KITTEHS! UNICORNS! MATH SUX!!

Two posts in one day. What have you done to deserve such an embarrassment of riches?  Well, I thought I’d take to my bully pulpit to show you my review for this ridonkulous shirt at Penney’s. I wanted to write one for this

but they, in a rare display of good sense, took it down.

But there’s this one

A friend said of this shirt, “Comes complete with Sharpie, so you can write the word “pole” before dancing, and “fluffer” before music.”

So I wrote a review. I’m very critical and shit. Anyway, I wrote a review which I will post here because I figure it will never see the like of day on the Penney’s website.

Good day to you, sir.

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(Note: In full disclosure, I have taken Penney’s to task before. Link here.)

To September

Have I mentioned I hate August? Yeah, I think I have. I hate August with a passion that burns like 10,000 yeast infections. Summer is not my friend. I have tried to break up with August several times, but he always shows back up, all hey, baby, if you let me crash at your place I’ll bring September next time. And I get all, NU-UH, August. And he gets all hey, girl. You know how I do. And finally I’m just like, okay, come in. Do what you have to do. I’ll just close my eyes and think of England.

August wears a mullet and jean shorts and is fond of the lip-hugging trash stache. August loves Night Ranger and Quiet Riot. August wears tube socks and Velcro-closure vinyl sneakers from Dollar General. August’s idea of foreplay is a nudge to see if you’re awake. WHICH YOU ARE NOT because who can stay awake when it’s swamp-butt hot outside? August’s idea of lube is plastic seat sweat.

But September? September gives me hope. September is good cop to August’s bad cop. In Memphis, it might not feel like Autumn in September, but it smells like it. Granted, the smell mainly comes from the Arkansas farmers burning off cotton, but IT’S A FALL SMELL and I shall be rejoice and be glad. Even as I gasp like an emphysemic trucker and writhe around like a fish out of water trying to lay my hands on my inhaler so I can get one more lung full of burning herbicides because THEY BY GOD SMELL LIKE FALL AND I WILL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.

The light in August? Pfffft. One, you know how I feel about Faulkner. Two, September is purdier. And tomorrow? Tomorrow it will be September, finally. Tonight at 11:59, August will pack up his El Camino and leave out for…well, I don’t know where August goes when he leaves. A place where there’s a Chuck Norris marathon playing at the drive in would be my guess. Doesn’t matter. I don’t care where he goes because I don’t have to deal with him for another year.

September SEC football and pot roast. August’s bug bites and antibiotic ointments pale in comparison to college football. Yes, tomatoes are bountiful in August. See, I CAN say nice things about months I hate. But if August is a tomato, September is the bacon to go with that tomato.

I’m not promising I’ll be a kinder, gentler sarcastic wench tomorrow, but I won’t be any worse. And, hell, I’ll prolly be right giddy by the time October shows up. No, I won’t. I know. But that’s the thing about September. It gives me hope.

Do not spoil this for me.

Shut Up

Normally some ridiculous crack like this from Michelle Bachmann would bounce right off me, but I’m in a mood today. She was down in Florida and made some lame ass joke about Hurricane Irene and the East Coast earthquake being the manifestation of God’s pissed-offedness at us and at politicians.

Yeah.

You know what? It’s not funny. I don’t care that she didn’t mean it. I doubt she really believes that. She was trying to make a joke and it fell flat and people like me get to make fun of it. But it happens that today is the sixth anniversary of The Storm That Shall Not Be Named, and I’m a little touchy about natural disasters.

I hope that Candidate Bachmann never has to wait two weeks to speak with her family because all means of communication other than two tin cans linked with twine are down. I hope she never has to evacuate a barrier island. I hope she doesn’t have to decide what to do with her pets because storm shelters don’t allow animals. I hope she never has to deal with chronic illness from trying to clean unholy black mold out of her home after it’s been flooded for a month. I hope no one she knows ever dies in a shelter and is pushed against the wall and covered up with a blanket because there’s nothing else to do with the body. I hope she never has to know what it’s like to move into a house that finally got built four years after a storm only to find out the building materials used are so toxic, she’d be better off living under a bridge.

Most of all, I wish public figures would stop acting as if they are the only ones with direct lines to God. If you want to invoke God in your candidacy, fine. But do it by actions and not words. I happen to think being religious is like being a lady: if you really are, you don’t need to spend all your time trying to convince me of it. If God speaks to anyone, he speaks to all of us. Equally.

I know each time I check the news today there will be some piece about whether or not she was serious about what she said yesterday, and I’ll get pissed off all over again. The joke fell flat because it was too close to home. It was too easy to believe she wasn’t really joking. I mean, granted, she seems to have all the sense of humor of a grain sack, but she also really seems to believe that God is weak, so out of touch, that he has to resort to parlor tricks to get our attention. And that is not the religion I want in my White House.