Here's a disturbing little product I spotted over at Amazon:
This is a Microsoft Bluetooth Notebook Mouse, which was apparently designed specifically for trolling the web for hardcore porn.
I especially, especially like how easy the scroll wheel is to find on this model.
Just read an article about how Different Colors Describe Happiness vs. Depression. It was a mildly interesting story about a study with predicable findings.
Happy people gravitate toward yellow. Depressed people feel grey. An affinity for light blue is acceptable, while a preference for dark blue indicates an immediate need for heavy medication. Pretty intuitive stuff, I suppose.
It was the end of the article that piqued my interest.
Whorwell is now testing the [color] wheel on patients with irritable bowel syndrome. He's hoping that color choices can reveal patients' attitudes and predict how well they will respond to treatments like hypnosis. Because people are embarrassed by gastroenterogical symptoms, Whorewell said, non-verbal methods of getting information are sometimes preferable to conversation.
I am just imagining how such research will ultimately affect the treatment of irritable bowel syndrome.
GASTROENTEROLOGIST: How are you feeling this afternoon, sport?
PATIENT: For the nineteenth time: BROWN! I'm feeling brown, okay doc? Dark. Ruddy. Brown.
I am about four months into my second pregnancy. I think about food now. A lot. Lately I have been ruminating on the subject of Girl Scout Cookies. Accordingly, I went back a couple years and found this post from spring of 2008.
How self-absorbed does one have to be to giggle at their own handiwork? You are looking at it, baby!
I have also included the comments because in the 3 or 4 years I have been blogging, this is the only negative feedback I have received to date. This is how I know that no one is reading my blog. Except for my mom. Because I told her to.
I was puttering around to determine which search terms would yield this site as the first result on Google.
Oh yeah! I am the web's foremost authority on seepy buttholes.
Now I just need to see what all the buzz is about on the topic of sleepy buttholes.
I first encountered this admonition back at the 2006 Iowa State Fair.
Which made me wonder: whose fingers? my fingers? someone else's fingers? lady finger cookies?
Now that I have a child, it is comforting to know that this ambiguity has been cleared up.
YOUR fingers
Max was moments away from allowing a horse to eat his fingers off, fortunately he received the information he needed before it was too late.
I went to court today. After the conclusion of trial proceedings, the judge told a strange story of a shackled defendant who shocked the court by displaying a scar, which was located in an intimate area. My own sense of propriety failing, I made the following request:
ME: May it please the Court? Counsel would like to show the Court her C-Section scar.
JUDGE: Counsel’s request is adamantly denied!
I didn’t really want to show off my scar, but I always hate to lose a motion.
I get bored from time to time, and when that happens I like to reach out and make connections with others. Quite often this means sending feisty, colorful, and sometimes blatantly obscene texts to Matt's pager.
As I send these, I imagine: Matt diligently working when his pager goes off for the thirty-seventh time that afternoon; he casually glances at the display, tries to not to react to my filthy little missive, and goes back to rendering excellent patient care.
It is truly one of my favorite things to do. At this point however, Matt has grown accustomed to my obnoxious prank and I really have to get creative to elicit much of a reaction. So it was that my last text to Matt was a well-crafted work of explicit literature. I will not tell you what the text said; suffice to say that I masterfully wove inside jokes with song lyrics with a healthy dash of crude profanity.
I giggled to myself as I sent off my evil text, and then returned to my work feeling quite refreshed and satisfied.
Then . . . my phone buzzed with a new message from my mother-in -law:
The item below may be sold in head shops, and the purveyor will swear up and down that it is intended for smoking tobacco . . .
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. . . but you and I both know for that this fine piece of hippie paraphernalia is intended for marijuana.
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A DISPLAY BOX FOR SERIAL KILLERS! I like to peruse Matt's medical journals. Not because I wish to stay abreast of current medical research, but because sometimes they have articles like this!
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Anal Spincteroplasty With Perineoplasty:
The husband dollar sign is clearly the frugal member of the couple (read, tight-fisted skinflint). He is extending an arm around his wife, a patronizing gesture placing her under his frugal wing. The wife makes no attempt to return his embrace. Note the distance between the couple. She is obviously seething.
This is the sad state of this couple's relationship, turned tragically sour and resentful by the husband's oppressive frugality.
ARE YOU READING THIS MATT?!
Buy me a new sofa!
Am I just getting old and stodgy, or are commercials for women-specific products becoming progressively porn-ier?
Case in point:
This ad is so un-enticing as to render it truly remarkable. What could possibly be more wearisome, more uninteresting than listening to stories on YouTube of the aging population and their insulin delivery mechanisms?
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This one comes close.
This one is probably more interesting, 
I suspect there is a lot of overlap between
Grandma and Grandpa explain to young Jacob
These stories have terrible endings..
Max is too young to know it yet, but he is a University of Wyoming fan. While he was still gestating away, his mom was sewing Cowboy pennants for his nursery.
With potty training just around the corner, I cannot think of anything more suitable for Max to poop on.
I may just buy one of these BYU potty trainers over at Varsity Baby.
Now Max can learn to defecate and desecrate all at the same time!
Let me begin by saying that I am truly proud of my Wyoming heritage, much in the same way President Obama still loves his racist grandmother.
You may recall my post regarding Wyoming’s sub-par Easter Egg. Much as Wyoming's Egg fell short in representing the talent and creativity of Wyomingites, the state continues to elect individuals to Congress who fail to reflect the intelligence of the state populace.
Behold:
Presently, I am sofa-bound trying to take in President Obama's Address to Congress. I am CRAZY-distracted by Nancy Pelosi sitting behind Obama's left shoulder. She is wearing some retro-70's-fondue-party-avocado-green sweater outfit, blinking far more than is humanly necessarily, and appears to be sucking broccoli from her teeth.
Try as I may, I can't focus on anything other than her bizarre facial tics, and the gleeful way in which she continually pops out of her seat in applause as though her chair were spring-loaded.
Am I just being catty? Did anyone else find her distracting.
(If I find out she is suffering from tardive dyskinesia, I am going to feel like a jerk.)
Matt tells me these kind of things get to me because I have an overactive parietal lobe. I think I would have been better served had he specialized in plastic surgery rather than psychiatry.
Okay. Back to the Address.
I guess everyone should get behind a cause about which they feel passionately.
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The site e-MANcipate.net is devoted to "accelerating the acceptance of male pantyhose as a regular clothing item"
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Ah . . . I must concede that mantyhose are quite striking!
. . . that's not true at all, I most certainly do want to brag! Guess what I get to do tonight. Here's a couple hints:
(1)
(2)
In this third installment of a series entitled "Plastic Surgeons I Won’t Be Using" . . .
. . . I openly declare my personal policy against physicians who use caulking guns as their instrument of choice.
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Dear Websense filter personnel:
I am writing this letter in defense of my character and to deny using my office computer for inappropriate purposes.
By way of background, I recently read about a necklace that sold at auction for more than $2 million. Curious to find a photo of this pricey string of pearls, I ran a Google search with the following terms:
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There have been a number of things I have wanted to post lately, but I haven't. I just couldn't bring myself to return to my typical coarse and arguably tacky brand of wordsmithery following the last two posts of photos of my sweet innocent kiddo.
This post will serve as a buffer. A palate cleanser, if you will.
. . . but our refrigerator is actually a portal to another dimension!
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Max went looking for a late night snack, but found the gateway to a parallel universe.
" Check it ladies, no mess here! "
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" See! "
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" I am kicking the stuffing out of the MENZEEEEES! "
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" You best not be looking at my hooey. "
And the most horrible of Playtex's menstrual crotch-shots . . .
" Check out my period spirit! WOOOOO! "
- - - - - UPDATE - - - -
Diedre from over at Craft Cabana makes some compeling points in the comments:
And the voice over shouting her approval: "may the best protection win!" WTF,O? Also, in the 28 years that I've managed with just the regular tampons, I've never once encountered the need for "no slip grip." And while we are on the subject, how does the backup layer know it's the backup? Does it sit on the bench until it sees a situation developing?
I am still chuckling (and cringing) about potential injuries sustaind for want of a no-slip grip.
Last night a number of protesters picketed outside of an LDS Temple in New York to voice their support of gay marriage and decry those Church members who supported California's Proposition 8.
Demonstrators conveyed a bit of a mixed message.
"Shame on you!" the large crowd chanted in a 1-2-3 syncopation while looking up at the temple. Several protesters held signs asking "Did you cast a ballot or a stone?" while other signs read "Latter Day H8" and "Church of Mormon" with an X drawn over the second M to read "MORON."
You may not find this too hard to believe, but not everyone thinks I am particularly witty. Today’s telephone call from a wrong number is illustrative:
ME: Hi, this is Kerry.
CALLER: Well, it’s not supposed to be.
ME: You sound like my mother’s obstetrician.
(silence)
CALLER: What?
(CLICK)
Last year I posted this Halloween story about my first grade witch's brew whose rather macabre recipe was published in the local paper - much to my mother's horror.
The last item being the ingredient my dear mother found unacceptably weird and abhorrent for a young child.
Nearly twenty-four Halloween seasons later, we picked up a great book for Max. The book is called Frankenstein Makes a Sandwich by Adam Rex.
Love it! It is a fantastic book.
And then a Frazzled Warthag baking kid and kidney pies.That's right! KID and KIDNEY pies !!! I am not alone! I am not the only weirdo creating imaginary confections made from tender young organ meat. Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you Adam Rex for make me feel like less of a freak show.
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And now . . . a series of awkward, confusing and, uncomfortable photos:
Sea lion stuck on the rocks . . .
Sarah Palin at the podium.
