How Bullies Are Created

So, Mom, Mr. Recommendation, and myself traveled up to Podunk, Mo to see my nephew play a little league game. As I have said before, baseball generally doesn't blow my skirt up, but watching 7-year olds try to play is quite amusing. You can almost pick out the Ritalin kids as they are watching butterflies in the outfield.

At any rate, we're sitting in the bleachers, watching my nephew's team completely smash the other team when the little pitching machine pitches the ball, batter swings, misses, and the catcher gets beaned in the hand or something. Whatever it was, it hurt, and the kid starts to cry.

Crying Catcher Kid is holding his hand. And instead of a concerned parent or coach checking it out, we get his father (all 300lbs of him) charging out of the bull pen and screaming at his seven-year old son to "Stop being such a crybaby!" and "You're causing the game to be delayed!" and "God, you're such a crybaby!"

Screaming Dad was also the team's coach.

A collective gasp from our team bleachers. Not a peep from their team bleachers. I'm going to guess that they have been witness to Father of the Year before, maybe it's standard operating procedure for them.

Someone does speak up, and Screaming Dad yells at that person to mind their own business because, "It's my son and I will do what I damn well want!"

With that, Asshole of the Year pulls his son out of the game. Mom comes in, collects the boy, and takes him up to their car. I imagine to calm down, but Mom never said a word either.

There's all kinds of wrong with this picture.

If I had been the Mom, Coach Douchebag would have had a new one ripped right there. If I was a parent that had a kid on that team, I would have pulled my own kid off the field, told the coach to go fuck himself, and then left.  I wanted to grab my nephew's new composite bat and shove it up his fat ass without so much as a drop of lube.

You know, I have always read the horror stories of parents behaving poorly at their kid's sports events, but I have never witnessed it firsthand. It takes a real man to stand up to an injured 7-year old.

Meanwhile, my section becomes the section of insults directed towards Coach Dickhead. Mom is suddenly stricken with Acute Tourette's Syndrome and randomly shouts out all kinds of words. Despite being furious as the appalling display I have just witnessed, I shush Mom before we are ejected by the umpire.

I should have recorded this whole thing and posted it on YouTube. Then, the antics of Captain Dickwad would be out there for all the world to see.

I'm still pretty mad. I'm also pretty sad for that kid, who has that piece of shit for a father. Ever wonder how bullies are created?

There you go.

Future Hospital Customers

So, the parental units and I stopped by Ghettomart on our way home the other night. I really need to stop going there. Every time I do, I end up hating the human race. Sometimes, saving twenty-five cents isn't worth your dignity...or your personal safety. I will admit, there have been a few times, more than I care to count, that I have gone there in the evening and actually been nervous walking from the parking lot to the building. The place, sitting like a beacon off I-70, draws them in from both trailer park and projects alike, and provides just an easy a getaway.

And it's not just me being paranoid. There's been shootings, muggings, and other American-made trouble that Sam Walton's gang didn't have to import from China. As a nurse, I've become acutely aware of my surroundings at all times. When intuition tells me to move my ass, I do so.

At any rate, we were at Ghettomart the other night, and we finished buying our kitty crack (hey, furballs gotta eat, too). En route back to automotive, where we had parked, were two youngish fellas, sporting very pretty gang colors, nonchalantly buying ammo for .45 Automatic guns.

Not exactly the kind of guns you use to hunt deer. Besides, it's not deer season. It's not anything season. And I hate the concept of profiling, but if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, and buys bullets for automatic weapons in the urban core while wearing colors...it's probably a gang-banging duck.

We left the store pretty quickly. I wasn't disgusted. I was more disappointed that for some, this is the best they can hope for themselves. I was also a little alarmed that it was that easy for anyone to just go and buy rounds of ammo at their local Walmart. I'm not a fear monger when it comes to gun control. I actually support the second amendment. I recognize that while we have restrictions and rules in play for people who want to buy and own guns, those who have no business possessing them, will always obtain them illegally.

From the looks of the amount of bullets those kids were buying, we should be in for an interesting summer.

Meanwhile, I'm just going to be shopping at Target from now on.

One More Candle and a Trip Around the Sun

Another year, come and gone. Now, I am 37 years old.

I am three years away from 40.

I really don't feel like I should be that old. I feel like I should have more accomplished by now. I look at other people my age, people I knew in my youth. Facebook makes it easy to do that. Some of them have kids who are just now graduating high school. Some are divorced or are working on their second or third marriage.

My lack of these standard milestones don't make me feel like less of a person. It doesn't make me a failure either. It just makes me different, and I am perfectly okay with that.

I'm optimistic about my 37th year, despite the vortex of drama that swirls around my life. This is the year I re-evaluate my standards. I challenge my own belief system. I step out of my comfort zone and try something different. I push my own boundaries. It may leave a large wake, or maybe just a little ripple in the water.

But this is the year where everything changes.

Lady Part Problems

Sometimes, it sucks being a girl. You got boobs that bounce around when you try to exercise, and after a while, it hurts. That's even with a "decent" sports bra. You got internal plumbing that comes with their own issues. We bloat. We get hostile. We cry at the drop of the hat and can't tell you why we are crying because we honestly have no idea.

I got lady part problems. So much, that my gyn and myself have resorted to swapping emails. Honestly, my gyn doc is the shizzle. If you need a good one, hit my up and I will send you her contact info.

Anyway, with all the lady part issues, the subject of babies are bound to pop up sooner or later. During one appointment, she asked me what my child-bearing plans were. I was stunned for a minute, because with the way things currently are, children are not even a remote possibility. You know, because you need sperm and stuff to make one.

"I'm not dating anyone right now and I have no desire to become a single mother." I replied. Good enough for the doctor. But it did get me thinking...

I'll be 37 in a couple months, and not once have I heard the tickings of my biological clock. If I see I baby in the store, I may smile at the mom and make some comment along the lines of "cute baby" (because I feel like you almost have to or something), but I don't ooohh and awww over it the way some women do. Like my mother. She's now in full time Grandmother Mode, and if there is a baby within a five mile radius, she will find it and make cooing Grandma noises. She loves small children and babies.

I'm essentially indifferent.

What the hell is wrong with me? Oh sure, I love my nieces and nephew, and if for some reason I had to, I would step up to the plate and take care of those kids if they needed it. But right now, I have no internal drive to breed. Nothing that feels like a nurturing, motherly instinct.

Where am I going with this? Well, in light of recent lady problems, the possibility exists that things may happen that will take childbearing completely out of the equation. If I don't plan on using the nursery furniture, why even have them? But then, that would take the choice out of my hands. If I didn't have kids, I want it to ultimately be my decision.

It's a choice I would like open to me, because you never know what is going to happen down the road.

Don't Mess with Tough Biker Dudes

I was sitting in a parking lot with Mother, waiting for Mr. Recommendation, when I spied (with my little eye) a lady sitting behind my car on a pink scooter. With a matching pink helmet.

"Way cute!" Mom and I both exclaimed.

We noticed the red scooter next to her was riderless, probably because it's rider was in the store. Not to be disappointed, he popped out and went to join is companion. We knew it was him because he was wearing a helmet. Black, with flaming skulls, and the straps had little spikes on them. This helmet was serious business.

Mr. Hard-Core Bike Helmet guy walked over to his bad-assed red steel horse, mounted, and with Pink Lady, roared off into the sunset. More like whirred, or whatever little sounds scooters make when you drive away. Maybe I could replicate the noise with a food processor or something.

We made sure to laugh after they were gone. Wouldn't want the hard-core biker man to come back. He would have tried to use the Vulcan death grip or The Force or something.

Still Breathing...

I haven't fallen off the face of the planet. I swear.

Today is Thanksgiving. I'm working. Tonight is going so bad, that the other nurses and myself are making plans to go work at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch (you can google it, but definitely NSFW). We're discussing our gimmicks, our stage names. We'll be working in Quality Control, of course.

Life has been pretty crazy lately. My aunt, after repeated visits to the hospital, has come to stay at my mother's for a couple weeks. I've been running next door every two hours to help her to the bathroom. We've been punk'd by my aunt, would be a huge understatement. I will write a more detailed blog about it later.

Oh yeah, back to Thanksgiving.

Mom is going to be hosting dinner, with the added aunt, plus brothers, one of which is bringing his girlfriend. Then, my cousin on my dad's side, whom I haven't seen in almost 20 years, will also be stopping by. I'm looking forward to seeing her. We've been slowly making contact with dad's side of the family in the past couple of months. But only to a select few. There's still relatives that I have no desire to ever communicate with them again.

So, here's to a Happy Thanksgiving. May it be full of good food, quality naps, and minimal bloodshed.

The Sun Sets on a Sea of Red

As some of you know, my big brother passed away last Tuesday. It was shocking, surreal, and somewhat of a relief. He was in so much pain, but he went so fast.

Cancer is a bitch.

Yesterday, we had his funeral. At his request, we wore casual and Chiefs apparel. He was a HUGE Chiefs fan. So much, that the Chiefs organization sent an autographed football for us to put in the casket with him. I'm not a die hard Chiefs fan, but acts like this could make me one.

Even though Mom and the Stepdad are divorced, the kids still look to the Stepdads family as our own. When our own father passed away, they accepted us as one of their own. Papa C has been more of a father to me that my own bio-dad. My own brother's have grown to be honorable men and devoted fathers. I credit this to the influence of Papa C and his family. However, Papa C remarried a guano-psychotic woman, and she always tries to make things about her. Before the funeral, she called my mother in an attempt to discourage us from going. We went anyway. The rest of the family was apprised of the phone call, appalled by it, and I trust they will deal with her in their own way.

That being said, big brother's funeral was one of the most unusual I have been to. It wasn't because of the Chiefs colors either. That part was actually cool to see.

So, everyone files in to building for the viewing. I will admit, I didn't get a good look at brother. His wasted, cancer-ridden frail body is not how I want to remember him. Instead, I caught up with family, exchanged hugs, stories.

When the service part began, we seated. Because so many people showed up, the funeral directors had to pull out all of their folding chairs. They were the Gestapo of funeral directors, barking out orders to well-wishers. "Go sit there!" "Don't stand there!" "No drinks allowed inside!"

At the beginning, various country songs played and we just sat there and listened. Country music wasn't Big Brother's cup of tea (he's more a Bob Seger kinda guy), so I guessed the wife and daughters picked the tunes out that they felt best reflected their own personal relationships with Big Brother. After a handful of song, a family friend who happened to be a Baptist minister (Big Brother is RLDS) got up and spoke his little sermon, which was a little disjointed because he sounded like Forest Gump ate up with religion. He then announced that he wanted to sing one verse from an old song he knew.

Five verses later, he finishes, arms waving around in the air, sounding like Hank Williams Sr on a bad acid trip. My cousins are sitting a few aisles away and are trying not to bust out laughing. I imagine Big Brother would have had a chuckle as well. We listen to another song. An open invitation is extended to anyone who wants to say a few words. One of the cousins is the only one put together enough to actually articulate anything, so he speaks. I liked his remarks best of all.

After the service, the funeral directors kick us outside and direct us to go to the back of the building for the procession, which consisted of the pallbearers carrying the coffin ten feet to the car, which would transport Big Brother to his final resting place 100 feet away. While we wait, about 25% of the well-wishers, in what could only be described as a tribute laden with heavy irony, light up cigarettes.

Big Brother happened to die from lung cancer, by the way. He smoked like a chimney.

Some words are given at the grave site, and we are dismissed. Redneck Brother and myself linger and talk to Papa C and Big Brother #2, rehashing funny family stories. Guano-Psychotic lingers nearby, ready to pee on Papa C's leg at a moment's notice. I make sure to cast "that look" at her a couple times. I usually reserve "that look" for my most idiot of patients.

We left, armed with current numbers and promises to gather for things besides a funeral.

So now, I sit here and reflect on the family. My heart goes out to his two daughters for I know what it is to lose your father as such a young age. My heart goes out to his wife, who is barely hanging onto sanity by a thread. I ache for Papa C, for no parent should have to bury a child. I hurt for my brothers, both bio and step, because there is a special bond between brothers that I cannot even begin to comprehend.

So life moves forward, never to forget those we lose along the way.

My Patriotism is Bigger Than Your Patriotism...

I was out and about with Mom and Tat Bro today, taking the Little Princess to lunch. Gosh, she's so damn cute, I ask Tat Bro if I can have her. He keeps saying no, but I hope to wear him down someday...hopefully before she hits puberty. Then, I take the offer off the table.

But I digress...

So, after lunch, Mom and I drive by a gas station with a sign in the window that proclaimed "American Owned and Operated". I vowed never to patronize that business.

Long ago, I was dating a guy who lived in Topeka. I went to school and worked part time during the week, and then spent weekends in Topeka. There was a donut shop Deon liked to go to. At one point, it used to be a Dunkin Donuts, but then something happened where the ownership changed hands to a man from India, who lived in Topeka with his family. For whatever reason, the new owner decided not to continue with the Dunkin franchise, and renamed it Dimple Donuts. Same donuts, clean place, brightly lit, the workers were friendly, and I guessed they were all related.

Across the street, there was another donut shop. A little darker, outdated on the inside, but the donuts were pretty good and they had their own loyal following as they always seemed busy.

A donut is a donut is a donut. And Deon had never met a donut he didn't like. So, he patronized both businesses equally. One weekend I was there, and I noticed that the older donut place had put up a sign in their window that read, "OUR PROFITS STAY IN THE US". Here was a guy, who was not born in this country, who was a business owner, and just doing what he could to provide for his family. Meanwhile, the Teabagging Palinites across the street thought he was pond scum for doing just that. Only because he wasn't born in this country.

I was incensed. Just because the Constitution defends your right to be a bigot, doesn't mean I have to bankroll it.

I have a HUGE issue with nation-centricity. Oh, it's okay to have patriotism...wave your flag, shoot off fireworks, say the Pledge, but a lot can be said for humility and accepting that there are people that you share this world with, who are different. And just because they don't share the same creed, race, religion, address as you, doesn't mean they are less than human.

I see and hear about it every day, and it makes me sick. Crispy Christians against anyone else who doesn't share their faith. Americans who look down upon those who were not birthed on American soil. Wealthy people who look upon those less fortunate as they were some sort of cancer. Bigotry is alive and well, prevalent and accepted...but I'm not supporting it.

The label "Buy American" doesn't hold a lot of water with me, not when it is implied that what I am getting is somehow more righteous just because it was made by someone who speaks my language.

Sometimes, I really hate this planet and wish the Big Rock would strike already.

General Blather: The Official Blog of the Kansas City Chiefs

So, the parental units scored extra tickets to the first game of preseason, and I got to tag along. I was somewhat enthusiastic to go, and thought a game would get my mind off of "Does he like me, or doesn't he?"

We get there, admire all the people in their Chiefs attire. Quite a few people are there, which is funny considering this could basically be called a practice game. With no training for months, the pre-game now has to be used by the coaches as part of their process of culling the herd. Starters know that their jobs are safe, so the noobs are put in the game. I think Cassel was put in for the first two minutes and then he disappeared into a black hole.

The Chiefs Cheerleaders were marginally better than last year. Marginally. It must suck being a Chiefs cheerleader. You have to dance to music that is not even playing. You get oogled by middle-aged, fat, balding men while everyone else just ignores you. KC Wolf is loved more. So is Warpaint, and he's just a horse. Sure, you get to be in a calendar, but then again, some serial killer is going to masturbate over your picture while suffocating his neighbor's cat.

It was nice to see the new improvements my tax dollars paid for. Two huge jumbo LED screens that I would start to watch until I had to remind myself that I was essentially watching the game on tv at the game. The organization is jacking themselves off silly because Taylor Swift is going to have a concert there. Of all the people they finally allow to have a concert at Arrowhead, it is that abomination. I weep for Kansas City.

A big LED screen wrapped around the entire stadium, which just was a continuous cycle of ads. Just in case you were wondering on the offical sponsors of the Chiefs:

Soda Pop: Coke
Bank: Commerce Bank
Airline: United (be careful, I hear they break guitars)
Grocery store: HyVee (what happens if a Chiefs player is caught shopping at Price Chopper?)
Beer: Anheuser-Busch
Beauty Supplies (for the cheerleaders): Beauty Brands
Phone Service: Sprint
Sports Drink: Gatorade
Health Insurance: Blue Cross Blue Shield
Vehicle: Ford
Dairy Products: Roberts
Meat Not In a Can: Farmland
Meat Product in a Can: Spam
News Channel: KCTV5
Hospital: Truman Med Center
Fast Food: KFC
Cable: Time Warner
Printing Company: Pittcraft Printing
Douche: Massengil

Okay, so I may have made that last one up. Everyone knows they prefer Summer's Eve.

As usual, you have to mortgage your house to eat there, even more so since they added some familiar culunary faces to the menu: Jack Stack, Blanc, Peachtree. The also added a Pro Shop where you can sign away rights to your firstborn for a jersey. I thought I may have seen Mother whispering to a sales lady there, while pointing at me...but I can't be too sure.

The game rolled on. And on. And on. At one point, someone in our section produced a beach ball, and so that was tossed around, and for a while, was more interesting to watch than the game. The ball sailed dangerously close to the wall, until someone popped it back into the crowd. The crowd cheered, victorious.

A relatively new feature would be the KC Rumble, which is a drumline for the team. The announcer said it was the biggest and best in the NFL, which was discouraging because there were maybe 8-10 drummers. I'm going to assume it wasn't the entire line as I know they are currently holding auditions for the drumline. I have to admit, I like the drumline better than the band that used to play. The lead singer made my ears bleed. I will also admit that I am considering auditioning for the drumline. However, it's been years since I have picked up sticks. Maybe, it's like riding a bicycle...you don't forget. When I did play, people told me that I was pretty good at it. So, we will see.

There was the standard loud douchebag in our section who was for the opposing team. Then there was his counterpart, the douchebag white knight who defended the Chiefs' honor. In there, were people roaming around, trying to ninja seats that looked empty. We were in a good section, right be Chiefs endzone. We didn't see a lot of play on our end.

We, along with 90% of the crowd, cut out at the beginning of the 4th quarter. The Chiefs lost their shirt, but it was pre-season so no one give a rat's ass. Myself included.

Flip-Top Head

A few months ago, a filling fell out of my back molar. It didn't hurt, but there was a nice little sharp spot that was annoying. I made an appointment with the dentist, only to cancel because I had work obligations. Being the procrastinator I am, I finally rescheduled and went yesterday.

Despite what my friends and family may tell you, I have a small mouth. In fact, I had to have teeth pulled because of crowding. I know a girl who can shove her whole fist in her mouth (making her very popular with the boys). I'm not such a person. You know how you are supposed to eat sushi in whole bites? I struggle with that too, which makes eating sushi a labor of love.

At some point in my formative years, I had some sort of TMD. The only residual now is that I get jaw fatigue easily (which doesn't make me popular with the boys). Now, try to imagine yourself spending an afternoon at the dentist's office with two people trying to cram their hands in your mouth.

At one point, I had wave my hands and tell them to stop trying to split my face open. When it came time to take pictures (they mill their own crowns in office and the images are done by computer), the dental assistant got all butthurt because the damn camera couldn't fit in my mouth. Oh, and I was drooling everywhere, which distorts the images. Sorry, Miss Perky Dental Assistant Who's Name Ends in IE, just because you can fit anything in your wide, open trap (and you probably do on the weekends), doesn't mean everyone else can.

On a side note, have you ever noticed that girls who's first names end in an IE-sound are too damn perky? Ashley, Britney, Amberlie, Buffy, Courtnie? Maybe if Mom would have given me a name like that, I'd be less of an asshole and more like a Johnson County sorority girl.

Three hours and almost $400 later, I walked out of the office. Because I was in the Northland, I thought I would run some errands. Midway, the Novocaine wore off and everything hurt. I ordered a soda to take an Aleve with, and drinking through a straw proved to be a disaster as I wore most of it. The guy at the counter was mortified and probably wondered about the lady who appeared to be having a stroke before his very eyes.

Now, I sit at home with a massive headache...but I have a new pearly white to show for it. Too bad it rests in the back of my mouth where no one will see it.

I hate you, dentist office. All that time and money, and you wouldn't even part with a free toothbrush. Go to hell.

Tales of the Homeowner: FIRE!!!!! (...or not)

Monday started innocently enough. With the impending vacation, I decided a thorough cleaning was in order. I dusted places that haven't been dusted since I can't remember. I swept, vacuumed, drug out the carpet steamer. I was a woman on a mission.

In the afternoon, I climbed into the frigid attic to bring down my Autumn tote to put the autumn decorations and Halloween costume pieces in. Not to mention drag out the luggage. It was butt-assed cold up there, in my pajamas. Not to mention the lights decided not to work. I was also talking to Mother on the phone as I worked and we were talking about vacation things.

I came down the ladder and let the trap door slam shut when I sniffed the air. Smoke???

I came down the stairs and found a living room full of it. Entering the OH MY GOD, MY HOUSE IS ON FIRE mode, I shrieked for Mr. Recommendation to come over (thinking it was an electrical fire caused by aforementioned not-working attic lights), and hung up on my mother.

Meanwhile, I go tearing through the house trying to find the source of the fire. Sam and Lucy, sensing my excitement, think this is a new, fun game that Mommy is playing, and start chasing me. I go back upstairs, kick the dogs into the back yard, and start considering tossing both cats out there as well. Mom and Mr. Recommendation come over, and find me out of breath, hacking on smoke, running around the house like a dog chasing its tail, carrying a little home fire extinguisher.

"CALL 911!!!" I order, before grabbing my cell phone and placing the call myself.

Minutes later, two full-sized fire trucks come creeping up my unplowed street (thanks KCMO), sirens wailing, lights flashing. I have both front and back doors open, trying to air out the smoke in the house. I'm standing there, wearing pajamas and Ugg boots, with hair that's all nasty with dust.

Half a dozen fully decked out firemen come into my house. Two of them carry a big-assed metal spear-looking things. Those things are to poke holes in your ceiling. I sit on the couch and put my face in my hands, wondering how I am going to explain this to my insurance adjuster. At this point, we figure out that there is no immediate fire...but where in the hell did all the smoke come from???

Next thing you know, my house is crawling with firemen....sadly, none of them looked like these guys.

(You want me to clean you off?...With my tongue??)

(The decent-looking ones are married, the rest look like they are fourteen years old or Wilford Brimley.) They search my house so thoroughly, I'm convinced that if I had hemorrhoids, they probably would have found those as well. Fortunately, I didn't have anything out in plain site that would cause further embarrassment...such as dirty underwear, or, ahem...power tools. I have A LOT of power tools. I'd hate to see one of them get poked with my jigsaw.

I peek out the front door, and see half the neighborhood has vacated their houses, and are now standing in their driveways, watching the excitement unfold. Some were holding shovels, no one was using them. Did I mention that my neighborhood is full of cops???

After having tracked all the snow from the outside, to the inside of my house, the firemen deduce that the smoke came from my chimney, even though there hadn't been anything burning in it for almost a day and a half (and that was just some crappy little fire log). It is theorized that my chimney is clogged with something (a nest, leaves, Lindsay Lohan's career), and the smoke of whatever was smoldering for almost two days, became trapped. When I opened and shut the attic door, it created a vacuum that sucked the smoke out into the lower level, and caused me to panic, calling for people to come and admire my freshly shampooed carpet by tracking over it in wet, dirty boots.

As an added bonus, the firemen discover my furnace filter looks gross, and they bring it up to show me. I am lectured by four firemen on the importance of changing my filter. They were even nice enough to turn off my furnace until I could get a new filter. None of them offered to drive me to Lowes in their fire truck so I could get a replacement. Assholes.

The firemen take their leave, dejected because they didn't get to poke holes in my ceiling. The neighbors immediately retreat to their houses to talk about that weird lady running around her house wearing pajamas, Uggs, and carrying a little red fire extinguisher. Hell, if fire trucks were at a neighbor's house, I'd at least have the decency to stay inside and look out a window instead of gawking from my drive way.

Mom and Mr. Recommendation accompany me to Lowe's that evening so I can have heat again. They make fun of my fuzzy filter (which had absolutely nothing to do with the smoke event) the entire time.

So, tomorrow I get to clean the floors...again. The fire place is officially off limits until I can get a chimney sweep out to clean it. And maybe even after that. My entire house smells like I just hosted a Boy Scout camp minus the sweaty gym socks and nocturnal emissions. All that campfire smell, and not a marshmallow in sight.

I'm so ready for vacation. Of course, I still need to go back into the attic and get my luggage.

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

Yeah, I know, I don't blog much. Talk about the world's biggest writer's block! I either have nothing to say, or something to say and I don't care whether I say it or not.

Lately, I have been focused on house stuff. An adjuster is supposed to come over at some point and inspect my roof, which apparently sustained some damage from that bad storm we had back in September. I don't know shit about roofs, other than they have shingles and they go on top of your house. Don't hate me for it. I wouldn't bust the balls of a roofer if he couldn't tell me the electrical conduction system of the human heart.

I also invested in a proper leaf blower. The one I had purchased last year was more geared for the old fart who had six leaves to blow off of his four foot sidewalk. I could rake my yard in a faster time it took me to blow a small leaf pile. So, I invested in a turbo-charged behemoth of a blower and the leaves were blown in two seconds. It kicked up a lot of dust in the backyard (which is all dirt and no grass), resulting in the entire neighborhood having to go wash their cars. The Angry Lesbians who live behind me were not horribly impressed. Since they bought and moved into the foreclosure home, they haven't been happy about much (hence the title Angry Lesbians). They even called the fire department when Mr. Recommendation was running his smoker because it hindered their ability to sit on their back deck and scowl at everyone.

And speaking of Angry Lesbian, my cousin (Militant Lesbian Cousin if you remember the saga I described here, here, and here.) made the mistake of calling Mother an Effing C-word. THAT word. The mother of all bad words. I admit I use the word on a rare occasion, but if you called me one, I'd probably laugh at you. However, you don't call my mother that. You don't call anyone in your family that. I don't think Rosie anticipated the backlash from the rest of the family members once they heard of the incident, but in addition to, ahem, other pie that she may be snacking on, she has also been served up some humble pie. I'm not falling for it, though. There's just some levels of drama that you are better off without.

Most days, I go between missing Oz and being mad at what a douche he was, and mad at myself for still having feelings for him. Blowing leaves around the yard gives one plenty of time to think of such things. It also gives impressive blisters on your hands and a dozen bags of leaves.

I've gone out on a date, maybe two (I can't really remember) to ease back into that saddle. It was fun, but I have a knack for honing in on the guys who aren't looking for anything serious, or monogamous. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but I know what I am wired for, and it helps me maintain a good emotional distance. What can I say? I have aloof down to an artform.

Return to Sender

For the past year or so, I have been getting emails from some people I don't know. What I do know, is that they live in Texas, and they are bigtime Crispy Christians. What is a Crispy Christian, you may ask? Well, it's someone who is so ate up over their religion, that they can't help but be all self-righteous about it. Back in the days when they had tent revivals, there was usually a big bonfire involved. Local townsfolk would go, get all excited about the faith du jour until the next revival came to town and they go all excited about that one. In some areas, black scorches marked the earth from so many revivals visiting in a short amount of time. Crispy Christians.

There is a saying that I recently heard, that I am absolutely in love with, goes as such:

I'm perfectly okay with people having faith. I'm perfectly okay with those who don't. I try to look at the person and base their merits on the person, instead of whether they go to church or not. Sure, there's churches out there who illicit they eyeroll from me. There's people out there who embrace their aetheism with such fervor that it almost seems like it's own little church. People have their free agency to do what the hell they want with their own souls/salvation/pasta sauce. I'm not going to tell you it's wrong. If you can live with it, and it makes you happy, and it's legal, then more power to you.

Anyway, back to my emailers.

I don't know how they got my email. I'm deduced that someone with my last name lives down in the Lone Star State, goes to their church, has an email that is similar to mine, or they had my email address long ago before they cancelled their service with that particular phone company. Whatever the case, I get emails about some Pastor's blog, bake sales, bible study groups, youth group crap, and all things pertaining to their church group.

Usually, I just delete the emails and move forward with life. But remember, these people are in Texas. Land of the George Bush Fan Club and corn-holing tea-baggers who would still swear that President Obama is a secret Muslin terrrorist set on turning this country into a socialist hell, where your daughters will be raped daily, and sons will be sacrificed to Allah on Sundays. Oh, and he's black.

Then, I started getting emails about the mosque in New York. Guess what? I don't give a shit where they want to put their mosque. If they own the property, they can build a big giant penis if they so wanted (for a Church of the Divine Orgy, perhaps?). Or I would get emails about how Obama is the Antichrist. The main thread of these emails consisted of this: Create Fear Through Ignorance.

If there is one thing I can't stand, it's ignorance. Especially when people chose to be that way, instead finding the facts and making their own opinions.

In true GB fashion, I've been having fun at the expense of those who would so brazenly send such emails. I've included historical accuracies laden with snark. Now, it would appear that I've hurt some feelings.

Boo. Hoo.

I think I have eliminated most of the offending email senders. Now, I'm getting links to their pastor's blog. What's a girl to do??

Algebra sucked, study hall was a blast, have a great summer and see you next year!

I graduated high school in 1993. I wasn't a popular girl. I wasn't part of the nerd herd. I wasn't even what you would call a jock (I was in track, but not gung-ho about it). My years in high school were not what I would call "the best years of my life". So, it was with supreme happiness that I graduated, and left all the bullshit behind me.

Some people, however, are unable to let it go.

You know the types. You may even work with some of them. Their glory days, the pinnacle of their existence, resides within the halls of some high school somewhere. They were usually popular, big man on campus. Everyone looked up to them. Everyone wanted to be them. They were the sun, and everything else were just little peon planets that revolved around them.

After high school, they tried to keep that momentum going, but learned pretty quickly that they were now little fish in an extremely large pond. No one cared that they had been homecoming queen, or quarterback. They became average people, like everyone else. And they hated it.

But then they found jobs, and because water rises to it's own level, they gravitated towards the people who were most like them. Lost souls still trying to recapture the glory of their youth. They travel in packs, joined at the hip at work in their own little cluster, usually talking about all the fun they had over the weekend. Loud enough for other people to hear and remind them that they didn't belong in the self-anointed popular crowd. Congenial only to their own little peer group, cold and aloof to everyone else. You might get a couple outside people who get sucked in, having never known that kind of inclusiveness before, they are now part of the the "cool kids"...some twenty years later.

It's pretty pathetic when grownups behave this way. It speaks volumes about the person when you realize that the best moments they ever had was during puberty. Not when they found the person they would spend the rest of their lives with. Not when they had kids of their own and experienced the joys of parenting. All their happiness can be tied to their high school days.

Up until now, I've been pretty fortunate to have minimal experience with, what I call, The High School Crowd. Sure, there were some immature types on the day shift, but I attributed that to the fact that they were still so young. Now, it would appear, that the Mean Girls have arrived on night shift. Rude to everyone but those within their circle. Unhelpful. Hateful. They make fun of everyone when they are out of earshot, for what they say, how they look, how they dress, or laugh at someone's wedding pictures. I'd almost bet money that these people were bullies when they were in high school. Being hateful just comes so easily to them.

At least if I am an asshole to you, it's because you did something retarded to a patient or left a mountain of work for me to do because you were to lazy to do it yourself. I'm an asshole, shit gets corrected, we move forward amicably and I will still invite you to my Christmas party. I'm not going to scoff at you because you got a promise ring. (Ironically, the nurse who was making the most fun of the ring just recently got dumped by her own boyfriend.)

It used to be, we had some pretty cool people who worked on my floor at night. We worked as a team. No cliques. No backstabbing. Just our jobs. It was a grown-up floor. We shared a genuine concern for each other. Now, mst of the cool people have moved on to greener pastures, leaving us with a couple assholes that are ruining the dynamic that once made us so great.

I made this realization this weekend when they worked together, and their actions caused an uneasy feeling on the floor. It would seem that I wasn't the only one who noticed. Another coworker was at the desk with me while the Mean Girls were sitting in a corner talking about some crap reality show that only teenagers watch, when my coworker quipped, "I feel like I didn't make the cheerleading squad." Even the day staff has taken notice, and they don't notice anything.

I graduated high school in 1993, and I left it there, only to be revisited at class reunions when gathered with classmates I actually liked, and we reminisce about how retarded we were. This is one of the many reasons that my time on my floor is limited. Soon, all the good nurses will be gone, and all that will remain are the Mean Girls, and a unit that will become known as Telemetry High School.

The Pussy and the Peeper

Shortly after the incident with Oz this June, I fell into a bit of a funk. I didn't want to do anything but stay home and wallow in misery. One day, Mother wanted me to go to the store with her. I opted out, but she wasn't going to take no for an answer, because nothing conquers depression better than a trip to your local Walmart. So, I schlepped on some clothes, and left the house.

On the way home, we drove by house with a sign out front that simply said "Free Kittens". Mother loves cats. In fact, we have an agreement that if she were to ever win the lottery, she would have her own ranch for unwanted cats. My end of the agreement would be that I would quit my job, go to veterinarian school, and open up a vet's office on the property. Most days, I generally like animals more than people. This is an idea I could get behind.

Mother's eyes lit up at the sight of the sign, and I asked her if she wanted to go see the kittens. She readily agreed, made a U-turn, and within five minutes, we were knee deep in tiny fur-babies.

Somehow, that day, I ended up taking one home. I hadn't planned on getting another one, even after Shasta died (I suspect I may have an allergy to cats). But here I was, cradling a little gray and white. Mother, tickled pink, wanted to bask her newest grandkitteh in gifts, so we stopped by PetCo.

Baby animals are cute, and people generally like to pet them. This includes PetCo employees. One such employee, commandeered the kitten as she directed us to the kitten food isle. I will be honest. Despite my training in the medical field, and despite the countless wieners and vajayjay I have seen, I can't tell the gender in baby cats. At least in dogs, you can tell just by where it is located. In cats, their junk is located in the same spot. To make it worse, it's covered in fuzz. So, I asked the employee if she could tell us what gender my newest house guest was. With much fanfare, she flipped the kitten over on it's back, spread the legs open, and announced it was a girl.

"And that is her VAGINA" she finished with flourish.

On the way home, the cat was given the name Sophie. A nice, cute, girly name. Little pink collar, little bowl with flowers. Everyone liked Princess Sophie. Including George.

Life went on at Case de Blather without incident. Mother would come and tend to my own little petting zoo on those nights I worked. The other day, she mentioned that she thought Sophie had strange anatomy.

"Are you sure Sophie is a girl?" she asked. I reminded her that the PetCo worker assured us Sophie was a female as evidenced by the presence of the VAGINA. Because she worked at a pet store, she knew what she was talking about. Right?

Sophie purrs for Mother all the time. Me, not so much. Her interaction with me is usually fraught with teeth and claws. Today, I caught her in a rather pleasant mood and she let me scratch her belly, purring the whole time. So, there we were, enjoying some nice, quiet parent-kitteh time when it happened. A little pink appendage, resembling a Christmas light bulb, popped out from her vagina. Now, I'm not a veterinarian (yet). but with my vast experience, I deduced that it wasn't normal for any female (human or animal) to have anything pop out of their vagina unless something went in there in the first place.

Princess Sophie was, indeed, a boy. Now what?

Mother thinks I should let the name stand and not tell anyone, like the gender is a dirty little secret. I, however, am having a hard time bringing myself to call the cat by a name that is ill-fitting. So, I've been trying to think of what to do. There really isn't a male version of the name Sophie. I took a poll, and got many different suggestions:

Pat

Chris

Phillip

RuPaul

Sophocles

Since I have started referring to, eh, Sophie as a "he", he has been much more friendly to me. Perhaps that is why the hostility. I guess I would be pretty annoyed if people kept thinking I was a dude, although I can think of at least two obvious signs I'm a female.

So, what to do about the name??

To Be Filed Under: I Can't Make This Crap Up

Sam, being the little asshole he is, decided to start barking early Wednesday morning, so I kicked him and Lucy outside, into their big, back yard. Six foot privacy fence, trees, room to run and play. Fresh food and water, and they can stay out there all day while I sleep and not have to worry about what shoes they are destroying, or if they are taking a monster dump on my new area rug.

Because I was slated for a three-day stretch at work, I was sleeping during the day. Around eight or so, I remember waking up to a horrible smell. In my sleepy state, I remember thinking that the cat must have taken a crap on my pillow. So, I stumbled around the house, half asleep, sniffing to find the offending source. I couldn't find one, and by then the smell had lessened, so I figured I dreamt the whole thing and went back to bed.

Around one, I got up for my scheduled potty break, and thought I would let the dogs in. I opened the door and they zoomed in like their asses were on fire. The smell immediately followed. In the middle of the city, my dogs apparently discovered a skunk somewhere in my backyard and tried to play with it. My eyes watering as I ran around the house, rounding them up, to throw them back outside.

Because I had to work that night, the best I could do was call a groomer, but she could only take one the following day. I determined that Sam stunk worse than Lucy, and decided he would be the first to go. Meanwhile, both were banished from the house until further notice.

The following morning, I raced home from work, collected the vile Sam and drove to the groomers. Windows down, gagging the entire way. Some Palin-American in a minivan thought my speeding was an open invitation for a street race. (I won.)

Upon entering the shop, Sam's aroma permeated the entire place. The groomer frowned as I explained the situation.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asked. Sure, it was the least I could do because this woman would have to smell my dog all day. "Go get me douche. Lots of douche. As much douche as you can get your hands on."

Never before has anyone made such a request. After explaining that douche solution worked best for the removal of skunk oil, I high-tailed it to the nearest pharmacy and cleaned out their stock. The sales guy wryly asked me if I had left any for anyone else. Well, I saved a couple of them in case an unfortunate woman with a busy social agenda should happen along. I'm not a total asshole.

Douches delivered, and a very distressed and stinky Sam left in the groomer's care, I went back home. But not before stopping by another pharmacy and depleting their stock of douche. I did, after all, have another dog to tend to.

That morning, I was on my deck, a table full of little blue bottles of douche, and I was drenching Lucy. When I was finished, she smelled more like a summer shower-fresh meadow that had springtime ocean spray waterfalls with just a hint of vinegar. I also smelled douche-like, and covered with dog hair. A quick shower, I crawled into bed. Lucy stayed outside, to cure in a multi-scented douche marinade.

I woke up at 4pm, with serious bedhead, so I hopped in the shower again to rinse off. Threw on some clothes, checked on Lucy (who smelled less like a skunk and more like a woman's flowery vajayjay), tossed some dinner in the oven, and went to the groomer to pick up Sam.

After arriving at the groomer, Sam was brought out, all white and fluffy, smelling like wildflowers and baby powder with just a hint of burning rubber. He was happy to see me, as apparently he experienced a bit of anxiety over the last two days. The groomer said she would quickly trim his nails and we would be off. She picked him up under her arm, and I followed as she carried him to the grooming table.

Funny things about dogs when they get stressed out, they internalize it. In their colon. At that moment that the groomer picked him up, he acted like a little pimple, and a spray of the foulest smelling shit shot out of his ass like he was a super-soaker, onto his Mommy who was standing right behind him. The groomer set him down and he began to walk in a circle, shooting poop-spray out of his ass like he was a water sprinkler. If the gates of hell were to open up, and Satan, having judged a chili cook off, were to fart, that's how bad it would smell.

Covered in shit and blood (product of an inflamed colon), I was instructed to please go to the pharmacy for some Kaopectate. (Did I mention I was covered in raw sewage and blood??) But I did, where the oldest woman on the planet was having problems working the register. There I was, the Douche Queen this morning, covered in eye-watering shit sauce and desperately clutching a bottle of Kaopectate. My rage meter was inching towards an all-time high. I was going to explode, and everyone within 20 feet of me would be incinerated.

Armed with vanilla-flavored Kaopectate (I didn't think Sam would care for peppermint), I went back to the groomers, where she immediately dosed him with it. Meanwhile, I called Mother and tell her to go turn off my oven, and to call work to tell them I was running late. The groomer and I decided that the best course of action would  be to board Sam there overnight and pick him up in the morning after he was bathed for a second time. I would in turn, bring Lucy in for her time for bathing, hopefully sans the projectile diarrhea.

I did about 65 going home, showered again for the third time that day. My dinner baked to a crisp and inedible. I then drove like a bat out of hell to get to to work. One of the few times I can say I've had a horrible day, and it not be related to my job.

The following day, I swapped Lucy for Sam at the groomers. Sam was fully recovered, again freshly washed and dried. Thankfully, Lucy had an uneventful day. The groomer, after careful consideration, decided not to charge me for anything and instructed me to go home and have a bottle of wine. Not a glass, but a bottle. I love my groomer.

Sam still carries a slight aroma of polecat, but he caught the spray in the face, and washing around his eyes and mouth are challenging. The house now smells like my house, and not a skunk den. Life is somewhat returning back to normal, and I am eager for this really lousy week to be over.

And I hope that those dogs have the good sense to leave black and white cats alone.

One of Them That Got Away

I was perusing one of my most favorite news aggregators, when I stumbled upon this story. I damn near fell out of my chair. I actually knew the guy.

Well, maybe "knew" is putting it lightly. He was my M.O.M. That's Moving-On Man to you. Just what is that? Well, it's a term used for a guy who is your rebound. Many people would recognize The Rebound a lot better. He really doesn't amount to much in the long term, but rather, someone that gets you over those residual feelings of your previous relationship. He helps you realize that you are still a desirable creature. He helps you understand that there is life after a breakup, and things move forward.

Nothing came of our brief affair. He moved on to Florida shortly after we stopped seeing each other. As you can see, he turned out just fine. He was a nice guy, and I wish him all the happiness in the world.

Just an interesting story, I thought I would share.

Soapin' It Up Old School

Into the life of a homeowner, a little rain must fall. Mine came in the form of a crapped-out dishwasher. Initially, I had noticed a couple specs of whatever left on my dishes after a cycle. Then, I had noticed my dishes weren't getting oh-so-sparkly clean, and I would have to run a load of dishes through two cycles. Two cycles became three. This morning, I came home from work to a small swamp in the bottom of the dishwasher. It was then that I could no longer ignore the bitter truth.

I needed a new dishwasher.

I don't know what the hell I was thinking, that I could go to Home Depot and just bring home another one. No, you buy it at the store, and then they deliver it to your house later. In my case, Wednesday.

What the hell to do with the dirty dishes I already had??

I remember when I was a kid, I loved to do dishes. By hand. Mom would put a chair up to the sink for me to stand on, and I would happily wash away. She never let me wash the glass stuff...I was a klutz even then. After dishes were done, I was rewarded with a chunk of peppermint. I'm confident I was a hard wage negotiator even then.

For much of my formative years, dishes were done by hand. In those days, dishwashers were a huge luxury item. It wasn't until I moved into my first apartment, that I got to experience life with a dishwasher.

I have to say, I was smitten. I also have to say, that my first dishwasher was exactly the same kind as the one that came with my house. I should have known then that there was a turd residing in my kitchen.

So, I stopped by Wally World, picked up a drying rack, some sponges, and spent the remainder of the afternoon washing dishes by hand. My hands now look eighty years old.

I've had to postpone Pork Chop Tuesday, and I will probably be abstaining from any serious cooking until my new washing beastie is safety bolted into it's new home.

Thank God for paper plates.

On the opposite coin, I'm pretty stoked about the new dishwasher. I don't think I've been this excited in a while (since the arrival of the Keurig anyway). Some girls get excited with jewelry. Some with clothes. I damn near wet myself over kitchen appliances.

I'm so pathetic. But I shall be pathetic with clean dishes.

Screwed Over By Crackers and Cookies

If you read the business pages, you may recall something about a local pasta company being bought out by a large snack food company. My mother, works for the former, and has done so for almost a decade.

Chief Bosshole named Jack, who has a long history of selling companies he happens to be running at the time, pioneered the sale to said snack food company, who was ran by his bff. Their wives are good friends, too. Which made people wonder if this was something that he had intended when he first took over the helm of the pasta company.

When the news broke earlier this summer, Chief Bosshole Jack assured the worker bees that their jobs were safe for at least a year after the sale was finalized.

Recently, Mother was told that she would no longer have a job after the end of the year. Her, and about 20 others (and that list keeps growing), including higher ups who put blood, sweat, and tears into the company were "let go". Some of these people, award-winning businessmen, and one award-winning chef.

Mother was, and is, devastated.

Since getting the news, Crappy Cookies and Crackers Company has moved those axed higher ups to some cube farm in the same building, the replacements of their choosing already making themselves at home in the new posh offices. To pour salt on fresh wounds, Mother and others in her particular area, will have to train their own replacements. They also have to sign an agreement stating that they have to tow the line, and not say bad things about CCCC, lest they risk losing their severance package...one week's pay for every year of service, payable one week at a time.

And Chief Bosshole Jack? Oh, he's not staying with the company either. But he's walking away with $19 million. I don't suppose he'd care to share that with the people he just fucked in the ass without so much as a kiss? Probably not. He'll just move onto the next company, like a parasite, and fuck them over as well. Because he is also a chickenshit, he's been on vacation since news of the cuts have been made so he doesn't have to face the people he screwed over, most of them being let go right around the Christmas holiday season.

I like my employer, but I'm not a cheerleader of my job. Oh, you know the types...they are loyal servants of the master who signs their paycheck with the false impression that their company considers them as part of the family. When truth is, you are part of the family only when it's convenient for you to be. People who get let go from their jobs are left shocked. They can't fathom how their own family would boot them out. You are a valued team member, until you're not. At the end of the day, they are running a business, and they have to look out for number one.

I once read that the generations below me don't exhibit loyalty in the the companies they work for, which may explain why they job hop. I have to say, when I applied to work at ACME Hospital, the nurse recruiter's eyes damn near popped out of her head when she had seen that I spent at least five years with previous employers. Nowadays, two years is considered tenure. Older generations scoff at this ambivalent attitude, but maybe they are onto something. If you don't put your heart into your work, then you never run the risk of getting it broken.

As for Mother, I hope she is able to find another job before her time is up at Crappy Cookies and Crackers Co. Then, she can give them the finger and they can train their own damn replacements. If I was a millionaire. I'd tell her to quit tomorrow and then I would pay for a full page ad in the Kansas City Star, telling CCCC to go fuck themselves with a splintery log full of termites.

Meanwhile, I'm boycotting all products made by Crappy Cookies and Crackers Co, in addition to their new pasta acquisition. Stupid, I know. My paltry dollars wouldn't even cause a blip on their radar, but at least I know my money isn't going to a company that blatantly lies and fucks over the little guy.

GB Accosted by Palin-Americans

It's was an odd weekend.

First, a lady flips her shit because I have to look at her husband's peener, and possible touch it. Did I mention that both the patient and the wife are in their 70's? Did I also mention that this was part of my physical assessment that I do to all my patients, especially if they have a foley catheter? It did no use explaining why I needed to do it, the old lady is batshit crazy. She's insanely jealous and thinks us young, cute (and a couple pregnant) nurses are after her man. Her old, wrinkly, coughing, wheezing, confused man. At least I wasn't the poor nurse who had to place the catheter in the first place. I'm told the wife went off the deep end and called that nurse every name in the book. The daughter-in-law assures us that she has been called the same names as well.

Secondly, I was on my way home from work this morning when I realized I needed gas in the tank. So, I stop by QuikTrip. Just get gas and go home to my nice, comfy bed...maybe a delicious cup of decaf coffee before I do. I pull in, get a vacant pump, and do the routine gas-pump thing when and older gentleman on the other side of the pump engages me in conversation. Whatever. I'm in my scrubs, and most people deem nurses as safe to talk to.

He begins by talking about the weather, because what else is he going to talk to me about, besides his hemorrhoids, or some weird spot on his shoulder and would I take a look at it?

Being polite, I also respond in kind about the weather, because I really don't want to know about his hemorrhoids. Then it comes, completely out of left field, sounding like a question I would have got had I been on a speech and debate team in high school.

"What do you think about Pakistan blah, blah, blah. Afghanistan blah, blah, blah. And them wanting to put a mosque two blocks away from The World Trade Center?"

This, of course, is a loaded question. I am, after all, in Teabag Country. I think I would have preferred the hemorrhoids.

I shrug. State something to the effect that I don't care where they want to put their mosque. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Old Fart got all butthurt about it.

"It's a bunch of shit!" he exclaimed. I just stared at him, the corners of my mouth yearning to stretch upward in a big grin that can only precede me laughing hysterically at you for being retarded.

"I've been around the world and blah, blah, blah. And used to work blah, blah, blah. And I knew some of them and if you think they love you, you're out of your mind. Because they don't!" Then, he procded to stomp off to go get a donut and some coffee. Or some Ex-Lax because, obviously, he was full of shit.

Had I been on my A-game, I would have played along and agreed with him, and then taken him down the path that would have led him to scream out his fervor for Sarah Palin right there in the parking lot.

Truth be told, I really don't care about the location of a mosque, but I know the corn-holing, Palin-American, Teabag demographic is all butthurt over it. These fucktards, some of them high-ranking politicians, can't be bothered to learn the difference between a splinter group, and a mainstream religion.

Warren Jeffs married children off to pedophiles in the name of God, but that doesn't mean that the entire LDS church celebrates the deflowering of 13 year old girls by 60-something year old men after church on Sunday.

I'm convinced that the majority of the population are retarded, or as I like to refer to as, Palin-American. Those who use intellect and common sense to make their own decisions, not based on fear-mongering, are in the minority. Smart people, it would seem, are an endangered species.

This country was founded on religious freedom. Some people today would tout that, but only if that religion was Christian-based. Putting a mosque near Ground Zero is no more offensive than putting a Synagogue or a Buddhist temple or a Church of the Divine Orgasm in the same place.

I could get behind a Church of the Divine Orgasm. Orgy immediately following the potluck dinner on Wednesdays.