Hillbilly New Year's Eve

Brought to you by the phrases people search for and find in
some way, shape, or form at my little slice of heaven.
I ain't gonna pretty 'em up for ya, neither!

Let's have a holiday party! I can host it. ive got a mansion,
you know! Ladies, don't expect to sit on your cushiony butts
and enjoy the festivities, because we are waitresses at the
banquet of life.

First, let's discuss the dress code. This is a no panties dress
dinner. I mean it. I find that it makes for better looking up
dresses from under the dinner table stories, don't you? There
shall be no melina divas 2006 lingerie special white stockings
like last year. I certainly hope you learned your lesson, Melina.
Or DID you? Most people don't like to be spanked over the
desk...is all I'm sayin'. ;)

Disclaimer: I have no personal knowledge of whether or not Melina likes to be
spanked over a desk. It is just a little joke of the hillbilly variety, which methinks
she will not take exception to, but if she does, then I am sorry and will not do
such a thing again, but will instead pick on my buddy Redneck Diva, who is
all about taking one for the redneck team when a buddy is trying to get a
cheap laugh at her expense.

what kind of clothes does a hillbilly dress? you ask. Hmm...
a hillbilly doesn't dress clothes, silly. A hillbilly dresses a
person, like how you dress up hannah montana when she's
a cid. I don't know what a 'cid' is, but darn her, that Hannah
Montana, for being one. I'm sure it's something popular, and
a way of stealing the spotlight from ME.

Getting back to our dress code...many people (OK, two)
have asked me where do to you get the hm flash, HM? It's
a combination of what I learned at a hillbilly church dance,
and on superhero day dress up homecoming under armor.
Yes, it's a far cry from when that elf costume tied my arms.
Now I know that all you have to do is put on some sissy
deodorant so people don't say pu - you stink, and then step
into some clothes worn by jekyll and hyde, who must have
been quite the fashion plates back in the day. As long as
you take this advice, you won't end up looking like those
melon heads at felt mansion.

Now let's move on to those hillbilly dinner party crazy named
menu items, shall we? Don't worry about the hillbilly appetizers.
They're not actually made OF hillbillies, they're made BY
hillbillies. Whew! I know that's a relief for you. And there's
no truth to the rumor that after HM went in to prepare snapping
turtle recipe she was heard to scream what causes homemade
cocktail sauce to gel after making, anyway? Nope, everything
is just fine.

I've got a volunteer to help me. sammie sparks toss my salad!
She must be really good at it. People keep asking about her
all the time. I think she even made a movie about it. Funny
that I haven't seen it on the Food Network. You can relax.
It's hsus club sandwiches not seals hoodie for sale. You can
eat sandwiches, not chew on those dry cotton-mouth inducing
hoodies. Sorry about the 'sale' part. I can't write off this whole
affair as a business expense because somebody didn't bring
me the orange sherbet punch receipts. AND, even worse, I
can't find hamburger helper potato stroganoff. But don't y'all
worry, we still have plenty of food. At this very moment I
have recipe for fentanyl patch in microwave, and it's almost
microwave time for hog jowl. Then, for all of you who are
game, we'll have a chicken strip serenade. That means if you
sing and take off some clothes, we'll throw chicken at you.
Mmm, mmm. Can it get any better than this?

Yes, it can. After dinner, we will play poker in hot tub until
it's time to ring in the New Year. OK, so some of you have
already rung it in. I can't help it that I'm in the remedial
hemisphere. Humor me. And whoever finds the lucky
hairwad in that free hot tub gets to spend a week with
HM and the spawn at the Hillbilly Mansion. If you survive.
By now, that hairwad has a reputation like the Giant Squid.

Don't go blamin' me if you end up at the hillbilly hospital snl
after the festivities. At least you'll get a laugh out of it. And
I don't know why people last year complained: hm burns.
Were they calling me a bitter old cheapskate, a la Montgomery
Burns? Were they insinuating that HM is the new STD, and
that they got some painful symptoms from contracting me?
Am I, perhaps, the new Berber carpet, capable of leaving
umm...HM burns after an evening of overzealous hanky panky?
I don't know, and I'm afraid to ask.

Won't you all come to my party this New Year's Eve? Do
you want to bring something? C'mon...who makes hillbilly
bread? And what do YOU put in it?

Or maybe I don't want to know.

Spanking Airline Paint Job

Ho hum. I need some stimulation of some kind. I am bored. So
now you will be bored. The high point of my day was watching
Growing Up Gotti. Those boys need a good spanking.

I also enjoyed the drama of the Airline series. Except that today,
the drama was manufactured by the camera. Oh! A woman is
crying too much to board the plane! She had two beers! Don't
let her on. Something bad might happen in the air! The airline
personnel told her they would have to put her on another
flight. Oh, the drama! She replied, "I understand. I drive
a Greyhound bus. Do what you have to do." Then a hippie
traveling to a concert with his dog of 9 years, Snausages,
was too drunk to fly. He admitted to having 6 drinks. He
said he planned to sleep on the plane. He was very cordial.
They told him he couldn't fly until the first plane out the next
morning. He was agreeable. "What are you gonna do?
Sh*t happens." Yeah. That was exciting. Then there was
the couple having a fit because they saw a worker toss their
luggage too hard. It had their son's dialysis machine in it,
you see, and by golly if that thing was broken, it would ruin
their Disney World holiday. But they wouldn't know until that
night when they fired it up. The boarding lady called the loading
supervisor who talked to the tosser who denied seeing a 'fragile'
bag and said he treated all luggage the same. The supervisor
got into the cargo hold and found the bag. Duh. It was a
soft-sided duffel bag affair, with no 'fragile' tag that I could
see. People! Please pack your son's dialysis machine in a
trunk or some hardside luggage. Or wrap it with that yellow
police-tape stuff that screams 'FRAGILE' so that tossers will
notice. Common sense, people, common sense.

HH painted a living room wall today, a nice beige color to
replace the white with handprints all over it. THIS time he
got the washable kind like I requested 9 years ago. It looks
pretty good for an HH job. But he also rearranged the
furniture, which none of us are pleased with. Except HH.
Now we will need new furniture to complement the wall,
and that means we will need new carpet to go with the new
furniture...Hey! There's a book in there somewhere! I shall
call it:

If You Give HH Some Paint

The Contest. Not THAT Contest, Seinfeld Fans.

And now...for my latest project...I am designing a lottery ticket.
It's a contest. All I can win is $500 in lottery tickets. Or $200
in lottery tickets if I'm in the top twenty designs picked.

Yes, one of these days, I will get a life. But that time is not now.
I haven't worked on it all day because I was watching Disc 1 of
Season 1 of My Name Is Earl. Sure, it was mildly amusing. I
suppose when you are surrounded by people like that 24/7, and
have been since birth, it's not so unusual. I would watch it again.
I am a Jason Lee fan. He's not really an actor. He is pretty much
himself in everything I've seen, from Mallrats to Chasing Amy to
whatever bone Kevin Smith threw him, to Heartbreakers with
Sigourney Weaver, Gene Hackman, Ray Liotta, and Jennifer
Love Hewitt. You must see Heartbreakers. I laughed all the
way through it. It's one of my favorites. But don't watch it if
have a phobia about breaking off a statue's p*nis. All I'm
sayin' is...be prepared. You may not want to watch it with
your 98-year-old grandma.

Now, for more about my design. Am I going to tell you what
it looks like? Oh, HECK no! I was not born yesterday. Just
ask my buddy Lantern. I know better than that. You can't
bamboozle me into telling. Then one of y'all could just steal
my idea and run off with my bounty of lottery tickets. Like
something that might happen on an episode of My Name is
Earl. Bounty-stealers!

No, I shan't describe what my design looks like until that
contest is over in mid-February. I shan't, I tell you! Now
you have upset me and put me into my Hayley Mills mode.
Not the Hayley Mills from her guest appearance on Saved
By The Bell, or the Hayley Mills from Twisted Nerve. I
mean the Hayley Mills from The Parent Trap, and The Chalk
Garden, and The Trouble With Angels. I just love it when
she and June Harding give their names to Mother Superior
as "Sandy Beach" and "Fleur De Lis". Anyhoo, I am not
as old as Hayley Mills. I'm just giving Lantern more fodder
for his age-guessing gig with the carival.

Have you ever seen Leap of Faith, Lantern? It's a Steve
Martin movie, but he doesn't act like Steve Martin. Anyhoo...
the point I'm getting at is that when his bus is pulled over
for speeding, Steve-O finagles his way out of a ticket by
appealing to the cop's inadequacies concerning his family
life. He guesses the name of the cop's daughter by picking
the most common girl's name given during that time period.
But Steve-O wouldn't even have had that problem if he
hadn't let Meat Loaf drive that bus. Didn't he know that
Meat would drive like a bat out of he!!? Duh! Perhaps you
should watch it, Lantern. It might help you with your
carbon-dating system. Oh, and the cop is now Frank the
desk clerk on ER, just in case any of you doubt old Hillbilly
Mom's trivia knowledge in the entertainment category.

It's been a treat treating you to some of my obscure favorites,
but I must be getting on with my contest design now.

Don't even try to guess what it looks like.

Mansion Life, A Slice Of

Not much new here at the Mansion. I spent the morning with
the heating and cooling guy. He was nice enough. I opened up
my back door for him. He really heated things up. In fact, the
smoke alarm went off for about 30 minutes. He was smokin'.
Then he finished, and handed me a bill for $225.

HH had told me it would be $200 for the labor. This guy was
packing up his tools, and mentioned that it would be around
$260. He came up to reset the thermostat, and I said, "Well,
HH told me it would be around $200. I guess that freon you
put in costs a little more." The guy hemmed and hawed for a
few minutes about not knowing the exact price until he called
his boss. About 10 minutes later, he came in from his truck
and said it would be $225, because it had not taken 2-3 hours,
but only 90 minutes. I had tried to call HH about this issue 3
times, but he didn't answer. When HH came home, he said,
"Oh, they settled for only $225?" I hate being the middleman.

HH and the boys have gone bowling. I am eating some Danish
Butter Cookies that cost...oh...about $1 for a can of 50. I am
planning to watch TV in peace tonight, what with the Hatfield
and McCoy young'uns gone to town. The last I saw of them,
they were shooting Nerf darts at each other from a distance
of 12 inches with no eye protection. It's all fun and games
until Hillbilly Mom has to shell out money for two white canes.
From what I hear, the dogs are free.

The boys and I took $20 from 4 gift cards to Blockbuster
yesterday. We got The Black Dahlia, Jackass Number Two,
My Name Is Earl season one, and a Wii game of some type.
No, I didn't let the boys watch those DVDs. And I didn't
play the Wii game. The cost was $19.96. I let her keep the
$0.04, because that's the kind of gal I am.

I tried to take a little chair nap around 4:00. I told #1 son,
"I'm taking a little nap before I cook supper. DO NOT come
over and stare in my face from 2 inches away until I wake up."
That's one of his little hobbies. Nothing interesting was on
Oprah, so by 4:05 I nodded off in the recliner. Next thing I
know, a ricochet pings near my head, and I see #1 sitting on
his rolling computer chair, laughing. It was the demon Nerf
gatling gun. DARN YOU, Mayor's wife, for giving that boy
such a gift! I suppose it's to make up for the time I gave your
2-year-old a plastic Noah's Ark. Complete with animals.

Now I'm going to drag myself back to the blue recliner and
watch some TV while it's safe to nod off and catch a few ZZZs.
I'm also going to work on a new project. Perhaps I'll share that
with you tomorrow.

Perhaps not.

Craw-Stickin' Goodies

Hillbilly Mom has issues. Surprise, surprise! Yes, there are a
plethora of goodies stuck in my craw tonight. Or perhaps my
goiter has just enlarged. Let's get right to it.

Yesterday, we made a trip to The Devil's Playground. Yes.
What was I thinking? It was not as crowded as I had imagined
it would be. But there were NO carts. NONE in that big garage-
type space just inside the doors, where the overachieving cart
boy RAMMED me earlier this year, nearly breaking my fragile
old-lady hip, while the greeter snickered behind her hand.
Lucky for the heirs of Sam Walton that I am well-padded in
the hip-bone area. No carts meant I couldn't use one as a
walker, and had to support my own weight throughout the
store. Which really is not a problem except that I had been
standing for the past 3 days, what with preparing party snacks,
gift-wrapping, carrying in groceries and gifts, playing with the
new puppy, watching my kids play with new toys, etc. So
when I had to stand in line 10 minutes just to use the self-
checkout thingy, I was not a happy camper. My lower back
went into a spasm. I'm sure everybody could hear it screaming
"Give me a muscle relaxer! Now!" Except that I have never
had a muscle relaxer, but HH had a whole jar of them that
he had to take on schedule after his neck surgery where they
put titanium plates on two vertabrae, which made him a bit
more bearable for the never-ending days he stayed home
with us over that Christmas vacation. Anyhoo...over half of
the checkouts were marked "For Returns Only", but nobody
was at them. Not returning, not working. They were just
abandoned. The full-service checkouts were filled with
lines 5 or 6 deep of cartloads of Christmas bargains, or
groceries. We only had about 6 items. But we still had to
wait on a lady using the self-check as an arcade experience
for a wee tot, letting him scan each and every item. Then
the next lady paid by check, which required a human to
come over and press something.

My mom went to the doctor about her fat red finger. She is
on her second round of antibiotics for what is believed to be
a staph infection in her right pinky finger. The doc said he
would like her to see an orthopedist, because it just doesn't
look right. He said to see one THIS WEEK and referred
her. Except that the office is closed until next week, so when
questioned about it, he said she could wait until Jan. 4 instead
of referring her to another orthopedist. You can bet that I am
checking that finger every day. I will cart her right back to
the ER if that red border so much as moves a centimeter
toward her hand again. I can't believe it was so urgent until
the doc found out his referral office was closed. I wonder
how much kickback he gets for each referral. I need to know
for when her finger has to be amputated and I sue him.

HH has been harping about our furnace for about a month
now. He says the heat pump thingy is not working right. It's
the same unit that we had trouble with in the summer, and
the repairman pumped it full of freon and said there was not
a hole, it must be a slow leak around the seal or some such
thing. Now another repairman has said some major part is
bad, and that it is very expensive and must be replaced. HH
took them to task about why it wasn't discovered in the
summer, and why should we pay a service fee again when
they messed up diagnosing it, and how he spends thousands
of dollars with the company through work each year, and
how we bought the unit from them to begin with. They have
now decided they can get the part through warranty, but it
will cost a minimum of $200 in labor. Oh, and it will take 3
hours. Guess who has to let them in at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow
and stay home to supervise them? Yep. I don't know why
they couldn't have done it yesterday, when HH was off.
Oh, wait! Maybe it was because HH didn't want his freakin'
day off ruined by staying home to babysit the repairman!

Speaking of HH...he had to return a pair of waterproof
camouflage boots that I gave him for Christmas. According
to my little spy, HH took the cash refund and put it in his
pocket, then put the new pair of shoes on the debit card.
I wondered why dog food and cat food cost $92.94. I
questioned HH, and found out he also bought some jeans,
which I really don't have an issue with, but don't tell me that
you gave me the receipt when you didn't, and don't pretend
that you just paid for the boots with the refund money. I am
responsible for our finances, and must not be hoodwinked,
as I can't budget properly unless I know what's going on.
Translation: Not enough lottery money for me.

Don't think I'm finished. I could go on about #1 son wearing
a navy blue hoodie to town, and me seeing a gigantic dried
snot stain on the sleeve. Or HH catching the same son blowing
his nose on his clean sock, and then putting it on his foot. It's
not like we don't have a box of Puffs With Lotion in three
separate locations about the Mansion.

Then there's the toy #2 son received that is a giant block
of dried sand with a metal hammer and spike which he
pounds to uncover buried treasure, which shoots sand
particles throughout the kitchen.

And the doggie Ann keeps trying to eat the new puppy,
Tank, every time the boys take him out of his new $300
pen. For that price, HH is going to move into it when the
puppy is old enough not to be eaten.

#1 son has a toy helicopter designed for indoors, and I am
doggone sick and tired fo the thing buzzing my head every
time I sit down to take a break.

I suppose that's enough for tonight. I must get my rest so I
can arise at the crack of dawn to let in the heating and cooling
man.

Methinks he will not look like the HOT CABANA BOYS
from last summer.

A Tale Of Wii

Don't worry that my kids are neglected. They got a Wii for
Christmas. That's because I'm a crafty old wench, and did
not think I would find one at the store before Christmas. I
purchased one on eBay the week after they came out. Oh,
I didn't pay near the $600 they were going for on eBay last
week. It was way closer to the store price, because I bought
it early, before people knew what they could get out of them.
Anyhoo...this is not about my kids' Wii, but about my sister-
the-mayor's-wife's kid's Wii.

My nephew asked for a Wii, and only a Wii, for his Christmas
gift. He graduated from HS, and recently got his first full-time
job while he was attending college. He's not a little kid, but he
wanted the Wii, not a PS3. My sister could not find one in
Wal-Mart, or any of the St. Louis stores where she shopped
for an entire day. Duh! Didn't she know that people were
buying 3 or 4 of them at a time, and selling them on eBay?
To people like me? I suppose not. She doesn't even have her
own credit card. I don't think she shops on eBay.

Sis had asked our mother to be on the lookout for a Wii.
I had told her not to worry about it for me, because if you
didn't find one while you were in the store, it wouldn't help
you to call several times a day looking for one. They would
be gone that quickly. So whenever Mom went to Wal-Mart,
she asked if they had any or knew when they were coming
in. Of course they didn't.

Last Wednesday, mid-morning, Sis got an important phone
call at school. Wal-Mart had just gotten a shipment of Wiis.
She was stuck at work. She called Mom. "Can you go right
now? I'm afraid they will be out by the time I get off work."
Her school was getting out around 12:45, just like ours.

Mom was not dressed yet. She had curlers in her hair, since
she was planning to go to a funeral later in the day. She had
on her pajama shirt, and some black stirrup pants. She's
quite the fashionista. She threw on a coat, slipped on some
wool socks that she had to pull up over her pants, and slid
into some sort of slippers. I hope they weren't the open-toed
fuzzy ones that she wears out to the mailbox. Her toes hang
over the end of them. She tossed on a coat, hoping nobody
would notice her pajama shirt and lack of proper foundation
garments. She got to Wal-Mart within 15 minutes of the
call that Sis got at school.

Mom rushed to the back of the store, to the electronics
counter, and asked for a Wii. The kid working said, "I'm
sorry, Ma'am. We only got six of them, and I just got the
last one. I have to give it to that lady over there. I've been
waiting on her, and she had to wait until I had time to go
back and get it. Mom said, "Are you SURE that's all you
have? I rushed over here to get one for my nephew. It's
the only thing he asked for, and we've been looking all
over the place for one." He said, "I'm sorry. That lady
asked for one first, and this is the last one."

Then another worker passed by and said, "You mean
that lady, over there? I just sold her one. She has it. Look
in the cart." And that lady DID have one. So Mom got a
Wii, and became a big hero.

We did not know this. We stopped by her house to pick up
something after school. I had told her we weren't coming in,
but the kids whined me into it. Mom met us at the front door.
She motioned to a chair in the living room. Poking its end out
of a Wal-Mart sack was the Wii. My #1 son almost fainted.
"GRANDMA! You found a WII!" Poor boy. I believe he
thought it was for him. He knew I'd been looking for one. He
didn't know I had one safe and sound in HH's locked vault
room. When he found out it was for his cousing, he was beside
himself. "Grandma! Can't you go find one for me?" She also
knew I had one. We had to play along.

I called Sis, and said, "I hope you're happy. Your adult son
has a Wii, and my children must go without because of people
like you who get insider information." She actually started to
feel bad. "But I thought you had one..." Ha ha. Engrave my
name on the Oscar. "I do. You should be ashamed." The kids
were listening all the while.

Anyhoo...both sets of young'uns were very surprised and
grinning from ear-to-ear on Christmas morning. My kids took
theirs to Grandma's house Christmas day, where the adults
took over and barely let them play. Be careful what you wish
for, children.

Which concludes my tale of Wii.

Twas the Night Before HM's Christmas

Because today is also kind of busy, I will read to you my Night
Before Christmas poem, according to my keyword searchers:

Twas the night before Hillbilly Mom's Christmas, and all through
the mansion for old people

Not a creature was stirring, not even a deer getting hit by a semi.

The stockings were hung by the Gotti Mansion pictures
with care

In hopes that St. Nicholas had 40 questions about me.

The children were nestled all snug in their Whitney Houston
observatory,

While visions of how to prepare and cook snapping turtles
danced in their heads;

And mama in her hillbilly wig, and I in my g string,

Had just settled down for making meth in your bathroom,

When out on the lawn there arose breakfast Whoppers
made in the oven,

I sprang from the bed to see little critters gummies and
commercial.

Away to the window I flew like rotton teeth,

Tore open the shutters and threw up smelling mom's panties.

The moon on the breast of the Hillbilly Mom outfits

Gave the luster of mid-day to Hannah Montana's boobs.

When, what to my wondering HM pride should appear

But a miniature hillbilly meth lab and eight tiny underboob moms.

With a little old stalking hillbilly, so lively and oh so pretty

I knew in a moment it must be HM.

More rapid than child beating her Mabel typing lessons,
they came,

And she wants to be diapered and spanked over her desk,
and called them by name,

Now Hillbilly Caviar! Now Boys Blog! Now Fiddle dee dee!

On Megaboobs! On Blogspot! On Ice, Charcoal, Gun Bluing!

To the top of the Newton telescope tubs shop! To the top of
Aldi 7' air hockey table!

Now remove a fentanyl patch! Remove a fentanyl patch!
Remove a fentanyl patch all!

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the old people mansion

The prancing and pawing of Julie Andrews boobs in 10.

As I drew in my Nez booty and was asking Jeeves about guitar
open g tuning,

Down the chimney HM came with a redneck box of Bud Light.

She was dressed all in banana holders, from her head to her foot

And her clothes were all tarnished with aldi chicken wing blood.

A bundle of Hidden Valley bottled ranch dressing in the 80s
she had flung on her back,

And she looked like a food addict anonymous vegetarian
just opening her pack.

Her hillbilly boobs, how they twinkled! Her oblivion no
panties, how merry!

Her cheeks were like crappy bass perch, her nose like a cherry,

Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a garden hose hillbilly,

And the beard on her chin was as white as leftover Chinese.

The stump of a hillbilly in a recliner she held tight in her teeth,

And the coal homemade coke it encircled her head like a wreath.

She had a broad face and a tied to the bone belly,

That shook when she laughed like cefprozil left out of
refrigerator.

She was chubby and plump, a right jolly old cat getting
head cut off,

And I laughed when I saw her in spite of ugly hillbilly pictures
at the Thanksgiving table

A wink of her eye and a twist of her HH boobs,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dress up a mansion.

She spoke not a word but went straight to Hillbilly Hills
Karaoke Bar Branson, Mo.

And filled all the pitchers of kids in wheelchairs that has a
crotch strap, then turned with a jerk,

And laying her Mary Poppins elementary study guide aside
of her nose,

And giving a nod, up the salary mansion she rose.

She sprang to her sleigh, to her team gave a gum wrapper
and forehead prank,

And away they all flew like the Lost World Veronica to pee.

But I heard her song first line - I could build a mansion ere
she drove out of sight:

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a double dipp Costanza!

12 Days of HM's Christmas

I am a bit busy tonight. So I am going to serenade you with
my 12 Days of Christmas. Sing along with me...

On the 12th day of Christmas, my keyword searchers gave
to me:

12 girls gaping buttholes
11 no panties dinners
10 kid's g strings
9 megaboobs on my hand
8 Coal Miner's Daughter worksheets
7 used bulletproof vests
6 seahag T-shirts
NO uni boooob!
4 cell phone commercial butt touchers
3 hagatha prosthetics
2 redmarks after electrolysis
And a hill-billy Christ-mas po-em


Thank you. Thank you very much.
I have now left the building.

Five Knife Puppy Prison

"Here now...we don't play with the knife."

That pretty much sums up my evening. The Veteran and his
older brother came out to the Mansion for Christmas festivities.
Older Brother brought his two girls, and his girlfriend and her
three kids. Thats FIVE kids, people. FIVE! I am not such a
fan of children who are not my own, or even my students.
That's because everything is all about me, and I relish peace
and quiet. They were not bad kids. But they were a lot of
kids. A lot of kids under the age of seven. A lot of kids
under the age of seven who viewed the Mansion as an
arcade.

So by the time #1 son took the sharp cake-cutting knife out
of the hand of the 4-year-old boy and told him patiently,
"Here now...we don't play with the knife", I was ready for
them to go home. Really, they weren't bad kids. Just a lot
of them.

We played with the new puppy today. HH bought him a
chain-link prison to stay in until he knows this is home. I took
#2 son to the Dollar Store, where we bought Tank a royal
blue cat collar, a squeaky rubber bone, a burlap squeaky bone,
and a three-pack of rawhide chew sticks. The cat collar was
all that would fit him. Hey! The Veteran removed the bell from
it before strapping it on little Tank's neck.

Ann took an interest in the little feller today. She sniffed his
butt, and followed him around trying to herd him. Duh. I
suppose this is because she is part German Shepherd. She
also flopped down on her doggy elbows and tried to engage
him in a game of chase, but Tank did not get the hint. He was
too busy trotting hither and yon to chew on the Christmas
light wires, sticks, leaves, and his own rear left foot. He sat
down ever 10 seconds to scratch at the demon collar. The
Veteran says he is due for some more shots, so I will take
him next week while we are off. We are thinking about
having a chip installed in him in case he gets lost or stolen.

I told HH that little Tank might try to dig under the fence.
HH does not think so. Later in the afternoon, HH caught Ann
nosing around the pen. He says if anything is going to happen,
it will be Ann digging a tunnel to get him out to play with. That
little guy sure has a LOUD bark. He has made it clear that he
doesn not enjoy being put in THE PEN. Once he is in there
a while, he goes into his little wooden house and puts his feet
up in the recliner, I suppose, with a cold brew and the remote
control, because he will not come out if he hears us talking,
or even when one of the kids goes into the pen and calls him.
"He's chewing on a cedar chip," the boy will say, "and it
doesn't look like he wants to come out."

If only I could have done that tonight.

The Gift of the Veteran

What does a big brother get his little brothers for Christmas?
What could possibly top anything the parental units had been
planning, or anything the young'uns had been asking for, such
as the Wii, or a computer? What, I ask you...WHAT?

This.














An itty bitty purebred Beagle, with papers and the works.
According to the Veteran, his mother was a trial champion,
and his father was a field champion.

LOOK! He has already flushed out a leaf on the garage floor!














His name is Tank, because of the "T" shape on this shoulders.
And because the Veteran no doubt wanted a military name
for him. He has kept him for two nights in his house, and now
the poor little thing is in for a rude awakening penned up in
the garage all night. He'll be OK. He has 4 cats to keep him
company.

The other dogs, Grizzly and Ann, had mixed reactions. Grizzly
sniffed him up and down, and seemed quite interested. This is
the most interest he's shown in another critter that we've adopted.
He usually turns up his nose and walks away stiff-legged. He IS
half Beagle, so maybe he thinks this is his kin. Ann took one sniff
and ran off. I thought she would be the one to adopt this little
guy and herd him around like she did with the poor departed
Cubby. She didn't much like hearing him whimper in the garage.
She ran to me, then halfway to the garage, then back to me,
whining. Perhaps she was just playing charades, and Lassie
was telling me that Timmy fell down a well.














I'm not sure what possessed the Veteran to give the boys such
a tremendous gift. He's very much into hunting and fishing and
outdoorsy stuff. I imagine he will come home to train Tank in
rabbit-chasing, or whatever such champions do. We will love
him and feed him and get the rest of his shots and promise not
to get him 'The Operation', and all parties will benefit.

The boys LOVE him. We are getting him a little pen tomorrow,
but he will run with the big dogs when he's old enough to take
care of himself. That's the advantage of living in the middle of
nowhere.

Ain't Good Enough

Yesterday, another teacher came into my room to ask me a
math question. It happens every now and then. She always
leaves with more knowledge than when she entered. She hasn't
stumped me yet. But yesterday, Mabel was in my room. It's the
holiday season, you know. Nobody is where they should be.
Though I will vouch for Mabel that she doesn't have a class
during the time she visits.

Anyhoo...in comes the teacher. She spots Mabel, and completely
ignores me. I might as well not even have been in the room. It was
only a question about dividing fractions. I could do it in my sleep,
without even using my fingers and toes, or cutting up pieces of a
pie. I am quite comfortable dividing fractions. But NOOOO! I
was not needed. I was superfluous. I went unrecognized. I was
not good enough.

I was the...
Hydrox when she wanted an Oreo
Sam's Choice Cola when she wanted a Coke
Chevy Cavalier when she wanted a Ferarri
Pong when she wanted a PS3
Slim Jim when she wanted filet mignon
roadie when she wanted Ted Nugent
Leroy Neiman when she wanted Jackson Pollock
O.J. Simpson when she wanted Charles Manson
Clay Aiken when she wanted Garth Brooks

I don't get no respect. Just because she treated me like that,
I reminded her of the time we were all having lunch in the
cafeteria, and a music teacher from another building came
in and asked her something that she really could not be
expected to know. She said, "I'm not sure. Why are you
asking me?" And the music teacher said, "Well, you're a
cook in this building, aren't you?" Hahahaha! I thought that
was pretty funny, since she had been teaching here about
5 years at that point. I called her 'cookie' the rest of the
day. Because that's the kind of gal I am. It's the button to
push to get her going. "If I was a cook, what was I doing
sitting there eating during LUNCH?" she demanded. I had
no answer for her.

I must go wrap some Christmas bounty for my young'uns.
They are going bowling with their father tonight, which means
they will eat fried bowling-alley food and play video games
and run around fighting with each other. I know it's a sacrifice,
but they are willing to do it so they can get some gifts under
the tree by Christmas morning. Aren't they selfless?

With Apologies To Paul Simon

I met my oooold lover on the street last night.
He seemed so glad to see me I just smiled.
And we talked about some old times,
And we drank ourselves some beers...
Still crazy after all these years.

Yeah. That's what I did. Except it wasn't my old lover, it was an
old student, and we weren't on the street, exactly, but I was in
the car at McDonald's drive-thru, and it wasn't actually night, but
more like 4:30 in the afternoon. Oh, and she wasn't a he, but a
she, and she really was glad to see me, and we both smiled. We
didn't have time to talk about some old times, because unlike
the usual workers, she had our stuff ready quickly. Nix on the
beers, because I don't drink, and I think that behavior is frowned
on at the McDonald's drive-thru window, because I had another
old student who was fired from a Hardee's drive-thru window
because she put a beer in a Hardee's cup and drank it while she
worked, which was not very smart because she put the actual
CAN of beer in the cup instead of just pouring in the liquid beer,
but what did you expect, anyway, because she was no rocket
scientist, who is probably smart enough to drink on the job and
not get caught, she was a freakin' teenage fast-food worker soon
to be unemployed. But this student and I are definitely both still
crazy after all these years. I think it has been 4 or 5 years since
I have seen her. That would make her 20 or 21 now, but I
recognized the smile instantly.

She turned to slide open the window and said, "Well how are
you doin'?" Which is a pretty common greeting around these
parts, and I followed with the correct response of "Girl, I haven't
seen you in a coon's age!" We chatted for a minute about some
of her relatives who are/were students of mine, then we had to
pull through, and she said, "See ya, sweetie!" which is perhaps
not so appropriate for the classroom, but did not offend me in
the least, and made me think that perhaps she has been working
in the waitressing profession.

I'm not sure, though, because when she was in my class, she
liked to tell everybody her career goal: stripper. In fact, she told
us every day. Not in a hoochie kind of way, but matter-of-factly,
as in: "I know I have a good body, and I don't mind to show it,
and I can make money doing that." Well. I suppose it's good to
have a goal in life. Anyhoo, she missed too much school, so was
dropped from the roll until the end of semester, and just never
came back. I think it was her junior year.

She also entertained us with her plans for Thanksgiving dinner.
"We always have people come to our house. I started calling the
relatives last night. At the end, I told them all, 'Don't forget to
bring the deviled eggs'. I love deviled eggs. I hope that's all
anyone brings." I think it ended up that three people actually
brought deviled eggs.

There are some kids you can't help but like. Not in a creepy
inappropriate way, but in the way that they share your sense
of humor, and might be the devil to some other faculty, but are
always polite and respectful to you. You worry about what is
going to become of them. This was one of those.

I hope she has her life on track. At least she has a job.

Now I suppose I must edit my little song to meet the truth-in-
blogging criteria.

I met my old student in McDonald's window yesterday evening.
She seemed so glad to see me we both smiled.
And we talked about her relatives,
And we had ourselves some cheeseburgers and Diet Coke...
Still crazy after all these years.

I hate to admit it, but I think Paul Simon's version is better.

Making A List...Ignoring It Twice

I must make a list for myself tonight, lest I forget something
vitally important:


Put #2 son's bottle of water for lunch in the freezer.

Wrap #1 son's gift for his little girlfriend so he can take it to school.

Wash the dishes.

Put labels on the tins of Chex Mix for #2's teachers.

Give Mabel a refill on the Chex Mix. She returned the container.

Lay out clothes for both boys for tomorrow.
Methinks the above task requires launching a load of laundry.

Avoid HH, who is in a Grinchy mood tonight.

Sign #2's planner.

Write a Christmas card for an old friend. Gilshi is her name-o.
(Not really. That was her log-in at the umemployment office.)

Send a note to a fallen comrade who sent me a Christmas card.
(Mabel, does the phrase "Stab it! STAB IT!" ring a bell?)

Clean out my book bag so it doesn't weigh more than my child.

Carry in secret thingies from large SUV after family is snoozing.

Clean my office. A Herculean task.

Seriously. My office is so full of clutter that it looks like a place
where one of those 'collector' people live. You know the type.
The little old lady with 87 cats, and papers and envelopes and
doilies and afgans and a couple of walkers strewn throughout
the house. Or the 50ish, never-married, polyester-pants-wearing
virginal comb-over-coiffed man who may have Mama mummified
down in the basement, but you'd never know it because there
are stacks of magazines from 1912 lining every spare inch of
floor space, including the steps to Mama's tomb, plus old pizza
boxes and two-liter Sam's Choice soda bottles and TV dinner
plastic trays and maybe some metal ones, too, from back in the
70s, and a poster of Morgan Fairchild on the bedroom wall,
but you can't get to the bedroom, either, which is just as well,
because the bed is covered with black plastic trash bags of
socks, because the guy will only wear a pair once, and then
throw them away, but he can't bear to part with them, so he
umm...collects them. Yeah. It's that messy. I'll get right on that
job. MmmHmmm. (Said in the manner of Billy Bob Thornton
in Sling Blade.)

I don't know why I'm still typing. Clearly, I have enough to
keep me busy. This screen is just so mesmerizing. I could sit
here all night gazing at the little blinking cursor. Curse you,
Cursor! I have things to do!

Perhaps I'll share some 10th grade poetry with you tomorrow.
Perhaps not. It seems that I've dangled this carrot before, but
the plan did not live to fruition. What kind of word is that,
anyway? Fruition. Nobody talks like that, do they, in real life?

Methinks not.

Untitled Work of Questionable Value

Ho! Ho! Ho!

I'm OH SO NOT in a Christmas mood. Sunday, I went to The
Devil's Playground to pick up some gifts. I found everything on my
list. I even encountered the Wal*Mart geezer I almost came to
blows with over my missing cart full of merchandise. Oh, he
KNEW who I was, all right. We kind of sidled around one another,
keeping an eye out for shenanigans. It was an uneasy truce. The
main reason for my funk, though, was when I left The Devil's
Playground. It was 73 freakin' degrees! I was sweating under my
lady-mullet. I might as well have been in the southern hemisphere.

I have some gifts I need to hide away. This morning, I moved them
from the back of the large SUV into the laundry room. I put them
in a big black trash bag, and put them where the freezer used to be.
Which is two stories, actually. The gifts are safe because nobody
around here is about to carry out a bag of trash without me telling
them at least three times. The freezer is on the back porch, since
HH never brought it back in after the five days with no electricity.
I'm supposing that he'll get around to it one of these days. Oh, he
has it plugged in. In fact, it contains a free Dairy Queen ice cream
cake that I won at Trivia a while back. HH pickup up the cake
for #1 son's birthday party, and they didn't eat it. I imagine HH
has been dipping into it a little every night. I don't care. Didn't
cost nothin'.

Yesterday, after my shopping trip, I got to fix lunch, ride over
to the new field to pick out a Christmas tree, and color my lady-
mullet a new shade of fake brown. Hey! That's the color it
should be! Anyhoo, I'd forgotten how peaceful it is to lock
myself in the bathroom for an hour. Sometimes I take the bills
in there to pay, sometimes I balance the checkbook, sometimes
I stare into space and a little drool drips out the corner of my
mouth. This time, I took three magazines to read: Entertainment
Weekly, Reader' Digest, and Writer's Digest. Yep. I'm a real
Renaissance Woman. I'm a readin', writin', entertainin' fool.

I only got through half of one magazine. Not because I'm slow,
or move my lips when I read, or can't understand the big words.
I get to thinking. This time, I started with Writer's Digest. I love
to read it. Oh, don't think I plan to write anything other than
this blog. That would be way too much work. I plan to write
things, but the effort gets in the way. There's not any money in
it unless I suddenly morph into Stephen King overnight, and I
wouldn't really want to do that because I think my nearly-severed
leg would hurt to much when a storm was a-comin' in, and some
crazy might walk right into my kitchen to stalk me up close, and
I'd still be cravin' those pain pills I became addicted to, and then
I'd need an Intervention, and I really don't especially want to be
on TV acting the fool while I'm higher than a kite. Not that I'm
accusing Stephen King of any of this stuff, because he's actually
one of my favorite authors even though some think he's all about
quantity, not quality.

I've always loved writing things that I want to write. Not like in
English class, where I could never think of an idea. Or just sitting
around, creating stories. Nope. I mean like writing notes or letters
to people I know. They LOVED them, I tell you. No, they were
not in prison where they would love anything they got in the mail.
They were regular people I'd lost touch with after college, or
after switching jobs.

Speaking of college, one of my roommates and I used to write
entertainment for our weekly parties. Can you say "NERD"?
I knew you could. We really packed them in, too. I'm surprised
we weren't evicted, or had our balcony collapse from too many
guests. People we didn't even know showed up with others, we
were so popular. I had more fun writing the stuff than performing
it. I would rather be behind the scenes. I don't want to call attention
to how very old I am, but some of the partygoers would tell us
every week, "You guys should write for Saturday Night Live!"
Which kind of pissed me off, because that was during some very
unfunny years of Saturday Night Live. As my old friend Karen
might say, "So what you're saying is..." Then she would wait for
them to fill in an answer. Too bad I didn't meet her until years
later. Because I really wanted to know if they were saying that
we actually were funny, and could replace SNL writers, or if
we sucked, and would fit right in with the losers at SNL.
I was afraid to ask.

When I moved on to the job where I met my friend Karen, we
used our talents for evil instead of good. Nobody was safe from
our rapacious wit. We created songs about people we worked
with. They were not very nice. The songs, not the people. Those
poor, unsuspecting folks had no idea that we laughed until we
cried. At their expense. Here's a small example. Karen rented
a house from a teacher who had gone on 'sabbatical leave'. That
was the story she gave us, and she was stickin' to it. The school
said the same thing, but we knew better. She'd taught there for
years, and then wasn't coming back one year. Rumor was that
she'd been let go, but to let her save face, word was out that
she was taking a sabbatical leave. Which is not something I'd
ever heard of a 6-12 teacher doing. College, maybe, but not
MS/HS teachers. The school certainly wasn't paying her. In the
five years I was in contact with people still working there, she
never came back. She didn't want to sell her house, but moved
everything out of it. I don't even know where she went. It's not
like she planned a trip to Paris to see the Louvre or anything.
If I was going on sabbitical (whatever the h*ll that is, as we
used to say) I would not move out all of my stuff.

Anyhoo, Karen loved the theme song from the old TV show
'Green Acres'. She sang it all the time: "Greeeen Acres is the place
to be. Faaaarm livin' is the life for me. Land spreadin' out so far
and wide. Darlin' I love you but give me that countryside". Eddy
Albert was the star, along with his TV wife Eva Gabor. Karen
and I kept pondering where the absentee landlord was. Karen
was singing this song 24/7. We came up with verses about this
teacher. I won't go into all the gory details, but after vocalizing her
many transgressions, from making an 8th-grader cry over a color
wheel, to eating a 20-piece bucket of chicken from a local
restaurant while claiming, "I have family coming in this weekend",
it ended with "...and now I'm on sabbitical leave!" Each weekend
we made up a new verse. Nobody was safe. It's a good thing
Karen and I parted ways after I left that school, because we quite
possibly would have taken over the world by now.
And I'm The Brain. Not Pinky.

Gosh, I don't know how I got off on that tangent, but it's been
a sweet trip down memory lane. Wake up now. You can go
on home. I've got some more thinking to do.

What do you think, Mabel?
Will the school give me a sabbitical leave?

WAAHHHH!

I am spitting mad at my #1 son right now. 45 minutes ago,
I sat down to type my boring little post for today. He
wheedled until I looked up some Wii information. Oh,
that's because he's doing a re-install of Windows XP on
HIS computer because it is messed up. He blames his
little brother for that, even though all he was doing was
playing 'Civilization IV'. He calls it civilization iv, like you
get an IV in the hospital. Anyhoo, after looking at Wiis for
30 minutes, my computer will not do anything except
play dumb. I told the boy I did not want to go to those
sites, but he did everything but grab the mouse out of
my hand. Because I did a good deed for my child, my
toy is broken.

I can connect to internet, but can not go to any sites.
It says 'not found' on EVERY site I try. Darn that boy!
I've been running Windows ME for years, and have not
had this problem except when clearing the cache fixed
it. He's already tried that, and also threw out the cookies.
Right now he's running SpyBot. I'll get even with him
for this, mark my words. I think I just got a new laptop
today. The one I'm typing on right now. It can be mine
until he fixes my old dinosaur.

I had a clever post ready to compose. It was all in my
head. Now my head is all befuddled with the trauma
of losing my only source of happiness. OK, maybe that's
going a bit too far. But it's very close to the truth. He
may not like the consequences, but I have a bit of news
for my boy:

LAPPY is mine!

He can darn well figure out what he's done to mine and
fix it if he ever hopes to hold LAPPY in his loving arms
again. It's not nice to mess with an old lady's technology.

*********************************************

WooHoo! I fixed it! You hear me people? IIIIIIIII fixed it,
not my resident computer genius. Never underestimate the
power of a system restore. I went back 3 days from where
he had tried it, just because I had no other ideas, AND IT
WORKED!!! Heehee! The sun even shines on an idiot's
butt some days. Here's the proof.

Bedtime Story

I certainly seem to be setting the world on fire with my magnificent
posts lately. That's OK. I know someone is reading. My little stat-
counter told me. Go ahead...don't comment. I know you're out
there. And since nobody has an opinion, I am going to do as I
darn well please! So la dee dah! I'm dipping into the keyword
well again to write you a little bedtime story. Sweet dreams.

**************************************************

Once upon a time there was an old lady who lived in a Mansion.
For confidentiality purposes, we shall call her Hillbilly Mom.
One day, Hillbilly Mom went to the cupboard to get her poor
dog some ice poopies. She had to hurry, because she was
expecting guests to show up any minute, wanting to real live see
hannah montanas boobs. HM was planning to throw in a lesson
in sentence structure for them for free. She was hoping none of
the guests were planning to poop out organs while at the Mansion.
She viewed that as a bit abnormal, if not downright painful, right
on par with crying out diamonds. Besides, she already had a piano
at her mom's house, and had no use for an organ.

The guests arrived in their egyptian spaceships, shouting for a
dominos pizza crew training book 1 edition 2 answer sheet. One
of the cheating pizza cookers looked at the other and asked,
what makes old people smell old? HM morphed into a hoppin
mad hillbilly when another one looked at her and said, p.u. you
stink, what does p.u. you stink mean? Talk soon turned to
glade plug-in and allergies, and g strings for 16 year olds.
HM tried to distract them with some recreational histinex use
and it burned my nose gin, but a sissified guy in panties called
her mom yellow panties and asked her to pose for an ugly
hillbilly photo.

Sensing that this was not working, and in a hurry to get back to
laying around the shanty, HM told her guests a few inbreeding
stories, fed them some expired ranch dressing, gave them each
an achy breaky heart poster with a thank you letter for chaperoning
a dance, and made some hillbilly funny faces.

The sissified guy in panties was heard to exclaim, i'm afraid of the flu
shot! And the hillbilly mom! I don't wanna be the meat in a hillbilly
sandwich! He goaded his peers into singing the words to the song
every party has a pooper. He realized the meaning to the bad
translation: visitor uninvited worn out their welcome. As they climbed
into a hillbilly jeep for a ride to populars restaurant hendersonville
north caro, they heard Hillbilly Mom goiter retching on the porch of
the Mansion. Snapping a quick photo which he would later entitle
picture of an old hillbilly lady singing, the sissified guy coughed up
hard, and shouted, "We really didn't mean to put sand in your craw.
Let me tell you the one eye middle of forehead hillbilly joke."

Hillbilly Mom loaded up her coon guns and assault rifles sk47 and
blew them to smithereens.

The moral of this story is: don't mess with hillbillies.

**************************************************

Nighty night. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Or the scalp bubble bug
untold stories er thingies.

Fresh Butt Roasting On An Open Fire

Since yesterday's post with my keywords was such a rousing
success...I'm going to do another. Not today, though. I'm composing
a little song for a comrade. No, it's not Mabel, but she'll know what
I mean. It's for a buddy who declared yesterday that she would
rather roast her own a$ than do some such thing that had been
suggested. Oh, she didn't say she'd refuse to do it. She would do
it if so instructed. But she'd rather roast her own a$$. Which was
an expression I'd never heard before. I was mystified, since she
is every bit as hillbilly as I am. Now I must use that saying twenty
times a day. I like it. It's imagery is spellbinding.

Would you use a spit and turn your a$$ over an open flame? That
might be kind of hard to turn yourself, what with being up on that
spit, without any leverage to turn the crank.

Would you use a dark blue with white spots metal roasting pan?
I don't know about y'all, but my a$$ would not quite fit in one of
those roasters.

Would you use a stick over some hot coals, like when roasting
marshmallows? Methinks a roasted a$$, by any other name,
would not taste as sweet as a nice crusty black marshmallow.

Would you crouch on all fours, with foil booties on your ankles,
basting yourself with your own juices for 4 hours at 350? Perhaps
some of us would experience claustrophobia. But we would know
if the oven light stays on when the door is closed.

Anyhoo...I am immersed in the butt-roasting lore this evening, and
must share with you a song I have composed for my pal. OK, I
didn't actually compose it. I can't even play my guitar, even with
a brand new g-string, and in spite of my dream that Dolly Parton
worked part time in a hospital as an RN with me and Abby from
ER and taught us how to play guitar on our breaks. I really only
changed some of the words, but my buddy will know what I'm
talking about.


Fresh Butt Roasting On An Open Fire

Fresh butt roasting on an open fire
But not everybody knows
The expertise level of the teacher you hire--
Not as important as free throws.

Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe
Served together won't taste right.
Roasted butt tastes a little like crow...
Wake up, smell coffee, take a bite.

We know we must do things our way.
We did it without calculators in our day.
We worked with decimals, and even pi...
Memorized times tables--we didn't die!

So, I'm offering this simple task:
Kids, add one to ninety-two.
Although it's been said many times, do not ask...
No calculators for you.

So, I'm offering this simple task:
Kids, take one from ninety-two.
"What if I don't have enough fingers?" you ask.
Great Googley Moogley! Boo hoo!


Thank you, thank you. I will be performing in my car on the way
to work each morning. Tickets are available from all law enforcement
officers I will pass on the way.

HM Dishes It Up

I'm trying something new tonight. I won't have a theme or story to
tell you about. I am going to dip into my overflowing, steaming vat
of fresh keyword searches and ladel up a few at random. I will make
up a story from them. Enjoy...

Here's a fine how-do-you-do for y'all: after so many years wore
down floor, put new a one in and scuffed it up. Yep, that's just like
us hillbillies. It's why we can't have nice things.

Now we will commence with the evil hillbilly sayings. He wore a
bowel hat and carried a cane in his bag. Yeah, that's pretty dad-gum
vicious as evil hillbilly sayings go. Because can you imagine how a
bowel hat must smell, what with all the stuff that goes through a
bowel, and to think he wore a hat made of that gunk, right on his
head, which is fairly close to the nose, methinks, though I am not
a physician nor do I play one on TV, although I certainly like that
Luka Kovac on ER, even though a couple weeks ago he threatened
to kill Forest Whitaker if he didn't allegedly quit stalking Abby and
little Joe, and a few seasons ago he threatened to kill Abby's wife-
beating neighbor who wasn't very good at the wife-beating business
and beat Abby instead, which was only to prove to her that no
good could come of her drinking and opening the door to a wife-
beating neighbor who she thought was the food-delivery man
because HELLO she had been drinking, and oh, I am almost
forgetting that one Luka Kovac actually did kill a man by slamming
his head repeatedly into the pavement on his very first date with
Abby, who later turned out to be not that pretty and not that
special, to quote a pissed-off Luka just before his fling with the
kleptomaniacal French waitress. Gosh. You people who don't
watch ER just don't know what you're missing. Mabel. Anyhoo,
getting back to the evil hillbilly saying, the bowel hat guy must be
quite a magician if he can carry a cane in his bag, unless it is one
of those collapsible canes, like the collapsible drinking cup that
my mom used to carry in her purse because apparently my sister
and I had holes in our chins and could not drink properly from
a water fountain, which I blame on her boy-toes, and my laughing
so hard at them that I couldn't hold my water.

I am now pondering the sudden disappearance of my food benefits
on ebt card. I don't even recall having an EBT card. Perhaps this
is a flashback to my life of poverty. That was a cool game, even if
I was wrenched away from my true family, and my buddy Mabel
then turned to a life of crime selling pocket candy as drugs. I hope
the person searching for this does not really hope to find an answer
here. I am not affiliated with the EBT agency, and I am not a member
in good standing with Mystery, Inc.

I am also sorry that I can not help those looking for dining out turkey
dinner missouri. I heard that there are turkey farms in southwestern
Missouri, and that the birds are so dumb they will look up at the rain
and drown. Perhaps that's just an old wive's tale.

emergency procedures on papermate liquid paper are not found here.
Great Googley Moogley, people! Call 911 or the local ER! Why are
you searching the internet for emergency procedures? If I was turning
blue and grabbing my throat and gesturing wildly, would you log on,
check your email, and google 'Heimlich Maneuver'?

uses for pringles cans? Yeah, I get that a lot, to borrow a line from
Sigourney Weaver as Ellen Ripley in Alien 4: Resurrection, when
told "I thought you were dead." I blame my teaching buddy, Mabel.
Not for Ripley being told she was dead, but for the Pringles questions,
because Mabel can't get enough empty Pringles cans. She's insatiable.

Here's one I need help with: hillbilly sayings hog knows about sunday.
What does a hog know about Sunday? Is there a conspiracy? Does
the hog know about the soundstage where the moon landing was
filmed? Did that happen on a Sunday? Is this really a hillbilly saying?
I feel like I've been left out of the loop, like everyone will be wearing
jeans tomorrow, but nobody told me.

kids hillbilly beards sale. Yep, we have 'em here at the Mansion.
There's still time to get one before Christmas. Don't let your kid be
the only one without a beard under the tree on Christmas morning.
Order now, and we'll throw in a free meth using chicken scratch.
I know it's too good to believe. We'll ship that meth-using chicken
right along with the beard. Your kiddie will unwrap it, get scratched,
and you can send the chicken right back to us in its postage-paid
cardboard coop. Meerrrrrryyy Christmas!

Have you had enough, or are you thirsty for more? We'll see if I
have any ideas tomorrow night. In the meantime, I'll leave you
humming those good googley moogley that thing is juicy lyrics.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?

Kidnapper Booking

I took a class to the book fair today, and told the librarian to hold
three books for me. I don't mean hold three books, like a feat of
strength, though I'm sure she could have done it, and would most
certainly have excelled at it if I offered her monetary compensation.
No, I asked her to put them under the counter so I could come
back after school with money and make them mine, all mine.

Of course my children were with me after school, so they had to
pick out some books. That's OK. Grandma doesn't know what
to get them this year. I told them they could each have ONE book
for now, and anything else would have to be Christmas presents.
Hey! Stop shouting "SCROOGE!" I'm doing the same with mine.
At least I will have gifts that I want. Unlike the year of the Red
Devil Mini-Vac.

There was a crime committed in Lower Basementia yesterday.
It was a kidnapping. I must fill you in on the background details.
4th hour, I could not find my hall pass. Oh, it's not a good hall
pass by any stretch of the imagination. My good hall pass was
a little plastic Hamburglar. And the one before him was a plastic
eagle that could balance on your pencil point and spin. No, they
are long gone. After two years of faithful service, they were
unceremoniously left in the girls' bathroom (Hamby) and who
knows where Eegy ended up.

The hall pass I have been using is crappy by all accounts. It is
a small, squarish cardboard box with a roll of donut-shaped
notebookpaperhole reinforcers in it. I have written my name
on the box. I don't have a stylish "Hall Bass" wooden fish like
my fellow Basementia denizen. I don't have a Mabel cow like
my buddy (duh!) Mabel. I cringe every time I fork over that
hall pass. AND NOW IT IS MISSING!

I thought the problem was solved. I asked a student 4th hour
what he did with it. He had taken it to the library, and then
came back to ask if he could go to his locker, as the librarian
of Basementia would not check him out a book to not read
until he returned the one in his locker that he had not read.
I'm not making fun of him. This kid says he hasn't read a whole
book since 3rd grade. Anyhoo...he swore he put it on a math
book on my desk. "Aha!" I gloated. "That math book was
covered with papers yesterday. You could not have know
what was under them. You did not put it on the math book!"
Oh, but he was sure. He said it must have fallen into the
wastebasket beside my desk, and been thrown away. "But
how could it get from over here, the alleged math book position,
to over here, where the wastebasket is?" Without missing a beat,
he replied, "The same way my math book slammed to the floor
the first day of class." Ooohh! He's goood! I give him a point
for originality. Of course the voice of reason, a girl in the class,
said, "How about I go see if it's in the library?" Yes, Sherlock.
Please do. The library is just across the hall from my Basementia
room. She came back waving it around. "Mmm hmmm. Found
on a shelf in Non Fiction."

Just when I thought I had been reunited with Passie, the wayward
cardboard hall pass...She turned up missing again TODAY! I
thought back to who had enjoyed the pleasure of her company.
It was a student in the very next class I had after breathing a sigh
of relief at her return. A student who had given me a school picture
several months ago.

I made a WANTED poster, putting the student's picture at the
top with masking tape.

WANTED
For The Disappearance Of
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's
Hall Pass
$0.00 reward for information leading to the safe return of Passie

We'll see what develops.

Just Because

No time tonight to post some original poetry or essays from my
authentic writing venture with my students. We went to Ci Ci's Pizza
for #1 son's actual birthday. He did not get the begged-for Razr.
His behavior has been less than exemplary these past few months.
Perhaps if it improves, Santa will instruct his elves to make a last-
minute gift. He also thinks he's getting a Wii. Silly boy. Why would
I get him a Wii to tell his little brother, "I have a Wii...AND YOU
DON'T!" ? He can not see the forest for the trees, that boy.

In lieu of the half-promised student creations, I shall substitute my
spur-of-the-moment composition used as an example of a "Just
because..." poem. Please bear in mind I whipped this out on the
white board in orange dry-erase marker while my students heckled
me with ideas. I sacrifice my dignity each day to whip the class into
a frenzy of participation. Here it is, in all its gory glory:

**************************************************

Just because I'm old...
Don't think I drive slowly
Don't think I invented the wheel
Don't think I use a Wal*Mart cart as a walker

Just because I'm old...
Doesn't mean I don't know what you're up to
Doesn't mean I'm old enough to know better
Doesn't mean I can't have fun

Just because I'm old...
Don't think I don't watch MTV
Don't think I won't get your jokes
Don't think I knit shawls

Just because I'm old, respect my authority.

**************************************************

Haha! That was for my 3rd Hour class, the language class. I hope
you didn't expect too much. I'm not an actual English teacher. My
background is in science. I have to rush out of this class for Lower
Basementia, so I left it on the board. I got tied up with a low-toner
copier this morning (not literally, because they kind of frown on that
type of thing what with a little window in the door of the teacher
workroom so that students can peep in) and had to rush around
to get my stuff ready. My little poem was still on the board when
1st Hour came in. I could hear them whispering while I stood sentry
in the hall. Each time I glanced around the corner, one of them had
a hand poised over my markers. I keep them on my desk because
that discourages students from writing thingies on the board without
permission. Most of them respect the desk territory. I shouted into
the room, "WHAT?" The McDonald's worker said, "Umm...we
were going to add to your poem." Then they blurted out their ideas.
"Just because I'm old doesn't mean my social security number is 1."
"Just because I'm old doesn't mean I died when you said act my age."
"Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm boring."

Everybody has to get into the act.

HM Spouts Her Philosophy

Today was the first day of the rest of my week. It's the last full week
before Christmas vacation. I still have three finals to make up for the
building that is not Basementia. Meh. Since I found out my kids are
only getting a general elective credit instead of a core credit for my
math and language classes, I am not sweating it. Oh, I give them an
assignment every day in their subject area. I teach them what they
are supposed to learn according to the Grade Level Expectations.
But I'm not breaking my back to make a comprehensive, all-inclusive
depth-of-knowledge-questions test. I figure a performance event
is final enough. The kids with no Fs, less than 3 days absent, and
no discipline referrals don't have to take the finals. I don't see why
the struggling kids should risk making their grades even lower. It is
up to each teacher to decide if the final exam grade can hurt or only
help the student. I just have a problem with 'finals' not being for
everybody. Perhaps there could be some other form of incentive
for the absences and discipline, like Busywork Day, or Big Test Day,
or Bored To Tears Average Day, or I Wish I Got To Play Sports
And Eat Snacks And Listen To Music And Watch Movies All Day
Instead Of Going To Class Day.

I don't think it is right to give FINALS that do not apply to everyone.
They ain't gettin' out of finals in college for showing up and doing
what's expected all semester. That's just my thinking. I don't dare
voice such an opinion to the students OR the other teachers. I don't
pretend to give a final and show movies on final day. I just give a
MAP-style question that takes about 30 minutes to answer.
So sue me. Not really. Our society is already too litigious.

Wake up! I'm done spouting off about my educational beliefs. Now
we shall talk about the students. One of them had the nerve to ask me
today, "Why is my grade only 82%? I only missed 2 out of 11! In the
other math class, I usually get a 90% if I miss two!" This is sad. It is
MATH, for the love of Gummi Mary! I said, "Are you saying that I
don't know how to calculate a percent...ON A CALCULATOR?
Should I tell Mrs. Other Math Teacher what you said?" And the
student said, "Oh, you talk about us behind our backs?" Hahahaha!
"No. I am telling you that I am going to discuss it with her. Obviously,
we need to put more time into this concept of 'percent', which is
calculated as the top number of the fraction divided by the bottom
number of the fraction, multiplied by 100. Like 9/11 is 9 divided
by 11, times 100, which gives you a percent of 82. Your score."
I didn't even try to slip the words 'numerator' and 'denominator'
in there. Or say you could just move the decimal two places to the
right. I don't know what the deal is. He used to be the star of my
class, but for the past two weeks, a girl has been getting more right
than him. Oh, I don't tell them. They all yell their scores out loud.
So much for confidentiality.

I had some good writing assignments this morning out of my older
students. Maybe I'll show some tomorrow. Maybe not. All three
classes did a different type of authentic writing. One class did a
review, another did a personal essay, and another did a 'just
because...' poem.

I'm on the downhill slope to the end of the semester, people.
The school year is almost over, you know!

Rumble At The Devil's Playground

Nothing exciting to report today. HH is gone to his boss's house
for the annual Christmas party. I used to go, but he lets me off the
hook now. I even went with a 6-day-old baby in tow. That was
a bit of an uncomfortable 90-minute drive there and then another
90 minutes back home.

HH survived the sleepover party. #2 son and I enjoyed Grandma's
hospitality for another night. This morning I did the daily Wal*Mart
shopping. I got into an argument with an elderly shelf-stocker. I had
parked my cart near the center Christmas tree display table because
the aisles were crowded. In the top section of my cart, I had two
Coca Cola bear ornaments that I'd spent 10 minutes picking out
for HH. I also had 5 tins soon to contain Chex Mix. I had been
careful in their selection also, as Goldilocks told me the lids could
not be too tight or too loose. They had to be just right. So I parked
my cart and went to pick out some wrapping paper.

When I returned to my cart about 5 minutes later, my cart was gone!
I looked all around the place where I left it. Funny thing...last night I
dreamed that my large SUV was missing from the parking lot when
I returned from the welfare office. I don't know why I was at the
welfare office, other than to get mad at line-jumpers and declare
that I was NOT waiting any longer, and make a grand exit. Anyhoo...
I spotted my items. Also in the bottom of the cart were about 30
rolls of wrapping paper. A couple walked past the elderly shelf-
stocker who had been singing along with the piped Christmas tunes.
They must have know him. They said, "What have you done now?"
I joined in. "I don't mean to be rude, but I was wondering the same
thing. What have you done now? My cart was parked right over
there, and now it is gone. There are my things in that cart with the
wrapping paper. Did you take my cart?" He became surly.

"That is not your cart."
"Well, that's my stuff in the top. I just picked it out."
"That's not your stuff. I've been using this cart for about an hour."
"Why is my stuff in the top? And my cart is gone?"
"That's not your stuff."
"I can tell you what's there. Two Coca Cola ornaments, and 5 tins."
"Well...I saw some woman messing around there."
"Why would she take my stuff and put it in your cart?"
"I don't know. Here. Take this cart."

There was an empty cart behind his. I gathered up my stuff and
put it in. I'm sure he took my stuff. Why else would there be an
empty cart right by his? Good thing we didn't have to rumble.

I think I could take him.

Butt Booger Shock Propaganda

My #2 son has been entertaining us lately. Only he doesn't
know why we find him funny. During the time we stayed at
his grandma's house during the power outage, the boy
announced: "My brother has a butt hole!" Umm...yeah.
And sometimes, you brother IS a butth*le. But we don't
necessarily want to discuss it. What he meant to tell us
was the #1 son had a hole in the seat of his pajama pants.
A butt hole.

While lying on the fold-out couch, gazing lovingly at his
grandma's face, he declared: "Grandma, you need to pick
your nose." Yes, this is from the same boy who grumped
at the age of four: "Mom cut my fingernails--and now I
can't dig out the boogers!"

**************************************************

DeadpanAnn noticed a strange expression on a little girl's
face during the Kookaburra's Christmas Down Under
performance. To me, it looked like the girl had just been
hot-wired to 50,000 volts. OK, maybe not, because
methinks that would probably turn her into a crispy
critter. But I had a shocking experience myself that night.

I'd left my cell phone in the large SUV while killing time at
my Hillbilly Mama's house before the program. The temp
was around 15 degrees. Upon taking the phone out at the
Christmas Program, I heard it chirp, and saw that it had
zero charge left. While sitting on the first row of bleachers,
awaiting the curtain for the performance, I held it up to
show #1 son in the row behind me. "I've never let it get
this low. Does this mean I don't even have one call left?"
The boy slid down the bleacher for a closer look. He
reached out his hand to turn the phone to see the display.

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

A surge of electricity shot through the tip of my finger, down
the bone, into my arm. People 10 feet away heard the POP
of static electricity. IT HURT! I hurled the phone onto the
hardwood gym floor. Not on purpose--it was a reflex. The
poor two-year-old phone slammed onto the unforgiving
maple surface and exploded into three pieces. Don't get all
excited. We drop this phone at least twice a month with the
same result on blacktop parking lots and concrete garage
floors and tile retail floors. It was kind of funny. I knew
'Phony' was not hurt. The gasps from the crowd only fed
my ego. It IS all about me!

We didn't need all the king's horses or all the king's men
to put poor Phony back together again. The #1 son did it,
as usual. And do you know what? Let me answer for you,
since I was there. Phony had a two-bar charge on him!
It lasted through the night and the next day.

#1 son says that he 'charged' my phone with a build-up
of static electricity from his butt sliding on the bleacher.
Who knew? I could have rented him out during the power
outage.

***************************************************

Here's some more info about Thursday night's Christmas
Program. On the back of the program the teacher handed
out, the following Australian facts were listed. Are they
for real? Mish? Lantern? Cazzie? Is it propaganda, or the
real deal?



The area of Australia is almost 3 million square miles.

Australia is slightly smaller than the U.S.

There are about 18 million people living in Australia.

There are over 300,000 people living in Canberra,
the capital.

There are over 3 million people living in Sydney.

Most Australians speak English.

The Australian dollar is written as $A=100 cents.

The wages in Australia are among the highest in the world.

People who are 18 or older are required to vote.

The crime rate in Australia is very low.

The Great Barrier Reef off the northeast coast is the
biggest coral reef in the world. It stretches for about
1,250 miles.

The mainland has over 16,000 of coastline.

There is also a very big island off of Australia known as
Tasmania. This is where the Tasmanian Devil comes from.

The 7-pointed star on the Australian flag represents the
country's states and territories. The other stars represent
the Southern Cross constellation.

In some parts of Australia, it's too far for children to go to
school. They learn at home and talk to teachers over a
two-way radio.

The Aborigines are the people who already lived in Australia
when Europeans first arrived in the late 1700s.

***************************************************

That's all I have for tonight. We are at my Hillbilly Mama's
house again. #1 is having his sleepover birthday party.
HH gets this duty every year. He's good at it. That and
cleaning up vomit. Last year he got to do both, because one
of the guests vomited in the night. I don't know what this
year will bring.

I'm not losing any sleep over it.

Sonny Went A-Singin'...Uh-huh.

EDITED
No, you're not crazy. There are no pictures to go with these
comments. I removed them after I thought all the regular readers
had a chance to see them. You snooze, you lose, here at the
Mansion. If I had taken the pictures, I would have zoomed in
on my boy. HH took them. I figure I shouldn't be posting pics
of other people's kids who appear incidentally next to my kid.

Here are some pictures from
last night's premiere of
Kookaburra's Christmas Down
Under. Perhaps the backdrop
was not so flashy as some plays
have.





The performers eagerly
entered, stage left. That's my
boy in the white shirt and vest.







Gotta clear those sinuses
before the songs begin.








My blood ran cold when I
spied this expression. I feared
a repeat of the Kindergarten
Christmas Program Faux Pas.
Make that Faux Pases, if that's
the correct plural form.



Thank the Gummi Mary, his
battery ran down, just like my
cell phone, which had been left
in the OH SO COLD large SUV
for an hour.





Wait a minute! What's the
director doing? She seems to
be passing out whackers to the
performers! Good boy. You're
merely an arsonist, not a stab-
happy thug.




That's it. It's a microphone.
Belt it out, young 'un. The
energy level of the group
seems to have dropped.

Bravo!
Let's do it again next year!



I won't leave the photos here long. I don't want to have
other people's kids posted when they had no choice in
the matter.