Author Archives: Irene

Bad Naked

Bad Naked
Pray for me.

Pray for me.

 

There are things in this world that simply cannot be unseen.

A DayGlo orange penis hovering near your face, for instance. That would be something you cannot reverse. It will be forever burned into your retinas as well as your psyche.

I suppose you’d like me to explain myself.

In many cities in the northern hemisphere, the summer solstice is a time of celebrating the longest day of the year and the promise of long, sun-drenched days. Often these celebrations culminate in a parade or festival. And, at many of these parades and festivals, otherwise rational people often turn into crazed, naked druids.

Or at least I’m assuming they are normally rational. That could be the first flaw in my theory.

In the past I had always avoided these types of festivals, less because of the crazy naked factor and more because parking is terrible.

I’m nothing if not practical.

So, imagine my response when, quite by accident, I ended up driving right through the middle of one of these nude celebrations. Sitting at a traffic light, I was suddenly surrounded by an array of naked, body-painted bicyclists. Turning my head to the left, there hung my aforementioned DayGlo orange penis exactly at eye level.

(I say MY DayGlo orange penis because, in my world, if I see your penis, we have some level of relationship. If your junk is six inches from my face, we are dating and I at least got a nice dinner first.)

Which brings me to the whole naked bike riding thing (yes, it’s a thing). This seems about as practical an activity as operating a deep fryer in the nude.

From Portland to Chicago to London, some lunatic nudist (fantastic band name, by the way) decided at some point that everyone should become one with their bike seats.

Or, if you are in Portland, Oregon, your unicycle seat.

A quick note to nude cyclists: Please keep in mind that all that body paint does, indeed, smear when you sit. So, just know that when you walk around in your head-to-toe DayGlo body paint, you have a flesh colored strip going up your back side.

I feel compelled to make you aware of this even though it is very apparent you could give a rat’s nuts what you look like.

Lest I sound like a total and complete prude here, let me say that I do not begrudge these people their constitutional right to make bad decisions in a public arena. It’s kind of what our country was built on.

However, I live my life as if I dwell in a Victorian funeral home with black crepe over the mirrors, only, instead of preventing the deceased from getting trapped in the looking glass, I am preventing the image of my naked self from being trapped in my own eye sockets thereby rendering me blind.

There comes a time in all of our lives when we simply have to look away. It’s for the best.

So I look at (or avert my eyes from) these free spirits with a level of admiration.

They have no body shame, which is another building block of our civilization. They don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks and are having the time of their lives. They are living in their naked moment.

Thank god for sensible footwear.

Thank god for sensible footwear.

Though, that moment won’t look quite as intriguing when they are trying to get lead paint out of their meat and two veg later in the night.

So, happy summer!! I support you in your dedication to flying your freak flag. Though I, for one, will just be sure to choose route option #2 on my GPS next time.

Sparklers

Sparklers

sparkler
He taught me how to read people’s eyes.

My Dad always told me to know your audience, read their eyes, before you say anything. That way, you can make those small adjustments and hit a home run with your words.

It’s a skill I have now, but one that I was sorely lacking when I first met her.

We were running around the yard, sparklers in hand, I was trying to hide the sheer joy of the sputtering lights behind the mask of male pubescent cool.

I was all skinny legs and knobby knees, hiding my singular eyebrow behind a curtain of dark bangs. Slouched shoulders and awkward gait.

She was all bright eyes, shining cheeks and blinding braces.

She was my Mom’s friend’s daughter and we met while on one of those forced multi-family events that I found excruciating. The assumption that because the parents connected, so should their children, was nothing short of insulting. Plus, the parents usually connected over alcohol and a shared desire to ignore their kids, if only for a couple of hours.

But this time, there was Kari.

I stood in agony as I tried to come up with something to say. A quip. A joke. Anything that might get her to take notice of me. To recognize that her soul mate was standing right in front of her.

But my thoughts keep turning in on themselves like one of those weird Escher paintings we learned about in art class.

So, I study from behind my safe mantle of hair. I watch. I take note of her every move, the sound of her voice, her laugh as if I am a scientist observing a new species of exotic bird.

I could win her over with comedy. I was fairly funny. Or, that’s what all my idiot friends always told me. I ponder this for a moment. The only jokes I know are riddled with body functions and genitalia references. I deduce that this would not be the right approach and quickly move to another angle.

I could go the observational route. I turn over some options. The weather? It was unusually humid out.

Who am I? My Grandfather? Am I going to talk about my arthritis next?

There was always the complimentary approach. I did like the pants she was wearing. And she had a nice clip in her hair.

Potentially creepy.

I finally decide to go with the classics – ask her about herself. Keep it simple.

I take several very deep breaths to try to quiet the nest of butterflies in my stomach.

I pat my bangs down a bit more to ensure my safety net is there in case this does not go down well. In my mind, I can become invisible behind them upon command.

I take one hesitant step forward….

…as she comes running up to me, a little winded, eyes bright and face flushed.

“So, what school do you go to?”

I brush my bangs out of my eyes as my heart bursts into a million points of light, just like the sparkler she is holding.

__________________________________________

This is my response to this week’s speakeasy,
over at yeah write, where we had to make some
reference to M. C. Escher’s lithograph, Waterfall,
and use the sentence “He taught me how to read
people’s eyes
.” as the first line in our piece.

Click the badge to read the other submissions or to learn more about
the speakeasy creative writing challenge.

Fear And Loathing In Fatherhood

Fear And Loathing In Fatherhood

Fatherhood.

I know less about fatherhood than I know about….well….motherhood. And I know next to nothing about motherhood.

Don’t tell my kids.

But, it’s Father’s Day so it seems that something needs to be said about those stalwart men out there.  These co-creators of our offspring who, despite conflicting DNA urges to run screaming from the village encampment, are now expected to bond, relate, nurture and practically breast feed the little darlings.

So here’s to the dudes out there who are trying really hard to pony up in this brave new world of fatherhood.

I’ve actually pondered (because that’s what I do…ponder) how much the role of father has changed and how quickly.

Now, I’m no spring chicken (and I’ve never understood what that meant anyway) but it seems to me there has been a pretty drastic change in the expectations put on dads since I was, well, a spring chicken.

Why, back in my day, fathers were rarely seen and often heard. And if you heard one, you ran away and hid because you were in a world of trouble.

Dads were put on earth to teach you things.

See, son, this is the peritoneum….

See, son, this is the peritoneum….

Important things, like:

  • The difference between a flat-head and Phillips screw driver
  • How to tie a solid knot
  • The correct way to gut a fish
  • The exceptionally high cost of water because Jesus Christ how long can it take to wash your privates and get the hell out???
  • If you’re a boy, having the MOST UNCOMFORTABLE AND POTENTIALLY LIFE-ALTERING discussion about sex in the history of discussions about sex or anything else for that matter
  • If you’re a girl, absolutely no discussion about anything. Ever. EVER. ASK YOUR MOTHER
  • The exceptionally high cost of electricity because what the hell are you doing that requires so much God damned light? Reading? Light a candle!
  • The fact that the odometer in a car does not change if the wheels don’t turn. A rather painful lesson when you’ve gone on a joy ride when your folks were in Florida on vacation and you did NOT know they wrote down the mileage and you said you just started it so it wouldn’t get too cold and you thought that was good for cars and no I didn’t actually drive away in it and, wait, what was the question?
  • How to eat a meal without letting your teeth hit the fork because that drives them insane….as a people
  • How to bait a hook without puking

And, they gave these straight-forward life lessons as impatiently and with a level of irritation normally reserved for much more heinous violations. Like terrorist attacks.

The biggest gift here though is bestowing upon us the opportunity to recount these lessons while impersonating them at every Christmas gathering for the rest of our lives.

Modern fathers still need to do all of the above. After all, I still know how to gut a fish, even if I don’t do it all that often.

(Though I have been sorely tempted on more than one occasion to reenact the fish gutting scene from Office Space. If I ever do, I will have my father to thank for the precise way in which I gut aforementioned fish.)

He’s actually not doing it right….

He’s actually not doing it right….

But, in addition to these lessons, they are now expected to look their kids in the eye in order to give them their full attention. They are expected to listen to their weird little stories that really don’t end up with a point. They have to at least pretend to laugh at their jokes that make absolutely no sense, have not comedic timing and an utter lack of irony.

So, hat’s off to you, modern day Dads.

Champions of childhood.

Protector of our prodigy.

Subjugator of our spawn.

We lift our collective glasses of chilled Chardonnay to you. Please keep teaching them weird stuff that would never even occur to a Mom (myself included).

And continue to bestow upon many generations the gift of mocking you at family functions. That gift alone is priceless.

Letter To My Pre-kid Self

Letter To My Pre-kid Self

Dear Pre-kid Irene,

Hello sweetie! How are you doing? Right about now you’ve just gotten back from a month travelling around Thailand. And it was an awesome trip, right? But, for some reason, with all the travel you’ve gotten to do, this time you came home feeling a little less fulfilled than you usually do.

Now, I’m not going to tell you exactly what happens next because that would just be shitty. It would be like telling you the end of a movie, reading the last page of a book or letting you know that, as awesome as it looks in the trailer, the 2014 version of Godzilla is actually a little disappointing.

What I will tell you, is that you will be a mother one day. And, believe me on this, you are not in the least bit prepared. But, have faith, because no one is so at least you are not in the remedial class alone.

So, my independent girl who is swathed in a light of freedom that you are not taking nearly enough advantage of, let me tell you just a couple of things.

  1. Being pregnant is the scariest thing on the planet. It’s also pretty cool. But mostly it’s just scary because the bigger you get the more impossible it seems to get that thing out of you without dying.
  2. Don’t listen to your husband when he tells you shit about delivery he has absolutely no clue about. “Oh, the human body shuts all other functions down when it gives birth.” Really Mr. Science? Needless to say that is utter crap and you need to know that terrible stuff will happen in front of complete strangers. You do not have to apologize as much as you do when that time comes
  3. When you do have to get the giant bulge out, you do not actually die. There are moments when you wish you could, but you don’t.
  4. You will hallucinate due to lack of sleep. Just enjoy the ride and pretend you just took mushrooms like that time when you were camping and you saw Nixon’s face in that leaf. Don’t question, just go with it.
  5. Parenting is like getting a bikini wax. It’s excruciating when it happens, sending you into a sweaty fight or flight reaction that can, in some instances, result in the punching of a Russian esthetician (sorry Svetlana). But, after it’s over and all the irritation subsides, it’s pretty awesome.
  6. You will feel like a giant fish-out-of-water when you are around other parents and be under the mistaken impression that everyone has this parenting thing down except for you. Listen to this absolute truth: 99% of the other mothers are either on Prozac, drunk, or looking to get their hands on any mood-altering substance to survive this. The 1% who make the rest of us feel like shit are all assholes and you don’t want to party with them. You will be buying drugs from their kids one day.
  7. Speaking of partying….all that blow you did in the 80’s will actually serve you well once they hit puberty. I suspect our sense of smell is not as keen as it was before those years in San Francisco and that will literally save your life as it should dull the assault on that sense.
  8. Everything will go excruciatingly slow and way too fast at the same time. It must be some weird parental worm hole or a tear in the space/time continuum because it makes no sense, I know. But you’ll feel like you are swimming in Jello during the tougher times and then the nuggets of amazing times will fly by in a blur. I have no idea how to fix this. Just thought I’d let you know.
  9. Believe it or not, you actually end up not sucking as a mom. And, not sucking is pretty high praise when dealing with such an impossible task so take the not sucking and wear it like a badge of honor.
  10. Don’t let your responsibilities define you. You are more than your kids. You are more than your aging parents. You are more than your financial limitations. Do not lose yourself in the often overwhelming weight of what you are on the hook for. If you ignore all of the above, please remember this.

And with that, I send you on your merry, innocent way.

Oh, one last thing. A little later in the year, on September 11th, some terrible things are going to happen. The world survives and so do you.

Much love,

Irene the Elder

Do You See Her Much?

Do You See Her Much?

I don’t see her as I had hoped.

She said she’d come back to tell me about it if she could.

Though I do imagine I feel her

in the slightest wisp of wind,

the smallest stirring of air

in filtered sunlight.

 

(Trying something new….42-word challenge based on a question. Click the link below to vote!)

 Vote for your favorites here!

 

On Being Brave – Man Up and Grow A Pair – #8 In The Achieving Emotional Grace Series

On Being Brave – Man Up and Grow A Pair – #8 In The Achieving Emotional Grace Series

 

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”

~ Anaïs Nin

I’m not a big fan of feeling uncomfortable. This will probably surprise some of you who know me and have witnessed the glee I take in making other people uncomfortable. So, see, I can totally dole it out but I want to shoot myself in the head when I’m in an awkward situation. Which I do entirely to myself much more frequently than I like.  I am usually the victim of my own ridiculousness.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about discomfort and how cowardly it can make you. And, being a coward means you potentially miss out on a lot of amazing things in life because you hide yourself away out of protection. Or a sense of propriety. Or a misunderstanding that anyone else gives a shit.

A whole lot of the time we put much more weight on our personal risk than others do.

I made a conscious decision to try and do one brave thing a day. I want to get more comfortable with the risk that naturally goes with courage.

I am not talking about physical bravery. I am perfectly happy to be a coward with physical pain and will continue to embrace avoiding injuries.

I’m talking about emotional bravery, which can have a much longer recovery period and leave some pretty nasty scars. But also can lead to living an honest life without regrets. And that just sounds really good to me because if there is one thing that I want to avoid more than feeling uncomfortable it’s feeling regret. There is always the risk that I’ll end up with a big stinking plateful of both but it’s a risk I’ve decided I’m willing to take.

Every day we have a choice. We can live a small life, protecting ourselves and, thereby, creating distance between ourselves and others. Or, we can choose to live a bigger and riskier life that will ensure we make those connections outside of ourselves.

It’s scary to open yourself to another person. No doubt about that and you won’t get much of an argument from any other breathing, upright human.

But if you take a minute to think outside of your own experience and to set aside any expectations about what you want the outcome to be, being honest with others about your feelings, your concerns, your passions, your grief is ultimately what we are here for.

And being open to supporting someone else’s courage is a very big gift. One that can, literally, change lives.

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement
that something else is more important than fear.”

~ Ambrose Redmoon

 

My Movie Briefs – Take #2

My Movie Briefs – Take #2

Yes, I am so late to the table on this second round of Tiny Movie Reviews (check out the first round here) that I should be too ashamed to even post this. I should feel shame that I have been working at a “real job” instead of going to movies. Or, I’ve been raising “real children” instead of writing about fake ones.

Whatever! I’ve never been very good at shame so…..

The Wolf of Wall Street – I’m trying to come up with a word to fully describe the complete depravity I witnessed in this movie. And, I’m only trying to describe Jonah Hill’s teeth. Don’t get me started on the dwarf-throwing or “anal candling” (a term I have just now coined….I think).

August Osage County – Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it. You are all Thespians who emote loudly. We are duly impressed.

Inside Llewyn Davis – I think this is just a super long commercial for Zoloft, right? Common side effects of Inside Llewyn Davis may include headache, nausea, diarrhea, dry mouth and increased sweating. Sexual side effects, such as problems with orgasm and ejaculatory delay often do not diminish.

What? Now you’re going to mess with my orgasm?

What? Now you’re going to mess with my orgasm?

Saving Mr. Banks – Sorry Mr. Disney, but even if he is a desperate drunk spitting up blood, I would still totally do Colin Farrell. And, actually, Emma Thompson too. She’s divine.

Her – It’s like when my grandpa goes all apoplectic because his computer box gadget won’t spit the thing out with the mouse do-hicky.  God damned technology!! It’ll be the death of us!!

Dag-blasted son-of-a-bitch! Why I oughtta…

Dag-blasted son-of-a-bitch! Why I oughta…

Weird computer on human sex action that is a sweeping commentary on the loneliness and isolation of the human condition. We get it. Oh, and Joaquin Phoenix – Creeps. Me. Out. Bad. And so do his high-waisted pants.

Rush – Thor can really be a douch sometimes.

American Hustle – I’ve been sitting here for the past three decades waiting for the resurgence of the Jerry Curl. David O. Russell, you complete me.

Philomena – Nuns are mean.

So there you are. A wrap up of the higher-profile movies of the awards season. Now it’s time to settle into the mindless drivel of entertainment that happens this time of year when there are no more awards to be won or careers to be made.

After slavery, AIDs and outer space, I could use a few car chases!

 

Do I Have To Be Tortured To Be A Writer?

Do I Have To Be Tortured To Be A Writer?

I’ve actually mulled this question over for a long time. I always figured that I wasn’t nearly damaged enough to ever be a true writer of note. Oh, I can pull out the occasional well-written sentence but I’ve never felt that I had enough pain and suffering etched on my very soul to be as tragic as it seems I need to be.

How can I create amazing art with staying power if I don’t have deep dark depression, bipolar disorder, an addiction to opiates or a raging alcohol problem (no comments please).

As I’ve tried to dedicate more of my limited resources to writing I’ve realized that you don’t have to be tortured to start writing because you’ll be good and tortured by the time you finish.

To write honestly and uniquely, stuff starts to come up whether you like it or not. And, as well-balanced and adjusted as you may think you are going into it, you’ll find breaks, chips and fractures you had no idea were there. You’ll unearth stuff that is ugly, weak, embarrassing and utterly unlovable. And all that is a veritable buffet of fuel for your stories and your characters.

I’ve learned that writers are some of the bravest people on the planet. I am still struggling to find my courage on many levels as a writer and I stand in awe of those who have laid it all bare in the name of storytelling.

And storytelling is integral to a healthy society. It’s easy to dismiss movies or books as entertainment only. And, entertainment is definitely part of it. But when I watch a good movie or read a good book, it slowly changes how I see the world and expands my often too focused view of life.

I think I was born with an innate love of good writing. The right combination of words in just the right order can bring me to tears. So it seems predetermined in the stars that I would need to at least give it a shot.

And,  speaking of shots, pour me one of whiskey and load up my Underwood because I’m going to the dark place.

Don’t Overthink, Just Say It – #7 In The Achieving Emotional Grace Series

Don’t Overthink, Just Say It – #7 In The Achieving Emotional Grace Series

 

“Too often, the opportunity knocks, but by the time you push back the chain,
push back the bolt, unhook the two locks and shut off the burglar alarm, it’s too late.”

~Rita Coolidge

 

 

Today I’m going to tell a story to illustrate a concept that is very simple but remarkably difficult for many of us to act on. It’s not a particularly funny story, I will warn you. But, it’s a story that I think of so often that it is clearly one I should share.

The first house my husband and I bought was in West Seattle. The house itself was a 1920’s Tudor with a cracked foundation and smelly basement that would have been perfect as a serial killer’s lair. We both worked at home as consultants at the time and the floors sloped so much that if I pushed away from my desk I’d roll to the other side of the room.

But, we loved that house. And, we loved the neighborhood even more. We could walk to dinner or the funky old theater for a movie. We could hear the fog horns of the ferry boats at night. We had a spectacular view of the Olympics if we got on our roof. But, the very best part was our neighbors.

On one side of us lived an older gentleman who lived alone. He had a pool in his backyard (a rarity in the rainy NW) that was never used and fairly green. On the rare occasion that we saw him, he seemed gruff and annoyed. But, we decided to have him over for dinner one night to be neighborly and found that he was a nice, quirky gentleman who simply had lost his wife several years earlier and didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He was sort of our little version of Boo Radley.

Then, behind us, sharing an alley, was Ginny and George, the sweetest elderly couple you could ever meet. Ginny sported the tightest perm I think allowable by OSHA standards and would call me several mornings a week to arrange an “alley date”.

“Irene, honey,” she would whisper, “Meet me by the trash bins in the alley in 5 minutes.”

“OK, got it….who is this?”

“Oh, Irene. You are a hoot!” She would cackle.

When we finally met up at the agreed upon drop point, she’d regale me with gossip of the other neighbors, update me on her grandkids and alert me to the fact that her husband, George, would be getting his prostate exam later that day.

Our neighbors on the other side of us was a lovely young family – Patrick, Catherine, Declan, Meagan and a cat named Finnbar who terrorized our dog.

Catherine, the mother to Declan and Meagan, was a very sweet, smart and beautiful woman who had been battling colon cancer for quite some time. When we first moved into our house and got to know them, Catherine was in remission and was very healthy. We had numerous BBQs, put up a new fence together and lent each other tools and flour. All that neighborly stuff.

A year or so after we moved in, we seemed to see less and less of Catherine. We didn’t seem to see her husband Patrick as much either and the sound of kids playing in the back yard had diminished as well.

Patrick came to our door one afternoon to let us know that Catherine’s cancer had returned and, this time, it was not a good prognosis. They had tried another round of chemo that had been brutal and had decided enough was enough.

I started to see Catherine sitting on their front stoop in the sun, looking weak and thin but smiling and very happy. I would sit with her sometimes and visit. We both loved reading and I would bring her whatever book I had finished and liked.

We never really talked about her illness. We didn’t avoid it, it just never came up. Only every day topics. Nice and normal.

Soon Catherine no longer showed up on her front stoop. I went over to see her a couple of times, bringing the latest book, but she was bed ridden and in a sharp decline so I would leave it with her mother, who had come to help out.

Then one day Catherine showed up again on the stoop. This time she was in a wheelchair. She was extremely thin and pale, but she was still smiling. She waved me over and I sat with her for a moment.

“Thank you for the books. I wish you had come up to talk with me.”

“You weren’t feeling well and your Mother said it was best to let you sleep.”

She laughed. “Jesus, the last thing I want to do right now is sleep!”

“Well, next time I will force my way in then!”

“Please do!!!”

About then Patrick and the kids came home so I went on my way and let them have their time.

A couple of days later Patrick came to our door to let us know that Catherine had passed away. She was only 35 years old and left a husband, two small children, a cat named Finnbar and a neighbor who would never forget how lovely and kind she was.

I was so concerned about saying the wrong thing or insinuating myself into a terrible time for that family, that I never told her how much I liked her and how sad I was that we would not be able to become closer friends. Because I knew, if circumstances were different, we would have become very good friends.

But, we forget that we don’t have all the time in the world. And sometimes, those opportunities are gone before you even realize they are there.

I wanted her to know that, even though I only knew her for a short time, she made a very big impact on me. And, in the end, isn’t that what we all want? To have made a difference to someone.

Catherine did leave me something: the regret I’ve always felt at holding back what I should have said has ensured I never made that mistake again.

And that has been a tremendous gift.

“One doesn’t recognize the really important moments
in one’s life until it’s too late.”

~Agatha Christie

2013: An Awkward Death

2013: An Awkward Death

I am, admittedly, slow on the uptake for writing about 2013. After all, 2013 was so last month!

I’m going to blame it on my blinding anticipation of the new season of Downton Abbey. Damned Brits.

So, what can I say about 2013? It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was a year of weirdness, it was a year of boredom, it was a time of unsightly rashes and a time of emotional outbursts.

Does it seem to anyone other than me that 2013 has had the longest death scene ever? Haven’t we been trying to wrap this year up since about June?

The long, awkward death rattle of 2013

turkish2

So, here are a few of the oddities, in a vast sea of weirdness, from the year that made me tilt my head and say “Whaaaa???”

Zygote Infamy

Imagine having a lifetime supply of fame before you even develop limbs. Then imagine eventually being born to some of these parents.

  • We have yet more Kardashian blood on our hands now with the arrival of North West, who will most likely be bi-polar before hitting kindergarten.
  • His Royal Highness Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge selfishly took all the focus off of the final season of Breaking Bad by being born.
  • This created…something:

Wiz Khalifa, Amber Rose

  • But, to balance that, so did this:

Kristen Bell, Dax Shepard

  • Brad and Angelina did NOT have (or go get) any more children this year.

Dennis Rodman’s Love Affair

Celebrity couples are just like us!

Dennis Rodman, Kim Jung Il

They show their love in public.

They laugh together!

They laugh together!

They have serious discussions about stuff!

They have serious discussions about stuff!

They clap!!

They clap!!

Same Sex Marriage

A tip o’ the hat to California, Connecticut, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, Iowa, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, Rhode Island, Utah, Vermont, Washington and the District of Columbia.

These states legalized same-sex marriage, thereby ensuring they will all be better pressed, accessorized and smell of lavender.

And, a wag of the finger at the rest of you states. You can all continue to wallow in the stench of backward thinking and fear while living in your trailers that lack tasteful yet vibrant throw pillows. No pop of color for you!

Paula Deen

Paula Deen loses endorsements due to stupid racist remarks = $12.5 Million

The sustained consumption of salt, butter and bacon causes obesity and diabetes = $450 Billion

A Spike Lee/Jaime Oliver/Paula Deen Fight Club session = Priceless

Paula Deen

Spike Lee

Jamie Oliver

God’s Bouncer

Mario Jorge Bergoglio, (ex-bouncer, chemist and janitor) dares to be the bad boy James Dean of Vatican City with his crazy ideas of relieving poverty rather than focusing on old news like homosexuality, premarital sex and abortion. What are you, some kinda Christian?

This kid's the pope!

This kid’s the pope!

Don’t get me wrong – My membership card expired many years ago. I mean, I am a thinking human with ovaries who birthed two males of alter boy age, all of which are cause for concern in the Catholic Club.

This Guy

Shut your pie hole. Really.

Duck Dynasty, Phil Robertson

So, in closing, I bid 2013 a tardy adieu and good riddance. Don’t let the door hit you in that freaky ass on the way out.