again and in such a state, I couldn't close the floodgates. I stood there peeing all over myself for about two or three minutes. Finally finishing, I screamed for Andy to bring me new pants and socks and underwear (I chose him because Tiffany had already gone to bed). Laughing another well meant laugh, he brought those things to me as I changed butt naked in the wild; only before changing, I had to wash myself off with paper towels and ice water directly from the cooler, in thirty degree temperatures.

BEDTIME

At about two or three in the morning, Andy and I decided to crawl into the tent. Imagine if you will a big fat woman crawling through a tent door onto a squishy blowup mattress. Now imagine this scene except that the left half of this woman's body won't coordinate the way it used to and has little muscle strength left. I was starting to feel that all this laughter wasn't quite as well meant as I had wanted to believe. Let me just get through this part fast. My blanket let me down in the fact that it is no match whatsoever for thirty degree weather, so it left me fighting all night for some of Andy and Tiffany's four or five blankets which they were not wont to share. Occasionally I slept on this really uncomfortable bar under the tent that turned out to be my own cane, which I could have removed at any time, and my feet got so cold I was sure I would have to have some toes removed the next day.
So, all in all, camping was pretty good because no one shot us. Otherwise, no one ate my food, we didn't even have a dog to put the orange dog jacket on, I peed all over myself, everyone laughed at me, I froze to death and probably ended up with e-coli or something from eating off of wild sticks.
THE END...

mostly untrue news 13th edition

• IN TODAY'S FASHION NEWS: There are times when I wonder if all this man baiting is just a cover for the idiotic things women do to themselves. I cannot even call this alarming trend sexy. It isn't sexy, it isn't healthy, it serves no other purpose than to make women look alarmingly bizarre. What is this trend? It is a trend toward towering footwear for ladies under the name of "shoes". My favorites so far:

Oh yeah, these make me think sexy! No? How about broken ankle, trip to the emergency room, and feet that will look like Hobbit feet in about 10 years. I'm not sure who came up with this unfortunate look for fashion, but I think it had to be someone who was very short and had problems with self esteem. Like Napoleon. Maybe Hitler. Oddly enough though, this towering footwear has been heading down runways attached to the anorexic feet of stick insects since last season. So, what is the reasoning behind designer's scheme to give all skinny women hammer toes? The recession! I swear I'm not making this up. According to Yahoo! news reporter Joanna Douglas, during recession times, like the Great Depression of the 1930's, the oil crisis in the 1970's and "and when the dotcom bubble burst in the 2000s" there is "a greater need for escapism." Escapism? I couldn't escape out of a paper bag in those ankle twisters! However, they might come in handy during a mini flood of some sort. Maybe if you couldn't reach the diet water on the top shelf, these towering, tormentors of treacherous toe-height (barely pulled that one off), might do some good. Otherwise, I would just use them to throw at people.

• IN TODAY'S FINANCIAL NEWS: Pamela Anderson is feeling the stresses of this country's economic woes. The blond, busty bombshell is rumored to owe the government around $493,000 in back taxes. She is also rumored to be balking at a million dollar bill for renovations done to her home in Malibu. Pamela states that "her lawyers were 'reviewing the work done' to investigate the possibility of unfair bills", and that while she was indeed the subject of tax liens to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars, she was still "financially secure." Ms. Anderson proves she is in no trouble at all due to the fact that she now has a double wide trailer on the beach. Ladies and Gentlemen, you can take the trash out of the trailer park, but it will just keep getting breast implants until you let it back in.
  
• IN TODAY'S WOMEN'S ISSUES: This is a personal tale about Not Me. Two days ago, Not Me and my boyfriend were invited to dinner. While getting dressed, Not Me decided to wear something a bit sexier than the usual neutral bra and ginormous stomach - holding - in spandex underpants that I usually wear. This time, they were red. Ok, they were a little sexier than that, and Not Me decided to wear them and whisper sexy stuff to my boyfriend that would turn him on for after dinner. You know, things like "ooh baby, I've been thinking, that - um... later... we might, you know, go to Wal-Mart and get some milk". So, the underpants part went fine. All night they stayed where they were supposed to and served their underpants purpose. The bra, however, was created by Satan. You have to understand that Not Me has a robust chest girth (in other words, I'm kind of fat). However my cup size is that of a sixth grade band geek. Rarely do I EVER find bras in in Not My size. This one was close though, and I had figured I could make it work. Not Me put it on having to do the thing where you put the bra on upside down and backwards, then button it, then turn it around and right side up. When I twisted it around not my body it left tread marks like a mac truck had just spun out on my abdomen. This was followed by the insert-able fake breasts found at your local Wal-Mart store. Not me had to do this because this particular bra had shaped cups and it looked like Not Me had just dumped melted silly putty inside it. So, in with the breast enhancers. Ahh, instant breast enhancement and a little to extra on the top; perfect. Perfect except that about ten minutes into dinner, Not Me discovered that this bra was made for people with actual breasts and not pre-formed breast inserts. Not Me discovered this because the under-wire of the bra began poking Not Me in the armpits causing an irritating sore. The only relief from this new affliction was to sit there motionless with both arms raised in the air. Apparently this is frowned upon in most restaurants (depending on location). So, in trying to adjust the height of the bra, Not Me ended up stabbing not myself in the armpits and then managed to make the straps slide halfway down not my arms. These straps slid so far, that Not Me had to actually reach down the neck of not my shirt with a rod and reel and go fishing. These straps were not giving up without a fight. It never occurred to Not Me to go into the ladies room and do the bra of Satan dance in private, where there was a good chance of falling into a toilet as well. Nope, being the classy, sophisticated person that Not Me is, Not Me did this little bra voodoo dance right at the dinner table. So, having fought with the evil bra all night, when Not Me and my boyfriend got home Not Me took the bra of death, doused it in gasoline, set it on fire, scattered the ashes to the four corners and just went to sleep; milk be damned.
  

• That's it for today's news, so have a grumpy day and don't smile at anyone unless you are trying to spit gum in their path.
  

mostly untrue news 12th edition

• IN TODAY'S STUPID SONGS SECTION: Sly and the Family Stone are currently singing in the background of my computer. They are singing Everyday People. This is a stupid song anyway (and they play it too often for my taste on Pandora), but I would like to know what the hell Scooby Doo had to do with this song. Am I the only one to ever ask that question? I don't think so, there is bound to be an answer out there somewhere; I would appreciate it if any vigilant readers out there know the answer or are clever enough to make up something that sounds like the truth, please feel free to let me know under the comments section of this blog.

• IN TODAY'S MORE STUPID SONGS SECTION: The group known as Steam wrote a song called Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye). This gem of a song was played for me this afternoon on Pandora. I had actually heard it several times before today, but never payed much attention to it until today. I won't write anything about the song, I'm just going to write the ending and see if you can spot the problem too. I'm not making this up and have copied it word for word:

  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.
  Na na na na,
  Na na na na,
  Hey, hey, hey,
  Goodbye.

In case you want to purchase this song, just look for the album that looks like this:
A group of sweaty, furry and slightly over weight, pasty white guys all cuddled together in a sauna. Calm down ladies.

• IN TODAY'S WELL, WE MAY AS WELL MAKE THIS WHOLE BLOG ABOUT STUPID SONGS: Let's just go with it.

  1. Muskrat Love by Captain and Tennille. I personally don't see how you can miss with this song, especially if you happen to be a rodent. Check out these tantalizing lyrics: "Muskrat Suzie, Muskrat Sam/ Do the jitterbug out in Muskrat Land/ and they shimmey... Sam is so skinny". Not to spoil the ending lets just say things get a little wild for Sam and Suzy after they start "Nibbling on bacon, chewing on cheese/ Sam says to Suzy, Honey, would you please be my Mrs." I refuse to write about the kinds of smut that happen next.

  2. I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That) by Meat Loaf. Appropriatly named after refrigerator leftovers, this artist would do anything for love, but he won't do that. No one knows what exactly it is he won't do and he doesn't bother to enlighten us with that mystyrious knowledge. This song is approxamatly 183 minutes long, and in all the professions of love that Mr. Loaf makes to his love, he still won't do that. Good for him. Take a stand.

  3. My Ding A Ling by Chuck Berry. Oh, come on, I can't even type that without laughing hard enough to soil myself. Really, Chuck, do we want to know about this? "Oh my ding a ling, Everybody sing
     I wanna play with my ding a ling a ling
     My ding a ling, my ding a ling
     I wanna play with my ding a ling a ling"

  4. *Note, I am not making this up, I swear* Are You Drinkin With Me Jesus? By Mojo Nixon, Country Dick Montana (snicker snicker) and Jello Biafra. These lyrics truely touched my soul: "As I nestled on my barstool / I felt your warmness within / I looked down at my pants / that wasn't warmness / I wet myself again". If that won't bring a tear to your eye, the chorus ought to do it: "Does your head pound, Jesus / As hung over you do rise / how does paradise look, Jesus / through holy bloodshot eyes/ should we take a cab home Jesus/ Man, we can hoof it from here / I know you can walk on the water /but can you walk on this much beer?" I've never witnessed cleverness on this level.

• AND FINALLY: At the Gas Station of Love, I Got the Self Service Pump – Weird Al. Yeah I know. Still...

Well, thank you for wasting that much time out of your life to read this and have a smug day knowing you know something no one else does.

mostly untrue news 11th edition

• IN TODAY'S MORON CELEBRITY NEWS: Jessica Simpson talks about her favorite body part. Is it her lovely blond locks, her enormous bust, her winning smile? Nope, it's her nose. You may be asking yourselves why this is so important that it would merit comment on a blog such as this. The answer is: it isn't important, I just like to make fun of mediocre celebrities! So, what did Jessica have to say about her nose? "I like my nose, that's my favorite body part...I do have a bump, but I like my profile -- I don't think anyone else has my exact same nose, I think it's unique and a little flawed." Well, that just about covers it, but if any alert readers out there think they may have Jessica's "exact same nose", please write in and send a picture of your exact same Simpson nose. You can reach me by e-mail at www.whocaresaboutjessica'snose.com.

• IN TODAY'S WOMEN'S ISSUES (SORT OF): A couple of days ago I purchased a fine magazine: Cosmopolitan, the one with Lady Gaga in her underwear on the cover.

The cover articles really gave me pause for at least 3 or 4 seconds. These titles were all about sex. Not about how to please the woman who would probably be reading it, but ways to turn her man on. Titles included such winners as: The Sex Article We Can't Describe Here; 50 Things to Do Butt Naked; Speak His Sex Language; Sex Operations for Her That Will Make Her Man Like Her The Way She Is; Sex Sex Sex; More Sex; We Like Sex... you get the picture. My only question is why women need all these articles to get their man in the sack. I think all magazines could write one article that will work for every woman. The title of the article would be "How to get your man in bed". The entire article would be one sentence: "Just show up". Really, is it all that hard to get a man to have sex? I don't think so.

• IN TODAY'S NARCISSISTIC BEHAVIOR: I was shopping for toothpaste in a store that rhymes with doll-fart. As I passed an isle, a TV with a motion sensor started a toothpaste commercial. A brunette woman with teeth so white they could be seen from the moon came on and said "Finally, after all these years, I feel that a toothpaste was made specifically for me". Really? This woman seems to sincerely feel that all those tubes of toothpaste in her brand were made specifically for her. Well, let's give her the benefit of doubt and say that yes, all those tubes were for her; shouldn't she feel obligated to buy them all so that there could be room on the shelves for tubes made specifically for someone else? Should the general public buy her toothpaste since it was made for her? I might feel a bit uncomfortable using toothpaste not intended for me. Also, what made her so special? She was attractive, but there are other people out there more physically appealing than her. Does Julia Roberts get her own toothpaste too? Lord knows she has enough teeth to do some serious advertising for a toothpaste that could be made just for her. And what about the rest of us? I have yet to get a letter, e-mail or phone call that informed me I was getting a toothpaste designed with my particular dental issues in mind. Perhaps you only get your own toothpaste if you have a lot of money to buy off a toothpaste brand and make them serve only your teeth. Does Donald Trump or Bill Gates have their own toothpaste? "The Don says use Trump-paste or you're fired". I don't know what the secret is to getting your own toothpaste, but I'm a little pissed off that my dental needs have never been considered for a teeth cleaning product.
  

• IN TODAY'S STUPID MARKETING STRATEGIES: I was at a drugstore the other day; in this case the store name rhymed with tallbreens. As I wandered through the makeup isle looking for a product that would leave my skin flawless, make my face look like Liv Tyler's and make me look like I had lost 80 pounds instantly, I happened across the Loreal isle. The product that caught my eye was the Loreal makeup with the applicator that looks like a paint roller. The name of this product is Loreal True Match Roller. There were several pictures of celebrities holding their respective paint rollers next to their face. However, one in particular captivated me. This one was a picture of Beyonce (who is black, at least last I heard) with her paint roller which was a light beige color as seen here.

True Match? I'm not certain whether to blame Beyonce for trying to be white, or Loreal, who seems to be uncomfortable promoting makeup for black people.

• Well, that does it for today. Thank you for reading and have a day fraught with friendly clowns.