Vice President Antoinette tells us what he really thinks of us proles.

Not to belabor an already tired meme, but...if this had been the Bush/Cheney admin, people on the Left would have been screaming for the guillotine right about now.

The worst part is: Biden calls the guys a "smart ass" in the man's own store, while Sheriff Joe's vacuous face is smeared with the free ice cream the man gave him.

I feel bad for the shop owner. I'll just bet the media and the screaming hordes will be lining up to give him the same treatment that they graced "Joe the Plumber" with when he dared ask pointed tax-related questions of Dear Leader's Administration. I'll just bet the IRS will be happy to audit his books for him, as well.

Linky goodness.

MacBourne preaches it.

I am getting down in the "Amen" corner.

Worth a read, and more than a passing thought.

Hell's Own Timetable.

• 7 AM: Wake up when a toddler does a diving headbutt into my solar plexus from the headboard. Gasp for a few minutes; reflect on sacred duty of parenthood.
• 7:15 AM: Toss a bucket of Cheerios to three feral children and leave the kitchen. Realize that I have to enter the kitchen to make coffee. Fuck.
• 7:45 AM: Clothing rodeo! Chase three nekkid children around upper stories of house, catch them and stuff them in to appropriate undergarments. Repeat until everyone has shorts, shirts and shoes on. (repeat Xs 2 for toddler.)
• 8:15 AM: Herd children outside. Deploy bubbles, chalk and sandbox toys. Admonish everyone to share; remind children that the Marquess of Queensberry rules will be observed at all times.
• 8:20 AM: Retreat to picnic table with stack of 20 papers, three red pens, vat of coffee and "medicinal" flask. 
• 8:30 AM: Look up from second paper when shrieking commences. Sort quarrel; threaten children with time-out.
• 8:45 AM: Finish third paper; confiscate half-eaten chalk. Threaten children with grounding.
• 9:05 AM: Discover children playing "Mud Monsters vs. Girly-girl."  Realize that only the whites of OctoBoy and Ginger Beastie's eyes are visible because they are caked in mud. Calm eldest daughter; hose off children and threaten them with beatings.
• 9:30 AM: Finish fourth, fifth and sixth papers. Realize that it is too quiet; go looking for children. They are behind the shed, making "mud" with a bag of quick-set cement. Scrape off toddler; scrape up semi-hardened cement. Threaten children with forced passage to Nepal via air freight.
• 10:00 AM: Give in to frustration and despair. Consider running off to Borneo.  
• 10:05 AM: coffee refill; finish papers.
• 12:15 PM: Lunch for ravenous hordes. Ham and mayo on white; peanut butter and nutella; roast beef, cheese, mustard and pickle. Chips, fruit and milk deployed. Squabbling commences.
• 12:20 PM: First sandwich quarter thrown in the Great Lunch Debacle of June 2010. Chaos and shouting ensues. Monkey butts are routed with application of wooden spoon.
• 12:30 PM: Cabinets scraped, children chastised further, dishwasher loaded.
• 12:40: PM: Penitential snorking, recriminations. Pleas for mercy heard.
• 12:45 PM: Strategic retreat to living room. Restorative "Muppet Show" viewings prescribed.

 Relative peace restored in household.

For now.

A rough night.

I was exhausted last night, and collapsed in to bed with every intent of crashing hard, and snoring so loud that my surname should have been Stihl. This was not meant to be, because all three of the kids had a seriously weird night.

Last night, OctoBoy went sleepwalking and ended up sleeping on the stairs. I carried him back to bed and tucked him in at least twice. Ordinarily, he is the type to crash hard, and not even roll over during the night. Last night he was treading water in heavy seas.

Wee ginger beastie has been seeing "GHOSTS!" in her room, and having long conversations with them. I mean, sit up in bed, gesturing and "give-and-take" dialogue. (This pegs my weird-shit-o-meter, especially as the Husband is out of town.)

Finally, at 2:45 this morning, SnarkGirl wanders in and wakes me up to tell me she is dressed and ready for breakfast. (She was, too.)

What the Hell? Is the moon in some odd phase, tweaking their little brains?

To Washington, DC -- a trio of poems.

The Golf Links (Sarah N. Cleghorne)

The golf links lie so near the mill
That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
And see the men at play.

A Politician (e.e. Cummings)

a politician is an arse upon 
which everyone has sat except a man.

Of Treason (Sir John Harrington) 

Treason doth never prosper, what's the reason?
For if it prosper, none dare call it Treason. 

A baited field...

In a previous post, someone suggested that we get a dog to guard hearth and home -- and laundry. well, we have one -- a big, fuck-off, 90-pound female German Shepherd (named Hildegard) who loves her three puppies and herds them whenever possible.

Normally I can't have the dog and the laundry out at the same time, as she sees anything on the line as a fabulous opportunity to practice her running jump-and-grab maneuver. I got tired of explaining the random tooth holes in various items of clothing. 

In this case, I decided I'd rather sacrifice a few t-shirts. The cops I gave police reports to indicated that leaving the dog out was optimal, and if someone happened to get eaten while trespassing, that was the bitee's problem; they'd look the other way.

I bought a large, meaty bone from the butcher -- the better to keep Hildy quiet, under her favorite bush and gnawing contentedly -- and hung out a full load of wash this morning.

I'm practically giddy, waiting for the barking to start. I hope she bites someone right in the 'tocks.

Why I need a rocket launcher, part 3,765

I dropped two of the three Fidgety Midgeties off at day camp and ran to the local purveyor of predator food -- the dog and cats needed noms, lest they start eating children. As I was pulling in to the parking lot, I witenssed an act of unparalelled idiocy.

A woman in a huge-assed Escalade was backing out of her spot, and paused, mid-back-up, to answer her phone...and then sat there.

Just. Sat.

Babbling away in her cell phone, half-in and half-out of the parking spot. Merrily blocking the entire aisle while traffic piled up on either side.

Finally, one of the men sitting in a Ford F250 got out of his truck and knocked on her window. I was close enough to hear their eccvhange:

"Lady. Hang up yer fuckin' phone and move your fat ass. Yer blockin' traffic. Ain't nothin' yer sayin' can't wait."

"Sir, it's not safe to talk on the phone while driving. I am being a Safe Driver!"


"I don't care what the fuck you think you are, you're an asshole and you're in the way. Pull in to your spot and talk, or back all the way the fuck out and be on your way."


"I don't appreciate your tone or your profanity!"


"You're gonna appreciate it when I ram your gawdamn SUV outta my way, you dumb cunt! Move tha piece of shit!"

Then, while she splittered and "Well, I never!"-ed, he grabbed her phone and hung it up for her.

I backed out of the aisle and found another spot to park ,and went in for dog and cat food, When I came out there were three police cruisers and several people making statements. When I was approached, I gave a brief one: "Dude. She was blocking traffic, ignoring people honking and generally acting like a spoiled bitch; that guy deserves a medal " -- and went on my way.

She had started shrieking at the officers when I left.