The Big "O"m

As some of you know, I recently turned down an opportunity to relocate to DC. Now, it seems that a move to NYC could be in my near future.

My parents aren't diggin' the prospect, as they warn me that there are all sorts of crazies up there. (I can believe that. Big Sexy is a New Yorker, and he was crazy enough to ignore Beyonce's wise advice, "If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it," and, well, not put a ring on it. He did, however, send the chocolates.)

Now, it seems there is one more reason for them to be horrified at my potential move to the Big Apple: Orgasmic Meditation Comes to NYC.

Thanks, a lot New York Post. Couldn't you have stuck to your journalistic guns and asked only those weighty, political questions necessary for the functioning of a free society? You know, the ones: Clear Leggings: Fab or Fug? (How can you tell??), Who Hates Matthew McConaughey? (Straight men and blind women?), and What if Miley Won an Oscar (Hell would freeze over?)

As an aside, good Lord, reading crap headlines like that makes me wish that Obama would go Hu Jintao on us (he's working on it) and control the news by declaring himself CEO of all news outlets. His resume does already include GM under "CEO experience." Maybe his first act as CEO could be to raise money for his spending spree, by taxing certain words. May I suggest "Fug" to start?

Speaking of fugging, where were we? Right, the Big O(m). For those who obviously don't share my morbid curiousity and didn't click the link, the story explains how random groups of strangers now get together to exercise their fingers and [insert imagination here].

But helping people gain manual dexterity and bliss in the land downunder isn't the only positive aspect of this group. The other? It only employs orphans. I'm assuming this, of course, but it's not a stretch. No one with living parents could possibly work as an instructor there. "Hi, mom, so I got this great new gig showing people how to teach the meow-meow how to purr. I know I'm allergic, but don't worry, we wear rubber gloves!"

So, the moral of the story? (And, I use the word "moral" loosely). If you're having trouble getting down south head up north.

That's what I intend to do soon ... albeit for far less climactic reasons.


Whose Line Is It Anyway: Blog Edition

A compilation of the best lines of the day, taken from some of my favorite blogs. And, folks, don't be lazy. Click the gosh darn links and read the posts. You might learn something.

"By the way, it's not the skirt that makes you look fat; it's the fat that makes you look fat."
— HotMES, a.k.a my partner in the crimes of Big Sexy lovin' and jello wrestling.

"I see that notorious, bloodthirsty polar bear-murderer Al Gore is up to his usual environmental violations."
– Moe Lane

"Obama has never run anything more complicated than a pencil sharpener."
– So It Goes in Shreveport

— Stacy "Not A Girl" McCain

"I'm from the government, and I'm here to change your oil."
– Jimmie at The Sundries Shack.

"I know what I think is right and have an overdeveloped sense of ego that occasionally compels me to share my findings with my audience."
– Ennuipundit.

"The Democratic constituency is just like a herd of cows."
– Snaggletoothie of the Loyal Opposition, quoting James Carville.

Democrat Shows Fiscal Responsibility

I know what you're thinking, "That headline sounds like it's off one of those picture magazines down at the Piggly Wiggly. You know, the ones that say, 'Lady wrestlers boobs explode;' 'Three-headed cow shoots farmer;' or 'Demons influence presidential policy!'" (Wait, pretty sure that last one was from a legitimate news source.)

But, as crazy as it sounds, it's true: After 70 days in office, the President has finally made a fiscally responsible choice. He and the missus plan to personally absorb the cost of redecorating the White House. Previous presidents have received a $100,000 budget for this, but as New York Magazine reports, the Obama's are demonstrating "integrity in action" by paying for it themselves rather than using taxpayer funds.

And, there was much rejoicing! Wait, you're not rejoicing. Don't you see? Our president is saving us $100,000 by buying his own pillows and wallpaper. That's SO MUCH MONEY, especially when compared to the $800 billion that he's burning on the "stimulous" bill.

/enter crickets chirping

Right. So it's actually a lackluster attempt to salvage any vestige of financial credibility.

/exit crickets

Obama may be faithful in the small things—they are planting a garden after all—but he’s muffed it on the large scale. But with brilliant PR moves like this one, that doesn't really matter, and Obama knows it. If he can distract the media (and society with it) by tending a garden and paying for pillows, there will be much less time to notice his taxpayer-funded spending spree and the looming massive deficits.

Still, at least he's staying true to his word and offering us "change" we can believe in. By my calculations, based on the U.S. Census Bureau's latest report, he is saving each of us $.000333333333 cents.

Maybe we could all pull our savings together and buy one of those tabloids from the Piggly Wiggly?


"Thou Shalt Not" Sunday

Because it is the Lord’s Day, I would like us all to take a moment to reflect on God’s rules for holy living.

The fourth commandment: “Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.” And, the equally holy twelfth commandment: Thou Shalt Have No Mercy on a Crapweasel.”

If you don’t remember numero doce from Sunday school, you’re a heathen. No, actually, it’s because God forgot to give it to Moses on the top of Mt. Sinai. When He realized his error some thousand-odd years later, He cried out to Himself:

“God, oh God, what have I done??? I must fix this immediately.”

So, He created a modern day Moses—Robert Stacy McCain.

Now, it's us, His people, who are left to cry out, "God, oh God, what have You done???"

Via the comment section, I have been notified by the modern day Moses himself, that I am a heathen. (I think he's judging me for my porn star aspirations.)

As any good minion would do, I have acknowledged the error of my ways and as penance will spend the day repeating the phrase "Scrofulous Crapweasel." Not because it will make me any less heathen, but because it's just so much fun to say.


Our President’s Been PUNK'D ...

... by himself.

President Obama gets owned by candidate Obama, and I’m not going to say I didn’t enjoy it:

(Via Sistertoldjah, via NRCS)

This is reason number #1071 (not by coincidence the number of pages in the stimulous bill) why I think this little guy should be President instead. I mean, the White House is already full of nuts (groan), so he'd be right at home:


Tea Parties Going the Way of Godiva? (Lady, not Chocolate)

Today, I received an invite to speak at one of those Tea Parties that the media insists on refuses to tell us about.

Count me in: I love parties. I love tea. And, I love hate taxes.

Upon receiving the invite, the question of what I would say lasted for but a moment before the more pressing question of what I would wear took preeminence.

Now, I hear from my invitor that there's a free t-shirt in it for me, but I've been to enough political rallies to know that the free t-shirts are always "one-size-fits-all." And, by “all” I've come to realize they literally mean the t-shirt would fit all who are at the rally at the same time.

While I'm as fond of rocking a tent-shirt as the next guy, I may take a slightly different approach and wear _____. (For the non-esoteric minded, blank space = nothing.)

In the interest of full exposure, er, disclosure, this isn’t an original idea. Having aspired to be a porn star as a small child. (*see below post for the full story*) and now a political activist as an adult, I couldn't help but feel a tug at my heartstrings when I came across this: Porn Star Strips to Protest Financial Crisis.

For those too lazy to click the link, an Italian porn star stripped down to show her, uh, dissatisfaction over the financial crisis. She wore only her panties and an Italian flag painted on her body.

In response to this display of political passion, Robert Paul Reyes writes:

“In America tea parties are in vogue to protest taxes and the economic crisis, and my reaction is: Blah! Leave it to an Italian to think outside of the box and come up with a sexy and innovative way to protest taxes.”

Mr. Reyes' outright nose-thumbing at the American way (of protesting taxes) and its women is sheer effrontery. To leave his words unchallenged, would itself be an affront to the proud can-do, never-to-be-outdone American spirit.

So, in the name of all that is patriotic and good (including parties and tea but not taxes), let me say that I can assure Mr. Reyes that “Blah!” will not be his reaction if he happens to end up at a Tea Party where I’m in attendance.

My guess is that “God Bless America!” (or, possibly “God, get her that t-shirt quick!”) will be his response.
*Confessions of a child wannabe porn star.*

As a small child, my family used to drive past a giant billboard bearing (and baring) a pretty blonde girl. I didn’t know what she was advertising, but I did know I wanted to grow up to be just like her. True story, folks.

It was years later that I realized growing up to be just like her would mean working nights at the local "Nutty" club. Yeah, at the time, my mom told me that N-U-D-E was pronounced "nutty," and so a “nude club” was actually a comedy club where you went to hear nutty jokes. Nice, mom.

Back to the billboard: keep in mind that we were on our way to church when we passed this sign. Also keep in mind that my dad is a preacher. Makes it even better doesn’t it?

In hindsight, it’s no wonder that his hair had fully grayed by the time I was 5-years-old. I suppose the fact that it’s now white also can be added to my list of daughterly accomplishments. I’m not sure which achievement he’ll be most proud of—my turning his hair white or my turning into The Official Lady Godiva of the Tax Day Tea Party.

UPDATE 1: The man responsible for my new Lady Godiva persona, Robert Paul Reyes, responds with this: Suzanna Logan to Strip at Tax Day Tea Party. What he meant to say is "Suzanna Logan to Strip at Tax Day Tea Party if her father doesn't kill her first."

UPDATE 2: Via Front Porch Republic: Less Taxes or Less Clothes!

UPDATE 3: Insta-Lanche! Welcome Instapundit readers! You may remember me from Pivotal Life Moments. Also, hat tip and a wink to folks from Red State, The Liberty Papers, The Other McCain, Right Wing News, and Moe Lane!

UPDATE 4: Lady Godiva’s gone to a Tea Party in this fun little ditty set to the Beatle’s Lady Madonna: Lady Godiva, clothing at your feet. I'll be at a Tea Party we should meet.

UPDATE 5: Donald Douglas asks the question, “Why be conservative?” The obvious answer? Naked Tea Parties.

UPDATE 6: Cross-posted at Taki's Magazine.

*Note: I wasn't gunna go here, buuuut:

UPDATE 7: Because as the saucy bad girl Mae West once said, "Too much of a good thing is wonderful," I hereby invite you to a Tea Party Wrestle-O-Rama between moi and Monique "hotMES" Stuart.

UPDATE 8: Our wrestling referee Cynthia Yockey protests hotMES and I getting rough in the buff, which would make sense, except she’s a lesbian. HotMES, maybe we should be hitting the gym rather than a Tea Party?

UPDATE 9: I was feeling rather guilty about the whole Naked Jello Wrestling thing, but if it's for the children ….


Daily Quotable

"There's a name for a Democrat who is a thoughtful moral person. It's called a Republican."

-- Evan Sayet in a speech on "How the Modern Liberal Winds Up on the Wrong Side of Every Issue." --

Hat tip and a wink to John Hawkins at Right Wing News for sharing.

Sexonomics and the Crazy Cat Lady

By now, you may have heard about the economic kerfluffle that threatens to disrupt my vanilla (code word for white), middle class way of life or, more importantly, my regular television schedule--I may soon be forced to tune into the Cartoon Network rather than the news lest I crumble in a heap of despair.

In case you, too, are vanilla and middle-class and the money police (read: Obaminions. I thought I made that up. I’ve been scooped!) have already taken your television and satellite dish in the generous spirit of redistribution of Oprah, Wolf Blitzer, and the Wiggles, don’t despair.

I offer you this bit of laissez-faire levity courtesy of Dave Chappelle and your very own Clever S’s mom-approved edits:

“Ladies, if [meow-meow] was a stock it would be plummeting right now because you’re flooding the market with it. You’re giving it away too easy. (Cue newscaster voice.) ‘Today, [meow-meow] was down on the NASDAQ, while gold was up ten points.’”

The topic of the good Dr. Chappelle’s lecture is that old-school favorite: sexonomics. (Scooped, again! Check back later for the official unveiling of my new moniker “Not-so Clever S.”)

In down-home, RSM speak – I am a Southern girl, you know – “If you’re flooding the market with milk, then ain’t no one gunna buy the cow. So you gotta keep the cow in the barn.” If. You. Know. What. I. Mean. And, if you don’t, you should stop reading now and go here.

I’ve heard the supply and demand, cow/milk/barn analogy for years. Used to, it just made me want an Oreo. Thanks to a recent restaurant visit, I see things differently now: Flooding the market with meow-meow or letting the cow out of the barn is like having three boatfuls of ranch dressing from the Cheesecake Factory. (Not that I would know ...)

The more ranch dressing you eat, the less you crave. That first taste? Sublime. Three boats later? Seventh deadly sin gluttony: Check. An excessive supply of anything decreases how much you value it thereby decreasing how much effort you are willing to expend to get it. Case in point: by the third serving, the taste of the dressing was no longer incentive enough to expend the energy it took to move my pizza crust all the way from the plate to the ranch to my mouth. More relevant case in point:

If a man can suck the ... udders ... for free, he's not going to put a ring ... through it's nose.

That's basic sexonomics. And a non-threatening reality for myself and my readers whose delicate flowers remain unplucked. Insert applause here. But what's a girl to do if the cow has already been out to pasture?

Become the crazy cat lady.

Now, due to my state of virginal innocence, I can't be sure this is the best conclusion. But if I were not in such a state, and if I were to have a conversation with my dog about it, and if that conversation were to have happened this morning, and if it were to have led me to that conclusion, I think it would have gone something like this:

8 a.m.

The furball: Whining for a walk, while scratching and licking where the sun don’t shine.
Thought #1: “If I wanted to be woken up (no one says "awakened" first thing in the morning) by someone with bad breath and an affinity for butt scratching, I could have gotten a husband instead of a dog. At least then I’d have a diamond.”
Thought #2: “If the pitchfork-bearing farmer hadn’t left his post at the barn door, the cow might be married by now.”
Thought #3: “I shouldn’t think in analogies before 10 a.m.”
Thought #4: “Maybe it’s not too late!” Going one by one through the list of eligible bulls that I know. Pause. Unimpressed by said list.
Thought #5: “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll trade in my dog and become the crazy cat lady.”

I glanced at the furball hoping he wouldn’t notice I was awake and plotting his demise. He did. He continued to whine. I continued to sleep. He was ready to strut his stuff around the neighborhood. And, I smiled, knowing I was content to strut my stuff in bed … alone.

UPDATE: I have been informed by a loyal reader (who must have mistaken me for one whose cow had escaped the barn) that "a prize cow is a prize cow and one day someone will pay any price to bring it home."

Thank you, dear reader, I think.


If a picture is worth a thousand words, then these four should get me out of the next, oh, eight posts or so.

In the (brilliantly lazy) name of working smarter not harder, I present you a picture medley:

(Photo, courtesy of Big Sexy, a.k.a Jason Mattera, taken on the streets of NYC.)

ME: "Weren't you worried you would embarrass him by taking this?"

BS: “Suzanna, he was homeless and heating his food on a sewer cover. Do you really think I was worried about offending his sensibilities?”

ME: I love when you say my name.

ME: trying to explain the liquor bottles atop my refrigerator to my pastor: “They’re not mine, I swear. Uh, I mean I don’t swear, but they’re not mine. I had to buy them for work.”

HIM: "You work from home."

/Awkward silence.

Story: Driving to church last Sunday, I saw blue-flashing lights ahead and thought, "Weird, an accident on Sunday morning." Turns out, it was even weirder than that. There was a cop KICKING this toilet around in the middle of the road. My best guess is that he wanted to issue a retroactive chin flick to his mother by playing "kick the can" in the middle of Birmingham's busiest highway.

Sadly, my camera is a heathen and was at home sleeping rather then attending church with me so by the time I got back he was gone. Try to imagine the flashing lights and cop. It makes it better. Trust me.

Ps - It's no coincidence that the P.T. Cruiser is leading the pack towards the crapper. It knows where it belongs.

I can only guess this is what a Big-Mac-induced coma looks like. I. have. no. personal. experience. Really ...

In closing, I offer you this:

“A merry heart doeth good as methadone.” (modern interpretation)


Southern Women Do It Better

Of late, I have been wrestling over a potential move from the heart of Dixie back to the big city – D.C. particularly.

Whether or not I’ll go, I don’t know. But what I do know is that there is no place quite like the South. It feels comfortable; it feels like home. I’m not sure I’m ready to be comfortable or feel at home quite yet hence the possible relocation. Nonetheless, it has a certain something about it, a je na sais quoi, if you will.

For the Yankee critics out there—yes, I just said that South has an aura so alluring it eludes description. And, no, this aura is not a result of shoeless cousins marrying one another at a Nascar event while eating barbecue and drinking sweet tea. It may come, however, from crawdad fighting and squirrel hunting.

I realized this yesterday as I was enjoying an afternoon out with a few southern female friends at a botanical garden. As we girlishly ooh-ed and aah-ed over the flowers, one of my friends pointed at a vine and remarked how, as a child, she would swing from one before dropping into a “swimming hole.” (Actually, I think she said “creek,” but the moral of the story is it tweren’t one of those newfangled cement ponds that I grew up with in Californy.)

In response, they began relaying their childhood escapades. The conversation went something like this (to get the full effect, remember that these ladies are the perfect picture of decorum, femininity, and grace):

Friend 1: “We used to swing from the vines, too, but that wasn’t as good as squirrel huntin'. We would shake the trees until they ran out, and then we would shoot ‘em.

Friend 2: “One of our favorite things was huntin' crawdads.”

Friend 3: “Oh yes! After we collected some, we'd put them together and watch 'em fight. When they were done, we'd line them up and smash ‘em with a hammer.”

At first, it seemed incongruous to hear defenseless delicate creatures (my friends) talking so cheerfully about destroying other defenseless delicate creatures (squirrels and crawdads, respectively). Then, it struck me that that may be part of the South’s charm.

More than anywhere else I’ve lived – and I’ve lived a lot of places – rules of polite behavior and social graces still apply in the South. Yet, in the midst of all this sweetness, there’s a snakebite edge that keeps it from cloying. Undoubtedly, that is what I got a glimpse of in the gardens and what contributes to that indescribable allure.

And, if you don't think that women shooting squirrels and smashing crawdads earns the South some je na sais quoi, my friends and I may put you in a tree or line you up to fight. You know what happens next: it's shootin' and smashin' time, y'all!


Call Me a Sentimental Fool

It may be true that diamonds are a girl's best friend for girls who don’t blog. But for girls that do, her best friend—and the quickest way to her heart—is heaping praise (and more traffic) upon her head(lines).

As such, the bandit who stole away with my heart this week is Troglopundit, who admits to, among other very nice things, reading every single post. [Note: He’s a smart man, and you should follow his example, even if you don’t want a piece of my heart.]

My blogolover continues on to say:

“In the spirit of the Five Rules, I’ll be letting Suzanna know that I’m writing all these really nice things about her, hoping that some of that 533 hits per day (and growing) might wear off on me. Unfortunately, women like her are used to being shamelessly begged, so we’ll just have to see.”

It just so happens to be that I am a sucker for two things 1) shameless begging, and 2) jello wrestling (here, too).

Troglo, this may be the beginning of a beautiful blogging relationship. There is one thing you should know, though: I am a mother.

Despite my early trepidation towards motherhood, I have been blessed with a bouncing baby blog: Griffon's Lair. It seems I guilted him back into posting with one of my comments, which led him to declare this:

So, I guess I'm going to dub Ms. Logan my adoptive Blog-Mother. Let's see if her influence and (guilt trips) motivate me any better!

So, visit him often. (He’s also a fellow understudy of my illustrious, speedo-wearing mentor --whose Rules work!)

I may be considered another "amazing success story" by snagging over 8,000 hits and a box of chocolate in my first fifteen days of blogging, but call me a sentimental fool, I think I may be happier about finding my new family.


Let's play a game: name that googler!

Because I expect to be super busy lazy today, I’m going to let y’all do the talking for me … via the best google searches that led to my page this week. Plus, you guys are much more entertaining than I’ll ever be.

(Please note: I squirreled away my inner grammar-nazi for this post, and left the spelling errors in the searches intact, i.e. "Megan" should be "Megyn.")

Top three searches:

1) "Fox News Megan Kelly legs"

2) "Woman hate me because I’m beautiful"

3) "I love Logan"

Although I can’t be sure, my best guesses as to who was doing the googling are below:

1) “Fox News Megan Kelly legs”

- The gam goddess herself:


- RSM. In the name of Rule 5, of course:

2) Next, “Women hate me because I’m beautiful."

- Me

Kidding, only kidding. They hate me because I'm conservative, remember?

3) Finally, for “I love Logan,” I have two guesses:

- The Big Sexy. (He did send the chocolate, after all.) Actually, now that I think about it, the “I love Logan” perpetrator could be either person in this picture. His picture-pal is the famed “A newly Conservative Lesbian,” Cynthia Yockey:


- Last and certainly not least, the "idiot liberal guy":

If the photoshopped picture isn’t bad enough. Trust me, it gets worse.

Happy Friday, y'all!


I'm in love!!!!!

.... with Godiva Chocolate. And, maybe with Big Sexy.

There has been some talk recently about whether modern men have the courage to conquer when it comes to the dirty little "L" word, whether they are willing to go to the trouble: "Men want access to women so they make the effort, or sometimes do ..."

Well, folks, I'm delighted to announce that Big Sexy MADE THE EFFORT:

(For those who don’t know the story, Jason Mattera, a.k.a the Big Sexy, had long-ago promised me a box of chocolates. After much prayer and fasting, a.k.a numerous pokes and prods by my loyal friend RSM, and, uh, myself, he finally came through. )

Also, note the gift card signed, "Big Sexy." *Cue aaawwwww.*

Aaaaand, this:

Yes, that's a Christmas tree in the background. Don't judge. It's neutral-colored which means it's an acceptable piece of home decor year-round. And, yes, I would know. Home design is my schtick.

And my mouth is open either a) because I was just that excited or b) I was getting ready to take a bite, box and bow and all. I can't be sure. I was overcome by euphoria.

Anyway, boys: the moral of the story? Sometimes you don't need courage to conquer. All you need is chocolate.

California's "Pot" of Gold

UPDATE: The reefer debate rages on ... not least in the comment section below my post. Check it out, and add your thoughts.

In a shocking bit of news, California was recently ranked the “worst state” by Chief Executive magazine’s annual “Best and Worst States” survey. (Let’s hear it for my home state!) The survey, based on reports from CEOs in each state, is meant to help small business owners pinpoint the best and worst places in which to do business. It seems that California is better than any other state at “alienating” businesses.

That is, unless your business is selling pot.

In a still more—and by “more” I mean “not at all”—shocking bit of news, TIME magazine reported last week that the Golden State’s legislators are considering a bill that would legalize the buying and selling of marijuana.

Why? Why else? It’s the economy, stupid.

By legalizing the weed trade, the state would be able to regulate (read: tax) all sales of the crop. State tax collectors project this would mean over $1 billion a year in revenue. Besides the obvious mercenary justifications, there are sound political reasons for the move.

With the economy tanking, now more than ever public officials need to prove to their core constituency of responsible citizens that they are making wise, well-informed decisions. What better way to do that than give folks cannabis carte blanche? Offering people real solutions to pressing economic problems when escapism can do the trick, well, that would just be downright decent. And, God knows no politician would ever want to be accused of that.

Now, I’m not saying that the plan wouldn’t work, economically-speaking, but at what cost? Do we really want Disneyland to have to change their slogan from the “happiest” to the “Highest Place on Earth”? When it comes down to it, the bottom line isn’t always about money but morality—even in a recession.

Having a less than stellar record that may or may not have involved dating a pothead in high school, I won’t sermonize on the immoral underpinnings of marijuana usage. (That could, after all, be construed as the pot calling the kettle black. No pun intended, really). But I will say that California’s government is considering granting itself leeway that it would never grant an ordinary citizen.

Think about it. Let’s say I’m out of work, desperate for money. I decide that going from des-titute to pros-titute would be the answer to all my economic ills. So, I mosey on over to a street corner. When a cop comes by to transport me to the Big House, I simply tell him that times are tough. I’ve changed the law to make selling myself not only not illegal but a laudable economic enterprise. He applauds my laissez-faire spirit and continues on to the donut shop. Ridiculous, unthinkable, far-fetched right? Yes, unless you’re the cash-strapped state of California.

As much as I disagree with the state assemblyman Tom Ammiano – the ass (I mean, Democrat, of course) – that proposed the legislation, I have to admit that it would be political genius in action were the bill to pass:

Get the populace to toke it up so that they forget about the economic recession and the lunatic “public servants” that helped bring it on and instead contemplate such pot-inspired ideas as how to stuff a second Twinkie inside the first.

Smart thinking, Ammiano. But his genius doesn’t stop at the Golden State. He is looking on to bigger and better things, i.e. the other 49 states. “How California goes, the country goes,” he says.

Great. So maybe next year on 4/20, we’ll all be able to light one up to celebrate my mother’s birthday and pay homage to the once-great state of California.

[As posted on Taki's Magazine. It seems I got that second chance with Mr. Spencer, after all.]


Check out Obama's Junk

What would any President be without his very own cache of kitsch?

Classy? Oh, sorry, that was supposed to be a rhetorical question.

As they say, tacky is as tacky does, and so the campy creations made to mark Barry O's "historical presidency" seem particularly fitting. I present you:

The Official Guide to Obama Kitsch

Get to googling and submit your own (soon to be flea-market) finds today!


Baldly Going Where No Beauty Queen Has Gone Before

When I first received the tip from RSM, who is oh-so-fond of the double entendre, that Miss Virginia Tara Wheeler was “shaving it bald” for a cause, that she would be sporting the Yul Brynner look wasn’t the first thing that popped into my mind.

Fortunately, after watching this video, my faith in the beauty queen—and my mentor’s taste, which has been somewhat questionable of late—has been restored.

The pageant princess has agreed to bick it for St. Baldrick's foundation, if she can raise $500,000 for cancer research by April 11.

I think her promise is commendable as are her motivations—which primarily center on shutting up the little brats who tease their hairless peers—but I think she can go one better.

Have the taunting kiddos mauled by bears.

Seriously. This wouldn’t be the first time. Think back to Sunday school. Remember the story of the two momma bears, one bald poppa bear prophet, and the 42 bratty children? Well, if you don’t, let me refresh your memory:

(II Kings 2:23-24)
Then Elisha went up from there to Bethel; and as he was going up the road, some youths came from the city and mocked him, and said to him, “Go up, you baldhead! Go up, you baldhead!” So he turned around and looked at them, and pronounced a curse on them in the name of the Lord. And two female bears came out of the woods and ripped up forty-two of the youths.

I’ve always loved a story with a happy ending. If I recall correctly—and I always do, except when it would make for a better anecdote—this was one of those “Momma, read it again!” stories of my youth. (As an aside, Are You My Mother? remains one of those “Momma, read it again!” stories of my adulthood because the line, “You are not my mother, you are a snort” is just so much fun to read out loud.)

Anyway, the point is that Ms. Wheeler needn’t settle for quieting these taunting, mean-spirited children by sporting a bald head. After joining the Brotherhood of the Bald People (I’m not making this up, folks), she should have them all mutilated by bears.

The best part (besides reducing the surplus population, which is always a commendable act)? She’ll have God’s stamp of approval. I think we all know right where He can put it.

Now, if she cannot raise the $500,000 and/or refuses to follow in the ways of the prophet, I am hereby officially declaring my intent to go bare and bear if one of two criteria are met:

1) $500,000 is donated to RSM’s tip jar so he can start blogging about something else.
2) The Big Sexy goes bald with me. (I’ve been after him to get a haircut for years, and this may be the only way. See for yourselves. The situation is desperate, and I'm just that self-sacrificial.)

If neither of these conditions are met? Well, I’ll still be going bare but it won’t be in the Yul Brynnnr kind way if you know what I mean.

UPDATE: I would like to publicly proclaim that The Big Sexy, despite the aforementioned hair cut, is still the most handsome 25-year-old Puerto Rican named Jason who works for a non-profit man I know. See for yourselves. Can we be friends again, Buttercup?


Craigslist, Casual Encounters, Cavemen, and Capitalism

[As posted on Taki's Magazine]

It’s been my long-held experience that anything worth having can be found on Craigslist:

The brand-new house worth half-a-million dollars that I lived in as a college student. (It was a rough life.) The cushy dog-sitting job that earned me an extra $1,000 a month. The gorgeous, neuroscientist boyfriend. The ipod that played the songs that got me through the breakup with the house, dog, and gorgeous, neuroscientist boyfriend.

Now, it seems that what I have been telling people for years—that Craigslist is a bastion of the free-market (and awesomeness)—is being publicly recognized. A number of news outlets , have reported that bartering is quickly becoming the new credit card. Craigslist reports that their bartering posts—a G-rated form of the “casual encounter,” if you will—have doubled since last year.

Why this move towards a cashless exchange? Most obviously, people are increasingly hesitant to hand over their Benjamins or even their Washingtons. But it goes deeper.

With the economy inspiring about as much trust as a used-car salesman (who by comparison, now looks as reliable as a Boy Scout), the one thing people have any vestige of trust left in, economically-speaking, is themselves. They know they can rely on the soundness of their own judgment and the ability to make the economic choices that are right for them.

Enter bartering.

Bartering allows both parties to make a mutually agreeable exchange without any outside interference, no price-setting mechanism other than their choice. Sound like laissez-faire at work to you? In a cashless swap, capitalism and the free market are both at work, allowing an agreeable exchange rate for goods and services based on demand and supply.

But this type of arrangement couldn’t possibly work, at least if we listen to the Dems who have used a struggling economy to reinvent (read: destroy) capitalism. Ironically, most of these out-of-touch politicians are carrying on a tryst with socialism while continuing to give lip-service to capitalism. Take the stimulus package, Obama’s best efforts to deal the death blow to capitalism. While embracing socialism in deed, he is loathe to admit it in word, even discrediting the question when asked. “It was hard for me to believe that you were entirely serious about that socialist question,” he told reporters after being questioned about the echoes (or, really, more like shouts) of socialism in his policies’.

Fortunately, while capitalism may be under attack on the federal level, it’s alive and well among ordinary citizens. At the grass roots level, more people are finding new ways to embrace it. Hence, the move towards bartering. We shouldn’t be surprised. Adam Smith wouldn’t have been: “The propensity to truck, barter and exchange one thing for another is common to all men, and to be found in no other race of animals.”

If we accept that bartering is inherent to mankind, as Smith argues, and at its root a capitalistic system that allows individuals to engage in the free market unhampered, then it follows that, at their core, men are intrinsically capitalist in nature.

So, while bartering may be novel to this generation, it certainly isn’t a new idea, historically-speaking.

Consider the caveman. During the pre-internet-period when my illustrious mentor was but a child and mankind still wore animal skins and dragged their woman around by their hair as a form of affection, bartering was the modus operandi:

Caveman 1, pointing at antelope-skin: “Grunt.” (Translation: “That’s a mighty swanky animal-skin. It sure would look good with my new stone spear.”)
Caveman 2, pointing at Cavemans 1's daughter: “Grunt.” (Translation: “Trade you.”)
Caveman 1: “Grunt” (Translation: You’ve got a deal. I’ll even throw in this saber-tooth tiger for free.)

Clearly, this bartering thing has a long and storied tradition (obviously not least in my imagination). Still, it is new to this generation, which begs the question: Can a system that operates on a man’s word rather than his money succeed in a society that has long lost sight of the meaning of a gentleman’s agreement?

That remains to be seen, and it's community-based sites, like Craigslist, that will reveal if there's any hope of an ancient form of exchange flourishing in a thoroughly modern world.

One thing you can be sure about? If we do return to the antelope-skin-for-conjugal-helpmate bartering system, I’ll be sure that I have married myself off by then--and that I’ve chosen a husband whose stick is bigger than the next guy’s.

While perusing Donald Douglas' American Power (always time well-spent), I came across what may be the best Barry O caricature I've seen. I promise you, it's worth a click.
Note to my regular readers: I penned this post last Friday while I was supposed to be on a blogging hiatus. As I reviewed my own words about how this generation has lost sight of the importance of a man's word and the meaning of a gentleman's agreement, the irony struck me--and my conscience--like a ton of bricks. (I had also posted a picture montage that day.)

Now, I know that putting up a post during an intended hiatus was hardly the most egregious error I could have committed. But I think it's important nonetheless. I was raised to know that a man's word and integrity may be the most important thing he's got in this world. If I disappointed any of you by my early return (and I certainly disappointed myself), you have my sincerest apology.

Before I break out into a rendition of "Reunited, and it feels so good," go forth and barter or join the the revolt of the kulaks. It'll make us both feel better.


Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow ... Pivotal Life Moments, Part 2

Dear favorite public of mine,

In honor of my one week blogiversary (and the Insta-lanche yesterday that made my day life), I would like to announce that I am offering each of you a five-day, all-expenses paid vacation…

… From reading my blog. That’s right—starting with this post, I will disappear from the face of the planet internet until Monday. Now, I could say I’m going to be spending these days doing something wildly exciting, like following in Obama’s grandmother’s steps and helping fight the African tsetse fly, eloping with Big Sexy, or finally finishing Russell Kirk’s Conservative Mind.

But the truth is I will be doing none of these things. Instead, I will be spending these days reclaiming my soul. God and I were talking the other night and He pointed out the inverse relationship between how well y’all have been getting to know me and how well I have been getting to know Him.

I guess this is another one of those Pivotal Life Moments. With a PLM, it must be true that "you were not the same after that." Well, in this case, it's me and my blog that will never be quite the same (cue collective sigh of relief). In the past week, I have discovered that blogging not only opens a window to your soul to others but to yourself as well. Sometimes, what you see is a little unnverving.

My solution? For the next few days, without being distracted every thirty seconds by “Wait, look, another blog post idea!” I will be contemplating the Big Guy (not to be confused with the Big Sexy), life, and my purpose in it.

If you’ll allow me a moment of schmoopiness, let me say that I have fallen in love with sharing these intimate posts with all five thousand of you every day. (Okay, just today, thank you, Instapundit!). As such, "This is going to hurt me a lot more than it’s going to hurt you." (Those spanking explanations were good for something after all, Mom and Dad!)

While I expect to return on Monday, you may not—although I sincerely hope that is not the case. If I have faded into blog-blivion by then, I leave you with this thought:

“What is the nature of your life? You are but a wisp of vapor that is visible for a little while and then disappears.”

From here on out, I'm committing to approach every day--and every blog post (don't worry, I wont become a humorless troll)--in the most meaningful way I can. I hope you will, to0.

Until Monday, lovingly yours,


Ps - What does my absence mean for you? That is, besides overwhelming utter despair--or joy? You will have to find some other way to burn those 4:57 minutes that my Site Meter tells me you are wasting, er, reading my zany antics somewhere else. May I suggest The Other McCain, Instapundit, Ed Morrissey, hotMES, William Jacobson, Donald Douglas, Jimmie, and Sean?

Breaking Up (with Fox News) Is Hard to Do


To begin our time together, I would like to offer you an obligatory heartfelt, “Good to see you again” and a great big EFF YOU to Fox News.

"Thou art a goodly conservative maiden why hast yourst ire been raised thusly?" thou dost inquire. (Don't judge, I’m in Shakespeare mode. I just played out a scene with my bed-wetting, shoe-eating, bundle-of-fur that culminated in 1) my quoting Midsummer Night’s Dream, “Out, dog! Out, cur! Thou drivest me past the bounds of maiden’s patience,” followed by 2) him shooting me a look that suggested he was issuing me a great big EFF YOU.)

As I was saying …

Fox News, you and I have always had a mutually beneficial relationship. You help me annoy my liberal-leaning friends and I help you, well, let’s come back to that later (and by "later" I mean "never"). But for awhile now, I have felt it might be time for us to go our separate ways. Please know that it’s not me, it’s you. In recent months, I have become increasingly disenchanted with your obsession with other women: exhibits A, B, C, D, E, F.

Then, there’s your moniker, “Your Fair and Balanced News Source.” It just doesn’t reflect your true purpose on cable TV. As a peace offering, I would like to suggest this slight modification: “Your Fair and Balanced Lust-Site-of-the-Right.” Use it with my compliments.

Now, I know that much has already been said about Foxs’ fixation on blonde beauties, but that’s not my beef. I like hot blondes as much as the next guy--assuming the next guy is actually a straight girl.

Here’s my deal: Shoving some chick’s half-naked crotch under the face of the man I (allegedly) love is Just. Not. Cool.

Don’t adjust your monitor. You read that right. (And you can see it right below).

Last night, during one of Jason Mattera, er, Big Sexy and mine’s usual (RSM translation) Danielle Steele-esque encounters—actual translation: long-distance telephone conversations—the following episode transpired:

Me (outraged): “There’s a crotch right under your face. Have I mentioned lately that I hate Fox News?”

Big Sexy (getting excited): “No way, where?!?!?”

Me (still outraged but internally pleased that his crotch radar was clearly failing): “Right underneath your Rep. Rangel video link. The headline says Cell Phone Sex Pics, Tuesday 8 PM. Oh, and underneath that ‘The Most Powerful Name in News.’ Classy.”

Big Sexy (now outraged): “I still don’t see it!”

Me (getting excited): Oooh, yay! Now, I have something to blog about!

In all it's maddening glory:

So you can see that I had no choice but to bring an end to Fox News and mine’s lust-hate relationship (i.e. I hate their obsession with lust). My heart will recover some day—and much more quickly, I’m sure, with chocolate, hugs, and a good strong dose of CNN.

PS - Happy one week blogiversary to me!



Having stomached about all of CNN I could take for one day lifetime, I have decided to give Fox News one more chance. Like any suspicious girlf...viewer... would do, I'll be performing a regular "Crotch Watch," to be sure they're staying true.

Already, I am pleased to see they have realized that large, sweaty, basketball players are much more appealing to look at than the bottom-half of a nearly-nude female. America, you are welcome:

Are you ready for some ... Jell-O-Fighting???

There really is a first time for everything.

I have been issued a Jell-O-fighting challenge, and I have whole-bodily accepted.

For those who haven't been following the saga here, and here, and here, let me bring you up to date: hotMES and I are in love with the same Big Sexy. (Just between you and me, I don't really want him, it's just a ruse to make my Site Meter like me.) Not content to settle for our happy threesome, Moe has decided that our love triangle must become a love line segment. Apparently, the scratching, biting, and clawing of a regular cat fight won't do. She has asked that we resort to the more civilized and tasty alternative: Jell-O-fighting.

So, if you're interested in joining us--and how could you not be?--Moe shares these details for your viewing pleasure:

The Event: Jell-O Wrestling Match (Strawberry Jell-O and Whipped Cream)
Location: Washington, DC
When: TBD

I should note that she left out one very important detail: How much?

We will be selling tickets to raise money for a very worthy conservative cause (namely, ourselves). We’re still gauging ticket interest and prices so please let us know how many we should sign you up for.

Before you respond, please consider these costs:

Strawberry Jell-O: $1.29
Redi Whip: $3.00
My airline ticket to DC: $253 (I accept contributions.)
Watching two young, hot conservative chicks enjoying a little Jell-O, whipped cream … and each other(s company): Priceless

So, stay close for ticket info and plan to meet us in DC for a good-old-fashioned, church-picnic-approved Jell-O Fight. If you can't make it, don't worry, our illustrious mentor will be offering DVD sales in the first installation (collector's edition!) of Conservative Chicks Gone Crazy.

P.S. Lest you think my embracing of Jell-O fights is paradoxical (hypocritical is such a harsh word) alongside my peevishness at Fox News' sex obsession, let me clarify: I never meant to suggest that I’m against using sexy images to drum up viewership. I’m only against them when the images are not of me.


Give Me That Old-Time Religion

The American Religious Identification Survey released yesterday by Trinity College has found that (brace yourselves) “secularity continues to grow in strength in all regions of the country.”

Did we really need a report to figure that out? I could have just turned on my television—if it weren’t permanently set to the 700 Club—to reach the same conclusion. I mean think of all that time and money we could have used to find out something important, like, as Christopher Hitchens argues, studying the mutation patterns of fruit flies or “setting up barbed-wire, hair-snagging stations” to get a count on the number of grizzly bears.

(I guess that’s so Stephen Colbert, notorious for his hatred of bears*--and his devastating good looks--will know just how many more he needs to kill. *Note: If you follow the link, you will find an entire web page devoted to Stephen’s Teddy Ruxpin phobio. And, I thought that I had cornered the “How to Waste Your Time on the Internet Without Really Trying” market.)

But this post is supposed to be about religion, not bears or fruit flies, which we all know are decidedly un-Christian. God tells us the only animals that will be in heaven are (1) the lion laying down with the lamb and (2) my goldfish Silver. (I was color-blind as a child. Or, it could have been that “Goldie” had already been taken by my sister’s fish. We were creative like that.)

Still, I must say that the fact that America is becoming more secular doesn’t really worry me. I’m relocating to the French Riviera once this blog skyrockets me into fame, fortune, and utter narcissism. What worries me is that "secularity continues to grow in strength" could just as easily be said about America's churches. "My brothers and sisters, this should not be."

As William Donohue, president of the Catholic League, told Lou Dobbs, "The three most dreaded words are 'thou shalt not.'” He goes on to say it’s not that these people (who claim not to be religious in the survey) are atheists, it’s just that they don’t want to be told what to do with their lives. Newsflash: you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. Anyone who wants to “believe in God” without accepting that there are some “shall” and “shall nots” that go along with the territory is like a person who knows he has a million dollars in the bank but refuses to use it because he doesn’t want his life to change for the better.

In too many churches, people (undoubtedly some of the 75 percent who identified themselves as religious on the survey) can walk into a service having just partied like it was Saturday night(because it was) with no sense of irony or conviction. Now, I’m not going to say I haven’t done it myself, but I felt bad as hell when I did. Why? My church wasn’t afraid to tell people “thou shalt not.” It wasn’t worried about maintaining attendance. It was worried about maintaining souls.

And, to anticipate the charge that I’m preaching fire, brimstone, and judgment, let me insert disclaimer here: I believe anyone who walks into a church should feel welcomed and loved no matter what they may have done the night before. They shouldn’t feel condemned, but they shouldn’t feel comfortable either. Somewhere along the way, they need to hear a “thou shalt not.”

I daresay if churches would begin to work a little more “thou shalt not” into their Sunday morning sessions, there would be a night and day (or would it be heaven and hell?) difference in our churches. More importantly, once those 75 percent share love--and then some "thou shalt nots"--with the other 25 percent, the country's secular landscape might begin to change.

UPDATE: Although evangelicalism was the only sect that did not show a decline in numbers in the American Religious Identification Survey, Michael Spencer thinks the writing is on the wall. He offers this chilling (yet hopeful) assessment of the future of the evangelical world.

"We need new evangelicalism that learns from the past and listens more carefully to what God says about being His people in the midst of a powerful, idolatrous culture."

Undoubtedly, to be successful, this "new evangelicalism" must take a firm stance on some of those old "thou shalt nots."


Doc, how long do I have?

Apparently there is a word for the bevy of conditions I have contracted since joining the blogosphere: Sitemeterenfreude.

While the illness is not deadly, it may shorten my blogging lifespan. Which, incidentally, may not be a bad thing--for all of you. And me. It's scary out here.

Here, too. (P.s. - what kind of a person names their cat Burger and Fries?? Our favorite donut-loving liberal, Karl Frisch, maybe?)

Motherly Advice

Having been called "sweettits" and a "child-hating blogger with no heart" within a matter of minutes this afternoon, a note from my mother offering this advice came at just the right moment: "Smile! It increases your face value!"

She then proceeded (unintentionally) to give me something to smile about. Scrolled in pink ink across the envelope, these words:

"I ate ten cookies today!"
"I love sparkles and glitter!"

I guess even child-hating bloggers can appreciate a Hallmark moment.


As you may or may not know, yesterday was International Women’s Day.

Also, as you may or may not know, I am a woman. (A typo in my profile caused some confusion on this point early on that apparently my profile photo alone could not clear up. Don’t worry—my psychiatrist says I’ll get over it someday.)

As I see it, my ownership of an XXX (not a typo) chromosome made this day a celebration of me. Lest I appear ungrateful, I would like to thank women everywhere for their remarkable contributions to the world, without which this post would not be possible:

1) Food. It’s an indisputable fact that God created women so that women could create food—and babies, more on this below. He only threw in that stuff about Adam’s helpmate to keep the feminist masses (Eve) from revolting. Think about it, it’s no coincidence that each of us got our start sucking sitting at our mother’s … knee. It’s also no coincidence that at the age of 70 my Nana is the best cook in the world and my sister’s baking follows a close second. Why? It’s their job.

As a woman, not embracing your primary purpose in life (to cook), would be like my dog not embracing his primary purpose in life to pee on my bed at 4 a.m. last night, chew my favorite shoes, and look generally adorable while doing it. Sorry, slight diversion, I had to get that out.

2) Entertainment value, I offer blonde jokes, Lucille Ball, and this blog as exhibits A, B, and C.

Also, we can’t forget the pivotal role women have played in the construction industry. Without catcalls and whistles, what would these guys do for fun?

3) Wet dreams. And, by wet I mean bloody. I have this one recurring dream where Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin duke it out in a cage fight. Then, Palin pulls a moose gun out of her bikini and then, drat the luck, I wake up.

4) The Bachelor. Were there not 25 women willing to open up their tender hearts (and lips, and in Molly’s case God only knows what else legs) every season, my Monday nights would have been so much more ... productive.

5) Godiva Chocolate. It’s no secret that men are not connoisseurs when it comes to the devil's food of the gods. Case in point? My father. A real man’s man, he’ll take a good ol’ fashion Hershey bar over a floofy truffle any day. Me? Like any discerning woman, I only accept the best. Please send all chocolate contributions to Birmingham, AL. Big Sexy, you don’t need the address – when it gets within the city limits I’ll be on it like a pig on a truffle.

Anchorman fan’s take note, please send all chocolate squirrel contributions to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, DC 20500.

5) Babies. If you don’t know how this one works, please turn off your computer immediately (after reading my blogs as babies post) and do as Richard Spencer did: pick up your phone. Your mom is waiting to help.

Lovingly yours,

The barefoot-but-not-pregnant-in-the-kitchen-blogger

None of your Gosh Darn, business

UPDATED: My illustrious mentor, The Other McCain, weighs in, on the Rangel video, and more importantly, my love (or lack thereof) life here.

Our resident commenter Big Sexy pwns unscrupulous NY Congressman Charlie Rangel-- all while proving that it's not just conservative chicks who are hotter:

And, also working hard to prove that it's not just conservative chicks who are hotter (I mean eating that many donuts can't be easy), I present democrat Karl Frisch of Media Matters. The video, at seven minutes, is long, but it's worth it. Just think of it like that game "seven minutes in heaven," except with much less groping.

For a spot-on analysis of the clip, check out my friend Hotmes here.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Hate me because I'm conservative?

Apparently, yesterday's lilting refrain ruffled some feathers. Via Don Douglas' mention of my last post and in response to his reminder that "THIS IS HUMOR!" one commenter writes:

"No, Don, this is proof that Republicans suck at humor. She should have included the words 'fags' and 'n*ggers,' it would have appealed more to your base."

Then, in a skillfull showing of typical leftist hypocrisy, he posts this just minutes later:

"I just saw Logan's picture. I take back anything negative I just said about her (as long as she never speaks).

Clearly, a perceived sexual orientation bias by someone else is akin to blasphemy, but blatant sexism when they're the one's dishing it out? Well, that's just par for the liberal course.


Same-Sex Marriage and a Song

Ah, my home sweet home state of California. What a charlie fox you have become.

Check out Donald Douglas' thoughts on the leftist obsession with legalizing same-sex love in the Golden State: "No Faggots, Dykes or Trannies"?

While I have your attention, let me offer this lilting refrain on behalf of my beloved, native land:

Oh, give me a home
Where the immigrants roam
Where the queers and the lesbians play
Where seldom is heard, a rational word
And the sky-high-taxes are not going awaaaaay.

Ménage à Trois at midnight

This afternoon, at the advice of my illustrious mentor, I swore off writing about anything non-political for a week. (No, Mom, I didn't really swear. It's a figure of speech.) But, as I learned from our president, promises are made to be broken, and I just have to share:

After being overcome last hour by an urge for Spicy Chicken Cup ‘O Noodle Soup, I made a middle-of-the-night grocery store run. The parking lot was nearly empty when I arrived. Then, all at once, three cars pulled up. Like one of those Super Bowl commercials where the gratuitous hot chick runs slow-motion through a field of flowers to embrace a Bud Light, all three drivers met in the middle of the lot.

They proceeded to group hug. (Kodak moment! Where’s your camera when you need it?!)

Did I mention that one driver was male and the other two were female? This is important. It seems I have just discovered how to have a threesome in public without getting arrested. Too bad I didn’t find this out last March. Maybe I could pass my discovery on to the bevy of Washington figures who can’t even manage to have a twosome in private (and, by private, I mean one of those pay-by-the-hour jobs) without causing a kerfluffle.

And, I said this post wasn’t going to be political.


All Dolled Up

By now, we’ve all heard of the West Virginia Delegate’s proposed legislation to ban America's Sweetheart.

Thank you, Jeff Eldridge. I had been struggling over who to elect as my Girlie Man of the Month. But you have made it easy with your public decrial of the (I thought) undeniably appealing combination of a tiny waist, flowing blonde locks, and perfect large round, uh, eyes. (Rule 5 attempt #1.)

Being from West Virginia, couldn’t you just be happy if we, say, banned Barbies from wearing shoes?

Or, maybe you are aware of your state’s reputation as a cosmopolitan powerhouse and now you want to further that reputation by taking cultural cues from those sophisticated sand dwellers across the sea?

I hope that should, Ken-forbid, your scheme become law, that four-year-old girls everywhere will take note that you are an ass. Then, in fourteen years, we’ll have a loyal following of 18-year-old lookers ready to help prove that conservative chicks are hotter.

Please note:
1) The uncanny resemblance between random hillbilly (photo 1) and West Virginia's Barbie-hating delegate Jeff Eldridge (photo 2).

2) That, yes, there is a Wicked Witch of the West Barbie.

3) My photoshop skills = epic fail. (But not as egregious as Obama's epic fail.) Maybe if I had spent more time studying and less time playing with my barbies during my graphic design course in college ...

URGENT: to my blog-hungry public:


Who’s Your Daddy? First come blogs ... then come babies in a baby carriage.

Folks, I’ve had an epiphany. Having a blog is like having a child—except without the benefit of a tax write-off or the obligation, er, pleasure of filling your wallet (or, would it be iPhone?) with photos of the little munchkin that you can whip out to make awkward elevator rides with strangers, well, even more awkward.

Note: The following (actual) scenario is entirely off-topic. Humor me for a moment, and maybe someday (or at some point within this post, whichever comes later,) I’ll return the favor.

*First: Cue the obligatory makes-you-want-to-stick-your-fingers-in-your-ears or go-grocery-shopping elevator music.*

Random parent: “Good morning!”
Me: “Grrmphg.”
Random parent: “We haven’t met before, but you have a kind face. Would you mind offering me affirmation that it wasn't a complete mistake for me to propagate the gene pool?” (Okay, so I’m paraphrasing. Trust me, it’s better this way.)
Me: “Grrrmphg.”
Random parent: (Digs their hand into their pocket, pulling out a photo of a young girl who, I’m sure, has a very nice personality.)
Me: Actual words spoken, “Aww, she’s going to be a heart-breaker!” Actual words thought: “Looking at this picture is breaking my heart.”
Random parent: (Looks disappointed that the elevator has arrived.)
Me: (Makes a mental note to blog about this some day after a life-altering PLM, then resolves to take the stairs next time.)

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog.

Where were we? Oh, yes, blogs as babies. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that the two are similar in every way. Just most every way. Once you begin blogging, you enter a veritable time warp (they grow up so fast!), then there are the necessary (checks clock) 5:34 a.m. feedings postings, and last but not least the joy you receive from watching it grow. And, by "grow," I mean habitually checking your Site Meter and announcing to no one in particular—because the room is empty—“Whoo-hoo! Two more pageviews ... Oh, wait, I think those were from me.”

Still, those reasons aren’t what led to my eye-opening realization that having a blog was a crucial step towards my bearing children. (If this progression from blogs as babies to my birthing children came as a surprise, then continue to the paragraph below. But, if somehow you sensed all along that I was burying the lede and that this post wasn’t about elevators, or blogs as babies at all, but instead about my rescinding my long-professed refusal to have children, then you and I--assuming that “you” are an unmarried male--belong together.)

To what, then, do my ovaries owe this change of heart? For three years, I nannied my way through college. During this time, I wondered why in the name of Capitalism anyone would ever choose to do something for free that they could do for money. Why should I populate the world with offspring of my own when I could just watch someone else’s, take home a check at the end of the day, and leave the lovable little monsters behind, to boot?

It turns out it’s for the same reason that I am writing this now. Since feeling the pressure to join the blogging world some years back, I often asked myself, “Why would anyone write for free when you can get paid for it?” So, I was content to freelance. Primarily, I wrote fluffy home design pieces (also known as “home porn” to The Other McCain). But, the voice was never my own, thus I never felt true joy at seeing the pieces published. All that has changed. Finally free to ramble on as I please, I now know what bliss it is to create and nurture something of your very own.

So, having embraced the opportunity to write words for free, the next logical step in my progression of free labor (no pun intended, really) is to have children for free. Which brings me to my final point (and the crowd breathes a sigh of relief): while my blog's baby daddy has already been announced, my actual baby daddy is still TBD. My vote was for Mitt Romney, but it seems he is already taken. I welcome your suggestions.


You don't blog?!?! Or, how to succeed in losing your chance (and dignity) with Richard Spencer without really trying.

Update: Wecome Taki Mag readers, click here for an updated report on my lesbian status. After reading this post, of course.

Having been bombarded by those nearest and dearest to me as to what really prompted me to reject my anti-establishment principles (apparently my Pivotal Life Moment explanation below wasn’t doing it for them) and *gasp* start a blog and *double gasp* add a wall to my facebook, I feel I must confess what may have been the true catalyst for my change of heart: that age-old phenomenon peer pressure. With Richard Spencer being that peer.

During CPAC last week, I found myself in the fortuitous position of being introduced to Taki's Magazine's golden boy Mr. Spencer (we both knew it was coming), or as he is more commonly known, not least to himself, "The All-Important Magazine Editor.” (He will from here on be known as TAIME.) At first glance, he's one of those charm fellows we all adore so. At second glance, he’s … well, actually, I didn’t get a second glance. Why? I was bloglesss.

Sure, we could attribute his almost immediate leave of absence from the bar where we were chatting to a lack of chemistry, a mutual and instant dislike, my having forgotten to apply deodorant that night, etc. But it’s much more fun to assume that it was actually a result of my admitting without requisite shame that not only did I not have a blog but I had little intention of starting one.

And, to anyone who may be thinking I’m grasping at straws/fodder for blog postings/salve for my soul by making this assumption, let me assure you, it’s not a stretch. You see, TAIME inquired not once, not twice, but thrice after my presence (or, at the time, lack thereof) in the blogosphere. Maybe he was worried the look of abject horror on his nicely-chiseled face had been lost on me the first two times. Each time, saying no to his “Do you blog?” felt tragically similar to how I imagine it would feel to say no to, “Do you believe in Christmas?” were the question coming from Santa Clause. It seemed that my answering in the negative would cause a) the walls of the Omni to crumble, b) the stars to fall from the sky, and/or c) me to lose all credibility in TAIME’s mind, which would then be a sufficient reason for him to dismiss himself to “make a call.” ("Hi, Mom!")

Once alone, I knew how the individual strapped to a chair in the middle of a concrete cell with a single light glaring down feels when the inquisitor finally leaves the room. Still, I’m glad for the experience, having received more pleasure from penning this post than pain from the social awkwardness of being abandoned, drink in hand, in a bar full of strangers. Plus, I feel it is only appropriate to publicly thank my unwitting (but certainly not witless) inspirator. Who knows, having established my social worth (and personal value), maybe I will get that second chance, uh, glance someday.

If you’re reading this TAIME, just a friendly word of advice from your once-jilted but now forever-grateful, blog-wielding fan: When a girl asks for a vodka and cranberry, she means a vodka and cranberry. And, when she asks for straight cranberry juice, well, maybe she has a UTI.


And, you were not the same.

UPDATE: Welcome Instapundit readers. Words (at least the 150 of them that I happen to know) can't express how thrilled I am to have received the Insta-lanche on my very first post!

While you're here, stop by today's last post. I have had yet another Pivotal Life Moment: Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow: Pivotal Life Moments, Part 2.

Pivotal Life Moments. They move us and shape us. They cause us to do things we swore we’d never do start blogs. They alter our future by imprinting our present so that, to paraphrase the brilliant Ben Folds, we are not the same after that.

Until now, my PLMs haven't always come through the usual sources—college, moving, marriage. (I'm two for three on this and my naked left ring finger and I agree that it’s fitting the phrase “two out of three ain’t bad” came from a singer named Meat Loaf.) Instead, they have slipped in almost unobserved via the mundane realities of everyday life. Case in point: Sitting at my kitchen table a few summers back, I realized that I had chosen the cholesterol-lowering, high-fibery-goodness-touting cereal over the cloyingly cute Trix Rabbit. I still consider that my official welcome to Destination Adulthood.

Still, it is not how these moments occur but simply that they do that matters.

My most recent PLM occurred this past weekend during a political pep rally conference in Washington, D.C. The setting was mildly more remarkable than my kitchen, not least because I was wearing high heels rather than eeyore slippers. For hours, I was whisked around by my illustrious mentor to meet one influential, potentially PLM-inducing figure after another. After introducing myself as a “feature writer for a lifestyle magazine” (translation: failure at life), the question of when I was planning to transition into “real journalism” invariably followed. Each conversation culminated in my fumbling for a business card that would later be used to line their kid’s hamster cage.

Suddenly, those eeyore slippers sounded pretty damn good.

Rather fortuitously, I ran out of business cards and arrived in the speakers’ room just as a husband and wife team from Ireland took the stage to promote their new movie, exposing the “conspiracy” of Global Warming hysteria. While I didn’t find a pot of gold, or even a Guinness, at the end of their address, I did find my Pivotal Life Moment.

The topic was global warming. The rhetoric was heated. The crowds were cheering. And, I was appalled.

As the couple offered sound reasons as to we why we could eat anything we want (We’re American!), drive what we want (We’re American!!), expend as many resources and show as little environmental responsibility as we want (We’re American!!!), I became acutely aware that this position was not only an affront to my intelligence but to the very core of what it means to be American.

At that moment, my PLM hit: maybe the world of politics and culture could use me, after all. You see, for the past few years, I have been determined to write about nothing of substance. I wanted to write “cute things about nice people.” (Don’t judge, or I may just give you my business card.) But it hadn’t always been that way.

I was one of those kids who grew up planning to be somebody important. I wasn’t content to imagine myself as a doctor or a fireman. I was going to be the next Hunter S. Thompson—minus the tragic end, Edward R. Murrow—minus the cigarette, or the First Lady—who, at the time was Hillary Clinton, so minus the pantsuit. (For those wondering why I didn’t aspire to President rather than First Lady, I did. But the Missus had better shoes, and a girl’s gotta have her priorities).

In short, I had big dreams.

Years later, in a fateful PLM, my parents shipped me off to Patrick Henry College in Northern Virginia rather than boot camp. Just weeks into my freshman year, I became disillusioned—to put it mildly—by the well-intentioned but intellectually lazy zealotry of my classmates who were determined to storm Washington and take over the White House in the name of Jesus. Determined to separate myself from this culture, which I consider neither compatible with the sayings of Jesus nor conducive to gaining credibility in the real world on either side of the political continuum, I gave up doing anything “important” with my life and transitioned into lifestyle magazines. I moved to the south and, for over a year, wrote about home design, travel, food, and kitschy local events.

I was determined to prove that I knew being an evangelical did not mean I had a divine directive to change the world through politics. Still, the more I wrote about the latest color combinations and how to take a room from “so-so to smashing” (true story), the more I began craving an outlet for the dialogue of thoughtful analysis and humorous (to me) commentaries that I found running through my head at any given point during the day.

The obvious answer? A blog. So, thanks to my Irish-couple-induced-PLM, here I am. Now, having joined the ranks of those millions who feel they can contribute to society by, as Andrew Sullivan calls it, writing out loud, I hope that one of these days I may say just the thing that will serve as a PLM catalyst for one of you.