Stalking the Elusive Influenza Vaccine

Well, now. I was hoping for some sympathy after I reported that I
had been shot yesterday. But NO! No sympathy for Hillbilly Mom!
I have reached a disturbing conclusion. Y'all are JEALOUS of my
flu shot! Yep. That's all it could be.

Sure, we ALL want to pay $30 to have a disease-riddled needle
speared into our muscle tissue. But only a few of us who are covered
by two insurance companies are allowed this privilege. Don't beg me,
now. I am not letting y'all pretend to be me so you can experience it
for yourselves. Aunt Polly is mighty particular about who I let
impersonate me for overpriced medical procedures.

I am not pointing any fingers. My shot-arm is too sore for that. It has
a lovely red ring around the needle site, too. But I digress...Don't
think I am picking on the commenters. They have not told me anything
that regular people haven't told me over the years.

What are we, a nation of lily-livered pansies who are afraid of a
pointy little needle? Where would we be if people down through the
ages had refused vaccinations? DEAD, I tell you! Don't you think
those people who died in the great flu pandemic of 1918 are wishin'
they had a vaccine back then? Oh, I guess not, because THEY ARE
FREAKIN' DEAD!

What if we older generations had refused the polio vaccine? Y'all
young whippersnappers would be lounging around in iron lungs,
twiddling your shriveled fingers, wishing you hadn't gone swimming
in the public pool last July. Sure, you don't have that unsightly round
scar on your deltoid. It's a mark of valor, by cracky! Because we
took the needle, you don't have to. Where's my thank you for
eradicating polio in your lifetime?

Oh, let's just forget this vaccination mumbo jumbo. Maybe when
someone gets the flu, we should just have a good ol' fashioned
bloodletting. Perhaps some leeches should draw out the poison.
Or we could put them all on an island with those Lepers. Surely
they are getting lonely, and need some new faces, new blood.
Hey, I hear that the Waverly Sanitorium is empty now. Those
darn TB patients finally moved out. IN PINE BOXES!

Gosh darn it, people! Does a shot of painkiller give you pain?
Nope. Does a shot of Old Grandad turn you into a crusty aged
man with white unruly eyebrows? Nope. Does a shot of B12
give you B12? Uhh...let's forget that last one.

This is not the Dark Ages. We have technology. A photograph
will not steal your soul. The television is not really full of tiny actors.
Live a little. Take that vaccine. It might just be good for you. By
' good for you ', I mean that you won't catch disease and spread
it to ME.

And you know by now, IT'S ALL ABOUT ME!

Hillbilly Mom Gets Shot

All right, I admit it. I only used that headline for sensationalism. Do
you know how hard it is to get people to come up in here and read
this stuff every day? There...whack my knuckles with a ruler. I won't
do that again...todaaaaayyyyy.

What I really meant to tell you was that I got a flu shot today. So
I did get shot...with a hypodermic needle full of dead influenza
virus. That's nothing to sneeze at, by cracky! I had the flu one
time, and I never ever want it again. I lost my voice for 3 days.
Do you know how hard it is to answer the phone with no voice?
People hang up on you! Even more than they do when I really
answer. It must be those people who don't want to play Trivia
with me, ya think?

Tomorrow is Halloween, so I am going to tell my ghostly encounter
stories to my classes. Then they will write plausible explanations
for the ghostly hijinks. We'll see how many doubters I have.

Today's writing prompt was: "I believe/don't believe in ghosts,
because..." One little fellow said that he did not believe in them,
because if they were real, somebody would have caught one by
now, and we would see them all the time, not just around Halloween.
Another one mystified me by declaring that he did not believe in
ghosts. Then he told the following story. "I never have believed in
ghosts. We moved into a house built in 1941. From the time we
moved in, I kept my closet door shut. One night, I stayed up late,
watching TV. All at once, my closet door flew open and hit the wall
so hard that the doorknob made a hole in the wall. Ghosts are not
real." Hmm...I think that would pretty much be all the evidence I
needed to convince me.

This is a busy week. First I got shot today (OK, I promise, I won't
say that again). Tomorrow, we have to pick up 3 packages at
the post office, get home, and eat supper in time for HH to take
the boys traipsing about town to beg for candy. One of the teachers
has a haunted house every year, so they are going there again. On
Wednesday, I really need to go to Wal*Mart for a new purse. I
need it for gambling. It is too hard to clean out the old one. And
I've had it for at least 8 years. The leather handles are all broken,
with stuffing poking out. I think I'm entitled. Thursday, the boys
have doctor appointments for Zyrtec refills, and possible flu shots.
Yep. I'm going to have my boys shot, too. (Heh heh. I didn't say
I got shot, now did I?) Friday, I will have to do the weekly
Wal*Mart shopping, because on Saturday, I am going
GAMBLING. It's an overnight trip, by cracky!. My aunt and I are
going to spend the night at Harrah's. I plan to have a most excellent
time. I may or may not cash in my $175 worth of winning scratch-off
tickets to take on the trip.

Wow! The school year is almost over, you know.

Oh, and if you want to read my haunted stories again, they are at:

Hillbilly Mom's Tales of the Supernatural
Haunted Bedroom
Haunted Basement?
Here's the bad light bulb (picture)
Mr. Chest O. Drawers (picture)
Smells, Sounds, and Night-Time Visitors
Haunted Gym?
Haunted Gym (picture)
Haunted Gym Haunts Others Too

Hillbilly Mom's Booty

Aaarrrrrrrgghh! Not THAT kind of booty, ye scurvy misfits! The
treasure kind of booty. The spoils. The something-for-nothing swag
that I won playing Trivia last night.

First of all, don't go thinkin' we won. Let's get that out of the way
right now. We placed 6th. Out of 10 teams. That makes us 5th losers,
methinks, what with the 10th, 9th, 8th, and 7th place finishers being
worse than us. Oh, well. We didn't have our regular team.

I didn't actually win something for nothing, because I had to pay the
$10 entry fee. But I had to pay that anyway. The charity was for
dental hygienist screenings for public school children or some such
thing. We expected the door prizes to be stuff like toothbrushes or
floss. Hey! We are teachers. We are memorizers, not noted for our
imagination skills. The booty I won: a Dairy Queen ice cream cake, a
Commerce Bank cooler cup (green), some golf tees, and a large can
of mushroom pieces and stems. Hoo boy! I'm a winner!!!! My Hillbilly
Mama also won a door prize. Hers included: a can of hair spray, a
Little Caesars sand bucket (with shovel) that contained a stuffed Little
Caesar, 4 bags of Little Caesar cookies, two mini dry-erase marker
boards, and a bunch of Little Caesar coupons. Oh, and we both got
some coupons for FREE Sonic Route 44 drinks.

This event was held upstairs in an old historic building. Heh. Like
there is such a thing as a new historic building! It would have been
very creepy in there alone, with no lights. Instead of the Domino's
Pizza that we have delivered at our Trivia events, this one had a pot
of chili, a selection of chips, cheese, crackers, homemade cookies,
popcorn, fun-size candy bars, and soda. Our teame ended up with
four teachers, two mamas, two husbands, and an 8-year-old. OK,
I will claim the young 'un. I didn't pay for him, so he didn't play,
except for his GameBoy. Maybe we should have let him play. He's
in 3rd grade, and I found out at parent conferences Friday that he is
reading at the level of 9th grade, 5th month. You ROCK, Nintendo!
You have taught that boy to read. He used to get frustrated asking
people what the words on the games meant, so he picked up reading
rather quickly.

Our scores for the 10 categories were:
5 Slogans
5 History
8 Movies
10 TV Theme Songs
4 Famous Faces
8 Music
8 Dead or Alive
5 1990s
4 Sports
7 Animals

Let me brag a bit about our perfect category. We are a team of
couch potatoes, it seems. Here were the theme songs they played
for us to guess the TV show. They only played about the first 10
seconds of them. See how many of them you can hum to yourself.
The Wonder Years, The A-Team, Get Smart, The Rifleman, Taxi,
The Jeffersons, The Bob Newhart Show, The Courtship of Eddie's
Father, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, That Girl. I am quite proud
to say that I am responsible for That Girl. The others wanted to
guess The Flying Nun. But I was certain. I knows me some Marlo
Thomas.

I'll also pat myself on the back for one in the music category. Who
wrote Harper Valley PTA? Oh, sure, you want to say Jeannie C.
Riley just like my team, don't you? But NOOOO! She only sang
it. She was a secretary, and Tom T. Hall came in with the song,
and they needed someone to cut a demo. One of the people in
power said, "How about that secretary? She sings pretty good."
And that is how Jeannie C. Riley made her one and only hit.
I was ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN of this answer, you see,
because on Thursday afternoon's parent conference day, time
stood still. Nobody came. We were all trapped in one room,
and dusted off the Trivia book. That was one of the questions.

I also knew one of the 1990s questions. I stood up to my team,
who wanted to overrule me on the fact that Nicole Brown Simpson
was slain by somebody who may or may not have been her ex-
husband, O.J. Simpson, during the summer of 1994. They said
it should have been 1998. Oh, no, my friends. Do not argue with
a pregnant woman. Pregnant back in the summer of 1994 with my
#1 son, driving back from getting a chocolate waffle cone at a
local custard shop. Pregnant women do not forget. Nor do the
birthing women, as one of my teammates knew that the Oklahoma
City bombing was in April 1995. She watched it on the hospital
TV while birthing her baby boy.

I must also take issue with my team for doubting me on a history
question. Usually it is a safe bet to overrule Hillbilly Mom on history.
It is her achilles heel. But when the question involves 7th/8th grade
history books, do not underestimate the power of Hillbilly Mom.
The question was: Who was the leader of the Nez Perce Indians
in the 1800s? My team argued over Sitting Bull and Geronimo. I
knew they were not Nez Perce. I held up my answer. They laughed
at me. Oh, it was not a polite smirk and a little snicker, a chuckle,
a giggle, a snort. No. It was a collective GUFFAW at my expense.
They chose Geronimo. Ahh...the sweet revenge when the correct
answer was revealed to be mine: Chief Joseph.

And another thing...they also doubted me on a sports question.
Usually, I know nothing of sports, but this time, I knew that Rich
Brooks was the first coach of the St. Louis Rams. They accepted
it. I suppose they didn't think I had another one in me. What number
car does Dale Earnhardt Jr. drive? I knew it. Does my HH not have
an entire bathroom devoted to NASCAR? Do I not gaze at Dale
Jr. memorabilia each time I sit on the toilet? Perhaps that is too much
information. But I KNEW it was number 8. I look at the #8 clock
on the wall, at the custom-made countertop with a #8 car, at a thick
book sitting on that countertop, at collector cars hanging on the walls.
Maybe I should have described my view from the toilet. Perhaps
then, they would not have written down #57 as the answer.

Anyhoo...we all had a good time. My young 'un was so good we
didn't even know he was there. My Hillbilly Mama wouldn't speak
during the competition, but said she enjoyed herself.

And Hillbilly Mom brought her great booty home to the Mansion.

Shiver Me Trivia!

I am having trouble moving on from the piratey lingo, after spending
a whole quarter studying Treasure Island with my young DoNots.
Sorry, Mateys!

Guess who's playing in another Trivia Contest tonight? You are OH
SO RIGHT! Y'all must be psychic! It was a last-minute kind of thing.
We were planning it on Tuesday, but couldn't gather enough team.
We need 8, but were willing to play with 4 or 5. Then on Friday, the
day of unending rain, we picked up a member when his annual family
hayride was cancelled. WooHoo! But then we realized we'd told our
third member that the brainfest was off. She had already made other
plans. So we were back to 3. Which brings me to the point of this post.

I am quite unpopular. Or so it would seem, because I'm not a blithering
idiot, or any type of idiot, as far as my brainpower is concerned. I am
really kind of intelligent. I was valedictorian of my high school class,
by cracky! And mentioning it here is all the glory it has ever brought me.
Anyhoo...it would seem that people should be able to consider playing
Trivia with me without cringing. I am not the Elephant Man. I am not
Rocky Dennis. I am not the Phantom of the Opera. I am not Michael
Jackson. So nothing about my appearance should scare anyone away.
My personal hygiene is adequate. I bathe. I shampoo (though I don't
rinse, repeat). I brush my teeth. I don't have any rotton teeth that give
me stinkbreath. I don't have a hairy back. I don't fart or belch in public.
I am not a close-talker. I don't touch people and tell them they are
SO PRETTY. I don't argue over answers. In fact, I give in and put
what other people want. (Well, except for last week, but that was
only ONE answer). So why won't people play with me? Sniff. Snuffle.

My Trivia Buddy and I stood in the hall with our new third teamster.
Trivia Buddy had gone down both halls to solicit players during our
Parent Conference Day. Nada. Not even the Spanish teacher. We
counted it up. We had been turned down by 14 people, face to face.
We decided we are the most unpopular people in the school. We are
outcasts. We are the unclean.

Our Third Teamster, listening to our discussion, said, "Hey, is everyone
else having a meeting down in the computer lab? Because I saw all of
them sitting in there at the computers." And Trivia Buddy said, "No.
That's just how they are. We were not invited." Which is pretty close
to the truth, all joking aside. You would think that would bother us,
but we are so used to it that it is just part of the routine. Par for the
course. The order of the day. We learned that long ago. Though not
as long ago as Janis Ian, who learned the truth at 17.

We don't care. We have invited our mothers to play Trivia with us.
Can we be any more pathetic? I think not. But we expect to have fun.
My mother said her cronies are all a-buzz. "What is it like?" they ask.
She has promised to report back to them. You'd think we were
33rd Degree Masons or something. She must have really been
burning up the phone lines yesterday. I only asked her around 11:00.
She is worried about what to wear. Umm...it's not formal, Mom.
Yes, jeans and a black T-shirt will be fine.

I am trying to encourage her to round up a team for January, when
the school has another Trivia Competition. I did caution her that they
should keep an eye on the weather around that time. I wouldn't want
any of them to break a hip on the ice.

She and her contemporaries just might be able to beat that team of
6th Graders.

Story Time

Today it's story time, brought to you by the folks who search for
odd things and find them at Hillbilly Mom's mansion. There will be
no reprints anywhere, so read it while you can.

It started a long time back. Back in the year women quit wearing
pantyhose television. Sitting at Sammie Sparks table, staring at
Sammie Sparks boobs as she forked out the last of the daughter
earthworm snacks, Hillbilly Mom wondered, "Is that where the
foul under boob smell is coming from? Those ravaged boobs smell
as bad as thirty boobs! Not quite as bad as grandmas megaboobs,
what with their old people smell, but as bad as mom panties. That
gal needs a serious underboob deodorant."

Sammie Sparks shook some more spank your mama seasoning
onto her fried groundhog, ketchup. She sure luuurrrved her some
good hillbilly cooking. It made her appreciate those heartburn hotel
commercials all the more. "Tell me, Hillbilly Mom," said Sammie,
"that julie andrews autiobiography to be published when?" They
moved their private party to the hot tub in the garage for some
good clean hillbilly fun.

Hillbilly Mom stumbled as if she lost a leg. By cracky! Another
sign moms work is never done! Leave it to that stinky-boobed
Sammie to get her mind to workin' overtime. Just as she had been
pleasantly dreaming about how many calories are in a dairy queen
banana split, that a.w.o.l. shoplifter in a hillbilly costume, Sammie,
had to bring up the Julie Andrews autobiography. "Why don't
people think I can write the Julie Andrews autobiography?"
she whined.

"Umm...because you're not Julie Andrews?" asked Sammie. "Still,
you could write a book. You've always used proper penmanship.
In fact, you use big chief tablet penmanship. You have a variety of
subjects you could write about:

how to dress like a pretty hillbilly
inbreeding stories
how to make meth with benadryl
invitation sayings to country bumpkins party
how to write an ode
teepeeing laws for teens
untold stories of the er woman with bugs in head
stories girlfriend's mom dumped

There is no end to them, Hillbilly Mom! How about the diggingest
dog script? You never finished it."

"Well," said Hillbilly Mom, "the writin' life ain't all it's cracked up
to be. I got a feeling that fella that called himself an agent was all
about screwing hillbillies. Yep. He was not about to commence
to screwing buddy mom, I tell you. First he asked me what do
hillbillies wear, and the next day he showed up in a guy hillbilly
costume. The next day, he asked me to dress up like a hillbilly,
in a hillbilly costume female. All I could think of to come next was
ugly hillbilly babies, so I got out of there faster than fifty hillbillies
in a haunted house!"

Hillbilly Mom pointed out the garage door to her front yard. "See
that homemade barrel pontoon boat, Sammie? I may not live in
the coors light mansion, but I have a coors light costume! I know
how to have a good time with a lotto ticket chain letter, and hillbilly
stick moviesgambling. I make a pretty good income hacking toy
grabber machines, and even though my clapper wont work, I am
having more fun than a cell phone commercial butt toucher. I don't
need to write a book. I don't care how many free pvc dart guns or
homemade book covers they throw in, I don't want to write. You've
got to play your own kind of song, Sammie Sparks, or you'll be
pushin' up daisies next to little debbies grave. Take a note to self,
Sammie, cause this ol' gal knows the difference between sprite and
always save(strawberry) with mentos. By cracky!"

Concluding her life lesson for the day, Hillbilly Mom took Sammie
into the mansion minor for a rousing session of scrapbooking. It soon
became la mansion disco as HM put a vinyl disc of alicia bridges
i love my nightlife on her old turntable. She followed it with the
Spinners' workin my way back to you, and the two feisty gals
worked way into the night sorting through pictures of hillbillies
cooking, pictures of hannah montana real life brothers and sisters,
hillbilly picture with tooth missing, hillbilly mama - picture, photo of
hillbillies on lawn tractors, pictures of mimi summer, donna summer
the disco singer daughter, and abandoned mansion pictures. A good
time was had by all.

That concludes this edition of Great Literary Works of Hillbilly Mom.

Tired To The Bone

No, not tied to the bone! What kind of freaky post would that be?
I know it's getting close to Halloween and all, but let's focus here.
I am getting sleepy. Verrrrry sleepy. I know I am having the same
effect on you.

Today was parent conference day. I always think, "Hey, a half day!"
NO! What is wrong with me? The kids have a half day, but WE
have to stay until 7:00 p.m. I don't care much for that. We all have
to sit in a room with similar teachers, and the poor parent comes
in and everyone hears the child's grades. Actually, the counselor
passes out the grades, and the parent comes in to ask for some
explanations.

I don't like this set-up. I would rather talk privately with a teacher
about any problems my child might be having. And wouldn't the
parent feel more comfortable one-on-one? Instead of one-on-seven?
Just my opinion, which doesn't count for much around here.

In other news, my #2 son informed me yesterday morning that he
thought he heard a tuba, but it was only a girl in his class burping.
"A tuba?" I asked. "Yes," he replied. "Either that or a didgeridoo.
Something that sounded really low." Okaaayyyy...that is really some
multicultural learnin' goin' on at the elementary school, by cracky!
Then he explained to me that it is mentioned in his Christmas play,
'Kookaburra's Christmas Down Under'. WooHoo! That reminds
me...we're down to only ONE Christmas Program to attend this
year. I can live with that.

Tomorrow really IS a half-day. Mabel and some other teachers
and I are meeting a former crony for lunch. Except that the former
crony can't go. Oh, well. We can talk about her. What did you
expect, that we'd cancel lunch? Surely you know us better than
that! And don't go thinkin' that it will be me by myself eating lunch
with some imaginary friends. Mabel is real, I tell you!

And I am real tired. The end.

HM Is Not A Good Multi-Tasker

The Halloween Dance was not very exciting this year. No kids tried
to rub their butts on other kids personal parts while dancing. Very
few of them danced. My #1 son would not even dance with his
girlfriend. Oh, he said he would, but he didn't. I told him to just stand
there and let her dance, but he wouldn't. She'll get over it, I suppose.
At least he stood around with her and didn't ignore her.

One of the faculty told my son, the slice of pepperoni pizza, to go up
to the principal and say, "You want a PIECE of ME?" He didn't want
to, because he thinks the principal doesn't like him. A friend drug him
over and said it for him. The principal looked at him and said, "No."
"And not in a joking way, either, Mom," was what my boy reported.
I felt kind of sorry for him. He's used to adults liking him.

I am not having a good day. We were trapped in our classrooms for
over two hours to accomodate a visit from the drug dog. Don't get
me wrong--I welcome a visit from the drug dog. But when you are
expected at another building, and can't notify them, it causes a bit
of stress. I pushed the panic button to ask office staff to call them
for me, which seemed as good a plan as any.

While the K-9 officer was doing his thing, a car pulled off the road
across from my room. It was about 30-40 yards away. The kids
were going batpoop about it.

Hey! That guy keeps looking at us!
Maybe he wants a date. (There were all boys except for 1 girl in class)
Every time we look at him, he rolls up his window. (Tinted windows)
He's talking on his cell phone.
He better not be calling the paper about us.
Check everyone's head for a red light. He might have a scope.
We don't feel safe. Call the office and tell them he's there.
I don't think we're the only ones to see him. There are 9 other
classrooms on this side of the building. As well as the office.What
are they going to do? Tell him to leave? He's on a public road. They
aren't going to send anybody over there while we're on lockdown.
There's a cop right here. HE can go.
I think we're fine.
Can I get down on the floor?
No.
Can I go look out the door to see the dog?
No. The superintendent closed the door. For a reason.
Are we going to have 3rd hour?
Doesn't look like it.
That's not fair! I have PE!
Those people in Science will get extra time on their tests!
That's not fair!
Where does that K-9 ride in the car?
In the back seat.
Uh uh. In the front seat. He's just like an officer.
I wish I had a K-9.
You DO, stupid. You have three of them.
What do you mean?
ALL dogs are canines. It's their name.
Oh.
What if someone planted something in your locker? How can
you prove it's not yours?
Well, they call you into the office. If that dog doesn't smell in
on YOU, then I guess you're off the hook.
Are we going to get lunch?
I'm sure you'll get lunch.
We better!
Are they letting that dog in the cars?
No, stupid. They just sniff the cars.
Hey, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, that dog is going to sniff your car!
He's already been there. He's out front. I don't mind him sniffing.
What if he scratched your car? Would you be mad?
Probably.
Hey, what if he scratched some guy's car, and the guy said, "Now
I'll have to sell a lot more drugs to get a new paint job for my car"?
Yeah. That would be funny.
Why do people bring their drugs to school? That's stupid! Why don't
they just leave them at home? Not that I think it's OK to do drugs.
It's not. I would never do drugs.
I guess they want to show off, or sell them. Why else bring them to
school?

Are you as tired as I was? I even read a book to them most of the time.
That was just about 5 minutes worth.

When I finally got to the other building, I found out we're supposed
to fill out a new form on each student by tomorrow. Except nobody
had given me any forms. I asked the office. They didn't know. They
would check on it. I sent a student an hour later. OK, they will run
some copies for me.

We had an assembly the last hour and a half. Let's not even go there.
I had to hurry up and leave right after school, because I was blocking
in another traveler, because there were no parking places when I
rushed over there after the lock-down ordeal. I then proceeded to
buy some gas, pick up some medicine, run in Save-A-Lot for some
necessities such as bananas, milk, spaghetti sauce, parmesan cheese,
cereal, donuts, hamburger buns, bowling league candy for the party
Saturday, and some baby wipes for cleaning up after giant babies.
OK, so a few things you might not see as necessities, but my
8-year-old did. He also became best friends with two checkers.

When we got home, I had to carry in everything by myself, because
the big kid is the Devil's Handmaiden and refuses to help unless there's
something in it for HIM (besides a roof over his head, food, clean
clothes, and a daily stand-up show from his mama). The little guy
isn't so good at carrying stuff because he's shrimpy.

In the midst of frying hamburgers, washing the dishes, signing the
planner, cleaning out the lunch bag that #2 son forgot so we had
to drive to his school to pick it up before starting home, throwing in
a load of laundry, and slicing pickles...I found out that I am not such
a very good multi-tasker when a half-done burger jumped over the
side of the pan onto the floor. My #2 boy ran to help clean it up.
Thank the Gummi Mary we had just bought those baby wipes!

#1 threw the remains to the dog and tried to tell me he really wasn't
hungry, and that he could go without. Of course I know that an
11-year-old would eat the car seats if they just had a little pepper
and ranch dressing poured over them, so I insisted he eat the last
burger while I made a salad. I could tell he felt guilty for not carrying
in any groceries.

Man. I really wanted that burger.

Let's Get This Party Over With

I am driving back to school tonight to fulfill my annual requirement
of chaperoning one dance. There is always a debate: better to take
the first one and get it over with? Or wait until the last one, and say
you worked at an earlier one? Don't ever, ever sign up for the middle
one. It is the sweetheart coronation thingy, and lasts twice as long.
But it might get snowed out! If you take the first one, what if the
principal forgets, and makes you do another one anyway? Oh, it's
SO NOT EASY being a teacher! All those duties to try and shirk.
Separating inappropriate dancers. Enforcing the NO RUNNING rule.

Riding back to school will be a little slice of pizza. Literally. My
#1 son is dressing as a slice of pizza. Pepperoni. He found it a
couple years ago at Wal*Mart. The Devil's Playground. It sure
beats making him up as Dracula. We did that one year, and he
looked fabulous! He even won 7 free games at the bowling alley
during their Halloween party. But it was a chore getting his face
just the right shade of white, blending in the gray to hollow his
cheeks and eye sockets a bit, getting the widow's peak just so,
and making the blood drip convincingly from the corners of his
mouth. A slice of pizza he shall be, by cracky!

My boy has some neon glowing plastic sunglasses that he got at
the Save-A-Lot several months ago, 3 for a $1. He is going to
give them out to his friends at the dance. I think he has 9 pairs of
them. Perhaps the glowing glasses should have been one of his
campaign promises in the student council election.

If anything of note happens at the festivities, I'll fill you in tomorrow.

Readin', Lyin', and Arithmetic

Whew! It's been quite a day. First cat out of the bag this morning
(No cats, no bags. That would be too much fun, like a cat rodeo.)
a student asked me to read The Scarlet Letter. I did, because, well,
it's kind of like my jooooob. Gosh! The things I'm expected to do!
I don't like Hawthorne. He's a pretentious windbag who could have
told that story in about 10 pages if he would have laid off that
flowery language. And don't even ask me about The House of the
Seven Gables, because I never could figure that one out.

Anyhoo...the kids were supposed to read chapers 1-5 over the
weekend. Yeah. That's gonna happen. We only got through 1 & 2
in about 30 minutes. Hey! It's not MY fault the kids won't read
on their own. They know from last year when we read The Odyssey
that if they wait for me to read to them, we only get through about
half of what they are assigned. Thank goodness the brains of the
outfit informed me that Chapter One didn't even start until page 41.
I would have needlessly read the Preface or some such thing.
And the only thing worse than 40 pages of Preface is 40 pages
of Hawthorne Preface!

Of course the class was all boys. They were not real impressed
with the description of Hester's finely-stitched fancy-shmancy dress
and her elaborately-detailed accessory, the big red A. What they
DID notice, and commented at the end of Chapter 2, was: "That
author is a pervert. All he talks about is her 'bosom'. Why can't
he just say 'chest'?" Which reminds me of another class, who said
that Mark Twain only knew two words: 'melancholy' and 'gay'.
They wondered why Tom sat down at the table and wished he
could be 'gay'.

My math class tried to pull a fast one on me by saying they had
already learned about multiplying exponentials in their regular math
class. I suppose they thought by doing that, I would say, "OK, then.
We won't do anything for the rest of the hour." Umm...NO! Since
they told me they'd learned it, I only put two examples on the board,
and gave them 15 problems. Let's see...the high score was 93%,
then there were several 50s, and so on until the three 0s. So we
will be going over that skill tomorrow.

Next feline out of the rodeo chute, a kid told the class he had a great
big monkey on his porch at home. "I got it at Six Flags. It's as big as
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom!" he declared. Another student didn't believe him,
so the kid behind him said, "I kid you not--that thing is FREAKIN'
HUUUUGE!" I had to say, "Umm...I'm RIGHT HERE! You don't
have to talk about me like that! You are hurting my self-esteem."
Then they were kind of embarrassed, because that is not the way
they meant it. Oh, some classes would have, but not this one.

The afternoon was kind of uneventful. But to make up for it, I had
a math inservice thingy after school. It was supposed to last until
4:15, but went on until 4:40. I was not a very happy camper. And
to blow campfire smoke in my face, one of the 6 attendees answered
her cell phone 4 (FOUR!) times during the meeting. That is just rude.
Nobody else had their cell phone on. What is the world coming to?
Round up those handbaskets again.

Tomorrow I have to chaperone the Fall Dance. Or as we alleged
devil-worshippers dare refer to it: HALLOWEEN Dance. So I
will have a short post tomorrow, what with driving back to school
for that little slice of Heaven.

Karma Learns Hillbilly Mom A Lesson

Oh...that little Trivia thingy? It's over. I think we finished fourth, or
fifth. We were one point behind the team I wanted to beat. Perhaps
I should not have talked so much trash to them. We would have
beat them by two, and taken third place, if not for my error. Yes.
I choked. I bit the big one. I caved. I blew it. I won't go so far as
to say I 'screwed the pooch', because that is just OH SO WRONG,
even for hillbillies.

The last round. We were tied with that 'teacher team'. We had much
discussion amongst ourselves about the answers. A couple different
conversations went on at the same time. We were told to turn in our
answer sheets. I asked Mr S, "Are you sure that's the one?" He said
"Yes." I turned my attention to the first question. I did not like the
answer. I had thought of it at the very beginning, but did not think it
was right. I put down what I thought another player had said. "No,
no," they told me. "Put that other one." I disagreed. I had the pencil,
by cracky! I said, "Let me have this one." I changed the answer to
what I thought another player had said, but he hadn't. I just misread
his lips. I put what I wanted. IT WAS WRONG! And, we had some
answers out of order, two of which were right, but in the wrong place.
They were written in the wrong place by ME. Ohh...the agony of defeat!
I take full responsibility. Not that I am saying I feel guilty. Because
throughout the game, others also made some mistakes. And 26 wrongs
make me right, you see. Our final score was 74 out of 100.

Karma sure is a b***h!

And speaking of karma...Yesterday I stopped to buy my bi-weekly
Powerball ticket. I also threw in a $10 Lifetime Riches scratch-off,
because as some would say, Hillbilly Mom has a bad gambling
addiction. I got $3 worth of Powerball. For those of you who are
not Mabel, that means I spent a total of $13. Which was perhaps
unlucky on Trivia day, but I didn't even think about it, what with
drooling to get my scratch-off ticket. I paid with a $20 bill, and asked
for the change in ones, because I needed them for the kids' bowling
envelopes.

The clerk was the religious lady who always says, "God bless you."
I don't know what religion she is, but she dresses like a holy roller.
That is what HH says, not that I am being a hater to the Pentecosts
or anything, which is what HH says the holy rollers are. I don't know
much, except that she wears the denim skirt and sneaker kind of
ensemble. Anyhoo, I got home and scratched off my ticket...OK,
that's a lie, because I pulled off and scratched it before I drove
20 minutes home, because of my so-called gambling addiction.
I won $15 on my $10 ticket. WooHoo!
Pretty soon I can quit my job!

At home, I took the stack of ones out of my purse to put in my
pocket for the bowling alley. I am one of those OCD people who
have to have all money facing the same way, and stacked in order
of monetary value. There were 8 ones, not 7 !!! For all of you who
are not Mabel, 20 - 13 = 7 . NOT 8 !!! I was in a tizzy. That poor
holy roller woman who always tells me "God bless you" was going
to come up short when she rang out her drawer! She would have
to pay that extra dollar! Hillbilly Mom has worked in a convenience
store during her checkered past. She knows how they operate!

Since I had to go back to town anyway before bowling, because
I ran out of stamps to mail 5 bills I wanted to pay before gambling
away my Friday paycheck, I decided to stop by and give back
that dollar. Because that was the right thing to do. If it had been
Sonic, giving me the wrong change after making we wait in the
drive-thru for 20 minutes, or making sure at least one thing in
every order for the past year was wrong, I would have kept it.
But it was wrong to keep it from that little holy roller woman.

I took the dollar back. That little woman was not working. It
was two other women, one of whom I believe is the manager.
She said, "How can I help you?" And I said, "I was here earlier,
and got back a dollar too much in change. I was just bringing it
back." That manager-lady said, "Thank you. I've had a rough
week." For all I know, those two used it to buy themselves a
Powerball ticket. But MY conscience is crystal clear.

That powerball ticket that the holy roller woman sold me? It had
three of the winning numbers, right in a row. I won $7. I won back
2.333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333
times my original Powerball investment. I'll be typing up my
resignation letter soon, what with all the money I'm making from
my gambling addiction.

Karma. Learn it. Live it. Love it.

Blogger Bites The...hand that tries to feed it.

Today is the big day. Trivia starts in 3 hours. Stupid dumb
Blogger is not cooperating with me. I tried to log on for 30
minutes. Duh. I'm really that stupid. I'll just whip out this little
post in Wordpad, and see what I can to with it. Stupid dumb
Blogger! It's not worth the money I pay for it.

I didn't find out any more on the traveling meth lab, because the
lady who parked her car across the road to impede my home-
coming last night was not at bowling. She must have been
watching her other son play soccer.

So on to the Trivia. Yesterday, I told a couple members of the
"teacher team" that my team had divided up the categories, and
each of us had been studying every night. Heh heh. When one of
them carried a chair across the gym for me the other day, I said,
"Gosh. Now I'm going to feel really bad when we beat you at
Trivia." She said, "No you're not." Only yesterday, the math
teacher told me my team had better finish behind her team. "Or
don't expect to ever use another test out of my test masters
book." Wow. She's playing hardball!

I sent my team leader a copy of the official entry form that I
had filled out. He said, "Our team is going to KICK BUTT!"
Yeah. We're wild and crazy with that profanity, by cracky!. #1
son picked up my entry form off the dashboard of the Large
SUV. "Yours looks so CLEAN!" His poor little form was
wrinkled and smudged and erased and crossed out. They'd
better not beat us.

HH and #2 son are going to a mineral museum for Halloween
festivities tonight. They will have a tour of parts of the mine where
nobody is allowed, and a mining ghost story, and roasted hot
dogs, marshmallows, make-your-own caramel apples, hot
chocolate, cider, veggies-and-dip, crafts, how-to-grow-crystals,
how-to-make-a-volcano, and other stuff. #2 is quite excited.
HH, not so much. He wants to tour those forbidden places.
It's a flashlight tour, right after the ghost story. The paper made
it sound so good that #1 son and I wanted to go. But alas, we
have Trivia.

Tune in tomorrow for Trivia tales of terror.

Five Meth, Four Meth... My Meth, Your Meth

Excuse me for ripping off Dr. Seuss with a drug reference. Stop
reading, little kids. This is for big people.

Forgive me for ever complaining that nothing interesting happens
around here. When I get more info, I could probably tell a good
story. I'll investigate the facts at bowling league tomorrow.

Let's start with my statcounter keyword searches. The top line was
crystal meth videos from the missouri state highway patrol. Bear
with me. This was quite the coincidence, seeing as how there was
A METH LAB DUMPED ON OUR ROAD TODAY! No, I am
not prankin' you. On our private road. The one we share with about
30 other families. The road with the 'Trespassers will be prosecuted'
sign. A half mile from the Mansion.

Let's go back to the beginning. HH met us for supper tonight in a
nearby town. Afterwards, the kids rode home with him. To put it
in #1 son's terms: "Let's see...if I ride home with Dad, I might die
a violent death because of his reckless driving. If I ride home with
Mom, I might die of old age before I get there, because she takes
the back roads." Both boys chose the Dadmobile. They got home
about 6:00, in time for #2 son's Friday night cartoons. I went by
my Hillbilly Mama's house to pick up some leftover pork roast she
has been trying to give me all week. I hope it's not 3 years old like
that expired Ranch Dressing she tried to feed me one Thanksgiving.

At 6:10, HH called. "Where are you? There's cops and Highway
Patrol all over the first road to the left. Somebody dumped a meth
lab." Okaaaaaayyyyy. Was he warning me that the road was blocked?
Was he concerned for my safety? What do YOU think? Nope. He
wanted to ride the Scout down there and get the scoop. He also
wanted to ride up to our other 10 acres and make sure nobody was
using the old shed on it for a drug factory. And...he was hampered
by having to watch his own kids. Yep. That's all he wanted.

I left as soon as he called. I got behind some fool driving the speed
limit. Then I hit every red light. HH called again. I told him I was on
the way. Great Googley Moogley! Does he think I can teleport? It
is normally a 20-25 minute drive. Tonight it took me 35 minutes. I
was slowed down a bit by the FREAKIN' ROADBLOCK on our
road. Oh, it wasn't law enforcement. It was our yayhoo neighbors
who I guess thought they were helping out by parking their vehicles
sideways across the gravel road. I saw one put a shovel into the
back of his truck. The party broke up. It's like somebody rode a
4-wheeler up the road shouting, "Free meth! Free meth! Down by
the main entrance!" and they all showed up to grab as much as
possible.

So I didn't see what all the hubbub was about. I will ask one of the
carparkers at bowling tomorrow. HH was fit to be tied. How dare
I ruin his plans! I KNEW there would be a meth lab bust on our
road tonight, and that's why I made the boys ride with him! Just so
he couldn't go snooping around! The NERVE of me! I should be
ashamed of myself! He forgets that I drag the little snots with me
24/7. Of course, I never have anything interesting to do, so it's not
a problem. (That's his view.) And yes, Stewie, I am just oozing that
motherly love again.

I had hoped to rip off the Dixie Chicks' "Travelin' Soldier" and give
you my version, which I cleverly and unplagiarizingly call:
"Travelin' Meth Lab". But alas, I have not enough information.
We'll see what I find out at bowling.

That kind of pre-empted my top story for today, which I call:
TRIVIA COMPETITION TOMORROW.

I guess you'll just have to read tomorrow. Even though it's Saturday
and all, which seems to be a blog-free holiday for most people.
How do I know that? A little statcounter told me.

I'll give you the latest scoop tomorrow, just before I head on over
there to compete. Sweet Gummi Mary! I hope I'm not blocked by a
Get Your Free Meth Here On Your Way To The Trivia Competition
booth. That would throw a pipe into my plans.

I will report the Trivia Competition results on Sunday. I know. You
can't wait. It's even more exciting than meth labs, isn't it?

Musical Breathing Poop Dance

Let's see...what's new around here? My G-string, for one thing. My
#2 son is giving it a workout. He doesn't know how to play guitar.
That makes two of us. He's only 8. He saw a child's guitar at the
music store, and said he'd like one for Christmas. We went over to
look at it. $299. I hope Santa hits a big jackpot before Christmas.
I'm sure his elves could make one cheaper than that. If the kid is
really interested, I would spring for lessons. This boy has not shown
a lot of interest in a hobby, other than Thomas trains, Pokemon,
Yu-gi-oh, and GameBoy. He played baseball one year, but didn't
like it. #1 son took piano lessons from the time he was 4, because
he asked to take them. He gave them up around age 8. He hated
to practice. I think #2 could be trained. I taught myself to play
piano. That was before I had those soul-sucking energy-draining
high-maintenance offspring. I can't make time for the guitar.

HH has a CPAP machine now for his sleep apnea. It has taken
about a month for him to get it. Something went wrong with the
doctor's fax or computer or some such thing, and then the woman
supposed to bring it and show him how to set it up was out on
maternity leave for two months, so different offices had to provide
someone, and then he couldn't fit it into his work schedule. He's
only had it for a week. He says he feels a little bit better, but he's
not sure if it's all in his head. He has not been so hateful to us for
the last few days.

This CPAP thingy makes HH sound like Darth Vader. And it shoots
out a thin jet of air into my face. HH said, "Put a pillow there." Yes,
Dear. Apparently he doesn't know about the times I planned to put
one over his face to stop the snoring. Which is gone now, replaced
with Darth Vader inhalations and exhalations. Also, HH does not
thump his leg on the mattress. By 'thump', I mean raise to a height
of about 6 inches and slam to the mattress, jarring me awake about
6 times a night. The doctor from the sleep study told him it was
Restless Leg Syndrome, and that there are two kinds: one where
you know you are doing it, and another where you don't know. HH
said that he remembers some of them, but not all. So the doctor told
him he had both kinds. HH was quite proud.

I'll leave you with this little tale of horror...One of my afternoon kids
was not in class when the bell rang. He'd been tardy a few times, so
I asked the kids where he was. One answered, "He's in the bathroom."
Stupid Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had to ask, "What is he doing in there for so
long?" The minute that came out, I regretted it. But the kid didn't take
the bait. He added, "Well, there was this piece of toilet paper in the
middle of the floor...and it had some poop on it. Tardy Boy was in
there dancing a circle around it, goofing around. Then he stepped on
it. He's in there trying to clean the poop off his shoe."

Three minutes later, the kid came to class. "Walk straight to your chair.
Don't go anywhere else. And DON'T put your feet in the chair." He
looked baffled. "Whyyyyy?" We all stared at him. "We know what
you've been doing." He looked around. "Uh uh. That's not true."
He didn't even know what we were going to say.

Some days, you're better off to leave it at 'He's in the bathroom.'

More Trivial Pursuits

I'm feeling Trivial again. Have I told you how much I'm looking
forward to this event? My #1 son has gathered a team of 6th graders.
He has been waiting for this moment for the last two years. Yep. The
nerd doesn't fall far from the tree. He rounded up six little cronies,
but the last spot was hard to fill. He asked my aunt, who also works
at the school. She is excited. She played once on our team a while
back. We forgot all about her. She's been out on medical leave, and
we totally overlooked her. Now she is aligned with the opposition.
She will have a blast. She loves interacting with the kids. A couple
days ago, she asked me, "Am I the only adult on that team?" I can't
believe she hadn't figured that out. I'd told her all the players.

Yesterday, I saw one of #1's little cronies in the hall. "You're goin'
DOWN on Saturday night!" He replied, "Uh uh. YOU are!" What
a great comeback. Then I said, "Well, at least you'll get that Last
Place sign to keep on your table after each round." And he replied,
"Uh uh. YOU will!" I think we can take them.

This morning I saw that kid's mom in the hall. She teaches in my
first building. "Hey, I told your kid we're beating them Saturday
night." She said, "Are they REALLY having a team?" Then she
asked me if I was on the 'teachers' team'. No, I'm on the 'We Do
The Same Job As You But Don't Get No Respect' team. Because
she is on the 'teachers' team.' Oh, we have some teachers on ours,
but it is not exclusively teachers. Anyhoo, I have been telling her
teammates in the other building that we are in training to beat them.
One told me that perhaps it's not wise to put so much effort into
something that doesn't pay very well. Another told me, "You're
going to murder us--we just do it to have fun." Yeah. We won't
be having any fun, because we're boring friendless non-teachers.
IS THAT WHAT YOU MEAN!?!?

But seriously...I'm just rattling their cage. I've played on that team
before. It depends on the categories. If it's Sports and History, we're
in trouble. I need me some 70s Album Covers, Fleetwood Mac
Songs, Films of Sigourney Weaver, or some such trivia. Please, please,
please don't let it be The Bible. They will wipe the floor with us. We're
not real good with geography, either. Though we did get one right once
upon a time when we spelled 'Albuquerque' correctly. I don't really
think we will beat them. I think they may finish 5-10 points ahead of us.

Shh...don't tell them that. I'm trying to psych them out.

No Trivial Matter

I am all fired up about Saturday night. I am going to play Trivia at
school. It's a fundraiser. Each person pays $10. There are eight
people on a team, ten rounds of trivia. Can you spell N E R D ?
Yes, that is Hillbilly Mom, a big-ol' nerd who likes to think she's
smart.

We've played trivia for several years now, with no team the same
twice. The closest we've ever come to winning was fourth place.
We should have had third place, but someone cheated. No.
REALLY.

Each round, the team has one person record answers to the ten
questions on a paper that gets turned in. I was recording answers
that night. A woman kept walking behind me. That made me mad,
because people piss me off, and I hate anyone going behind my
chair, especially if they kick the legs of it. She was working for
whoever held the fundraiser, selling soda and stuff. After walking
behind me, she would walk over to the table where her husband
and some other relatives were playing. I am the suspicious sort
(OK, paranoid, if you must), and told a couple of people on my
team that I thought she was looking at our answers. One of them
said, "Put your arm over it. Just like in school, so the other kid
can't cheat off you." So I did.

It was the last round. We knew all but one answer. I put my arm
over the paper. That woman walked by, paused, and LIFTED UP
MY ARM! I said, "Hey, stop that!" She said, "I just wanted to
see what time it was." Never mind that there was a clock on the
wall right behind me. She dropped my arm. My watch clunked on
the table. She was a bit snotty, "Can't you see I'm not even playing?
I'm working. I'm not even on a team." Then she walked to her
husband's table, said something, and walked off. Her husband wrote,
turned in his score sheet, and WON THIRD PLACE. By one point.
We were in fourth, by one point. I was beside myself. Everyone
thought it was kind of funny. NOT ME! I was cheated out of THIRD
PLACE. The prize was something like $25. THEY KEPT IT!!!
Everyone always donates back the prize money at these things.
Not the McCheatersons!

I'm still bitter. They'd better not be playing Saturday night. I'm not
wearing a watch. I pity the fool who tries to lift my arm. There will
be a tussle that puts professional wrestling to shame.

Go ahead. Make my day.

Fiddlin' Wormy Thrifty G-String

This morning was a rainy mess. My #1 son delayed our departure
by about 5 minutes. Again. No matter what time I wake him, he
he fiddles about until he is five minutes late. I don't mean actual
fiddling. He's not that talented. If he was, I would pimp him out
for concerts with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra or some
such classy gig. I would make sure he built a big theater in Branson,
like Shoji Tabuchi, and raked in tourist money hand over hand.
Because I would be his manager, of course, and pay myself a
generous cut of the proceeds. On the front of the theater would
be the show schedule. Every two hours, I think, to make good
money without killing my golden-egg-laying goose. And there
would be a disclaimer: All shows will begin 5 minutes after the
scheduled time.

My writing prompt for my DoNots today was: "Something I would
like people to know about me is..." Heavens to Betsy! I wish I'd
never taken the lid off this can o' worms! One revealed that under
his crusty outer layer, he is indeed a Grandma's boy. Another said
she is really NOT nice, like all her teachers assume, but rather she's
a fighter who will not tolerate anybody talking crap about her or
her friends. Another does not take a joke, and can not stand people
he doesn't know coming up and talking to him. He just walks away.
Another warns that he has 4 pit bulls at one parent's home, and six
pit bulls at another parent's home, and that the shotgun is ready, so
be advised not to come a-TPing his house at Halloween. Another
does not like people staring at him and making comments about how
ugly he is, and saying 'He's not MY friend!' and 'I'd NEVER date
an ugly thing like him!' (OK, this one almost made me cry, because
he's just the sweetest thing, and I think he's kinda cute in a motherly
perception kind of way.) Another said he hates everyone, that they
are stupid and lazy and have no idea how to better themselves and
that he does not want to be like them because he is working toward
perfection. Oh, and one said he was born a girl but the doctor said
he would be a boyish girl with short hair and grow whiskers but
inside he is really a girl he just doesn't show it. Whew! And that one
is one you would never guess that about. I thought he was joking
at first, but the more it went on, I'm not so sure. He even asked if
we could read them out loud, and he wanted to go first. He didn't
make a joke of any of the other writing prompts, so this one has me
stumped. I'm wondering if I should mention that to anyone, or if they
will even take it seriously, or if it's just nobody's business. I will make
that one of the two from each class that I have to copy and turn in
with my quarterly Writing Across the Curriculum notebook.

I rushed out of the building with my nine-year-old blue-and-red
$2.99 umbrella. Nobody can say Hillbilly Mom ain't thrifty,
by cracky! The wind almost blew it out of my hands. I left it in the
car at the other building, because hey, I might get another nine years
out of it! Except for that one pointy thing that has pulled loose from
the fabric, it's in pretty good shape. Just don't get your eye near that
pointy thing.

We picked up my guitar after school. The music store was crawling
with people. I forked over my claim ticket, and sent #1 son back to
the car for some money, because I didn't want to spend my fives and
ones when I could get even more fives and ones back if I paid with a
twenty. I have to keep the small bills for everything that gets collected
at school, and to keep #1 son in three-percent fruit juice drinks at
lunch. My guitar was right up front waiting for me. The clerk even
went to the back corner of the store to fiddle with my G-string before
accepting my money.

Now THAT'S customer service!

A Tisket, A Tasket, A Royal Blue Handbasket

The trip to the casino was fun. As much fun as I could stand, what
with HH driving down the middle of the road, picking things out of
his teeth and putting them in the trash bag (recycled Wal*Mart bag)
in the back seat, eating animal cookies by tilting his head back and
pouring them into his mouth, announcing important sights along the
way ("There's a little girl playing with a doll"), and farting until my
eyes watered, telling me, "Roll your window down."

In the casino, I discovered HH chatting with a cocktail waitress in
a cheerleader uniform. The waitress, not HH. He doesn't have a
cheerleader uniform. The Rams had a game today. I suppose that's
why, but it could be this big Football Madness promotion they have
going. The poor young thing had almost pulled up a chair at the
nickel slots, she was so enchanted with HH. He wasn't getting a
drink, so I don't know why her fascination. I could tell her stories
that would curl her hair.

Within 30 minutes of arriving, I was $35 ahead, thanks to my Hot
Pepper quarter slot. But no...I couldn't leave well enough alone, and
frittered that away on a nickel Wild Cherry machine. Then I popped
around, five-dollaring here, and five-dollaring there, until I lost that
much again. I really need to go back to the video poker for a while,
but I was in a hurry to lose all my money today. When I get an
overnight visit, I won't be so rushed.

I was also mad because HH and I both got Harrah's promotional
material in the mail. I got $7 free play coupons for each week in
October, and $5 off in any restaurant. I thought that was pretty
good. We haven't gotten that stuff for several years. Then I looked
at HH's stuff, which I assumed to be the same as mine. NO! That
dirty dog got $10 free play coupons for each week, and $10 off
in any restaurant! Harrah's is playing favorites! I told HH that is
because he loses more than me, and they really want his business.
HH disagreed.

We ate lunch and stopped by the promotions desk to scan our
cards to get free bags that MAY have included prizes. One in
five a winner, they said. It was only 12:00, and the line was moving.
HH said we should get in line. I told him it didn't start until 1:00.
"Well, THEY are doing it, " HH said. So we waited in line 10
minutes, until we saw them turn away a man. I'll give him credit,
he did walk down the line and tell us that only diamond card
members were being served. So HH and I went off to lose more
money. We're quite good at it. But not good enough to be have
diamond cards. We're the lowly gold card members.

On the way out, we scanned our cards. Again, the woman who
served me shoved the stuff at me, mumbled what to do with it,
and hollered, "Next!" Meanwhile, the woman serving HH called
him by name (duh, it's on his card) and asked, "Would you like
dark blue or royal blue on the bag, HH?" He took the dark blue.
Hmpf! MY server didn't offer me any color choice. She just
threw a white bag with royal blue trim at me. I suppose I'm
lucky my bag has a bottom in it. I can't figure out how HH gives
off this vibe, and people fall all over themselves helping him. And
me having such a cheerful personality and all. Those PEOPLE
PISS ME OFF! You'd think they know me or something. Go figure!
We shuffled over by some extra large trash bins to open our loot.
We had a thing to check our cards with, but they did not light up,
so we were not winners. But I got an envelope. An old lady said,
"Oh, you're a winner!" I opened it, and there was some kind of
plastic card thingy in it. HH was mumbling, "I didn't get one!"
Heehee! LOSER! In line, I had asked him if he wanted to go first,
or should I. He said I should go first. You snooze, you lose, HH!
A worker guy came by and said, "Congratulations, you're a
winner." "Of WHAT?" I asked. It was a gift card. A $5 gift card
through American Express. Oh, it SAYS it isn't a credit card,
but I bet if I use it, I get a bunch of offers in the mail. Anyhoo,
it's better than nothing. And I got a free bag. Teachers are all
about the free bags, you know. You can never have too many
free bags.

They are kind of like free handbaskets. And we all know we are
going to need them.

If You Give HM A Blog...

Hillbilly Mom has been busy today, my friends. As busy as a beaver.
A beaver without a G-string. I did not have time to go to town and
pick up my well-strung guitar. That will have to wait until Monday.

I arose at the crack of 5:15 and began my arduous tasks. First on
the agenda was to check #1 son's pants. Not like that. He wore his
school clothes to play in yesterday after school, and promptly fell
down and grass-stained his new pair of khaki jeans. Last night I
made a paste of Tide and let them sit. Then I ran them through the
washer and let them sit a couple hours. Then I made more Tidepaste.
I washed those suckers 3 times last night, and twice again this morning
after I got some SHOUT gel. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I know,
it would have been cheaper to buy him another pair of jeans than to
spend all that Tide and electricity and SHOUT on them. But hey,
water is FREE at the Mansion.

Next, I made a shopping list and chucked boy #2 into the shower. By
7:00 a.m., #2 son and I were on our way to The Devil's Playground
to do the shopping. #1 remained at home, to be driven to town by an
oddly-unworking HH to be picked up by his girlfriend's family for a
trip to 6 Flags Frightfest. It is free. They have rain checks from the
summer when some rides were shut down due to lightning. Anyhoo,
#2 and I shopped, and returned home by 9:00. I commenced to stow
away the spoils of the trip, and clean toilets galore (3, count 'em: 3
toilets used by boys and man), write out some bills, throw in two
loads of laundry with the Jeans o' Grass, make two finals for school
this week, and get #2 son ready to go bowling.

In making up my finals, I found that my Liquid Paper Correction Pen
was a bloated, useless poser. There was no liquid coming out of that
thing any time soon. So after eating a pound of fries at the bowling
alley (hey, we all three shared them), I ventured back to The Devil's
Playground for another pen of the teacher's best friend. While there,
I also bought some mechanical pencils, because I truly love those
gadgets and can't get enough of them. Papermate, not those creepy
yellow Bic ones. Then I had to have some glue sticks, because sure
as I got home and tried to use the one in the drawer, it would be all
glued shut, or dried out like a piece of that clear stuff they use to
stick the cardboard cover on the JC Penney Christmas Catalog.
As I headed up the aisle to the check-out, I spied some winter coats
in the boys department. I had to buy two, because, well, you can't
let one boy go cold, and also, if you wait until it is really cold, colder
than the 24 degrees it has been for the last two mornings, the coat
rack will be empty except for the broken-zippered losers. Then I
saw the jeans rack in the men's department, where I got my boy's
Jeans o' Grass, because he is now into adult sizes, 29 30, which is
somewhat hard to find, and I found a pair of cheap jeans for him
to wear when he's in falling down mode, and threw in a pair of gray
ones just because they had them in his size.

I didn't have a cart, because I was still bitter about my cart this
morning, which veered to the right every time I was not on task,
and why would I need a cart, since I only went in there to buy
a correction pen? As I stepped out onto the main aisle with my
arms full of correction pens (you can't just buy one, you know,
you have to have one for home and one to carry in your free
Office Max black school tote bag) and mechanical pencils and
glue sticks and two puffy winter coats and two pairs of jeans,
I heard a woman holler: "Is your name Hillbilly Mom?" So I
admitted to it, and she said, "Do you remember me?" which
I hate because the answer is always NO (make a note-to-self,
all of you) because I can never remember names and faces, but
ask me a question about a book and I will quote the line exactly,
and tell you where it falls on the page. So this woman turns out
to be someone I went to grade school with. I don't know why
she looked so OLD, but my point here is that she was wearing
dark, mirrored sunglasses and she is not even a celebrity, and
how am I suppose to recognize someone when I can't even get
a peep into the windows of her soul? We chatted a bit, while
her husband played 5th wheel, and then I lugged my booty to
the checkout.

I grabbed my three puffy bags and headed for the Large SUV
without a cart, because why would I need one? As I crossed the
last gauntlet of parked cars before my LSUV, I heard, "#2 Son's
Mom!" Of course I turned, and saw a staff member from my boy's
school. We chatted for about 20 minutes standing behind parked
cars, chill wind whipping our colored hair, her with an empty cart,
me with my three puffy bags. Then I made a run for it, looking
neither right nor left, and stashed the bags in the back of the LSUV,
where they had the company of some items left from this morning.

I had to email my buddy Mabel with some vital information, then
sat down to write this post. HH is lighting a pile of wood chips in
the grill. Not charcoal, or BBQ wood chips. He picked up some
dead limbs and mangled them, because #2 wants to have a hot
dog and marshmallow cookout. Of course he gets his way, because
it is OH SO PEACEFUL here at the one-boy Mansion today.

Tonight I have to finish up those other 3 finals, because tomorrow
I have tricked my Hillbilly Mama into watching the boys while HH
and I go to the casino.

Hey! She's just glad no G-string is involved.

Hillbilly Mom Broke Her G-String!

What? You didn't know that Hillbilly Mom had a G-string? I don't
like to brag about my personal business. Yes. I had a g-string. I
broke it last night, trying to tune my guitar. The guitar that I don't
know how to play. But I can tune it, by cracky! Tune it like a
m)(#@$)(&%*r! That is, the last time I tuned it, a couple years
back. The same strings have been on it for 12 years now. Do you
think that's too long?

I asked my Hillbilly Mama to call the local music store today while
I was at school and see about a g-string. There was an old man
working, and he started to laugh when she said, "My daughter broke
her g-string, and wants to know if you can fix it." I had to explain
to her another use for the term 'g-string'. Turns out the old man was
there alone, but said that tomorrow another guy can fix my g-string.
It will cost $2 for the g-string, or $13 to install 6 brand new strings
on it. AND, they will tune it for me. Hmpf! Like I don't know what
I'm doing.

In other news, I arrived at school this lovely Friday the 13th, wrote
FRIDAY THE 13TH on my white board in black and red, and then
picked up the 4 posters who had lost their grip on reality overnight.
It's a little game we like to play, called Humidity: too much, or too
little? I whacked them back onto the wall with my whacker. That's
a wooden yardstick that I keep on top of the little ledge where my
white board hooks onto the wall.

By 2nd hour, I had learned that it's MY fault that a kid does not pay
attention in Math, and has gotten low scores for the past week. I told
him he needed to stop wasting time talking, and pay more attention to
the explanations, and what he's putting on his paper. To which he
replied, "Well, it's YOUR fault. You didn't move me." Ohhh...that led
to a little discourse on how we are all responsible for our own actions,
that we are not in kindergarten any more, and that we get out of life
what we put into it. I think they all enjoyed that bit of insight. Ninth
graders can be such a good captive audience.

Oh, and I also learned that a boy I told to turn to face the front, since he's
always talking to the boy behind him, wasn't actually talking. That's what
HE said. So I asked why he could possibly be turned around all the time,
like at that very instance, for example, while Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was at the
board explaining yesterday's problems. The expanding exponentials
problems that the highest score in the class was 50%, and the lowest was
1%. Surely he wasn't turned around just looking all that time? Guess what?
He turned to face the front! You don't mess with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, boys
and girls. Once the lying begins, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom digs deep into her bag
of dirty tricks. Though you may think that you can get away with lying, Mrs.
Hillbilly Mom can stretch the boundaries of what she can legally do without
being fired by poking at your tender self-esteem with a needle-sharp
fragment of sarcasm. Oh, she won't come right out and accuse you of
doing such a thing...but she will question your actions. It sounds kind of
cruel, until you consider that any of them could take a swing at me--oh, I'm
sorry, THEY CAN HIT ME--and be right back in my class a couple of
weeks later. OK, so that only happened once, but still...it doesn't seem to
be a fair trade-off.

Karma reared her mullet-coiffed head today as I headed out to my large
SUV for my jaunt to the other building. Just yesterday, I questioned what I
would do in an emergency. As I was locking my door, a seried of buzzers
went off. The double doors lost their magnetic grip and slammed closed.
Lights flashed. The next-door teacher was herding kids down the hall and
out of the building. A third of the kids were at lunch. My class had just gone
to the lunchroom. I went on out the doors. I told the kids gathered in the
parking lot to move away from the building. They said, "But Mrs. Hall-Herder
just told us to stand HERE! OK. I stood with them. "I'll have you know," I
told them, "that I am supposed to be at the other building right now. But I
don't think it's right to make like a rat and leave this sinking ship.And it's
ONLY a coincidence that the alarm went off just as I was running out of
the building. I had nothing to do with it." My old lunch buddy, Mr. G, came
over. "You can go on to the other building. We have enough people to
watch them." Another teacher also told me, "There's no reason for you to
stay. You don't have any kids right now. And it's NOT a drill."
WHAAAAAT? We assumed it was a fire drill. The one building had said
we'd have surprise at odd times. But NOOOO! Not here. I left, but I keep
thinking I will be in trouble for it. We'll see on Monday. I had planned to
stay a few minutes until the 'all clear' for the drill. I don't know how long it
went on. Or what it was all about. Mabel? Clue me.

That's about it for tonight. It's all the excitement fit to print.

HM Shoots Off Her Mouth

Alrighty then...63 visitors, 1 opinion. Since nobody cares what the
subject is today except my buddy Lantern, he wins. Today we will
talk about arming teachers with guns.

Yep. Who would have thought that ol' backwards Missouri would
come up with such a plan. Our esteemed governor, Matt Blunt,
mentioned this proposal after a school shooting in Joplin. Governor
Blunt just happened to be in Joplin at the time. Of course, the next
day, the governor's spokesman said he didn't really mean that all
teachers would be armed. Only ex-military, or ex-police, perhaps.
Oh, sweet Gummi Mary! I worked with many ex-military in the
state unemployment office. I certainly would not want them armed.
The ones I worked with had a kind of vigilante attitude.

I certainly don't want to carry a gun at work. It's bad enough for
those teachers who have to worry about kids hiding their keys.
Yeah, let's tempt those kids with a shiny killing implement, why
don't we? Maybe we can stuff a few grenades in our pockets
while we're at it.

And another thing...I am afraid I would be a big chicken if something
happened. Oh, I like to think I'd do the right thing...but if it came to
me being a hero, or slipping out the back door so my kids wouldn't
grow up Hillbilly Mom-less, I can't be sure of what I'd do. Of course
I would take my students with me if I ran for the hills. I wouldn't leave
them to fend for themselves. But I can't save a whole school building.
If it was one of my students causing the ruckus, I would try to stop
them. I know what makes them tick.

We have many teachers in our building who WOULD step up. They
are all about the POWER. Maintaining order...making the perpetrator
pay...taking charge of a situation. I used to teach across the hall from
one. I wish I still did. Yes. Arm her. I pity the fool who tries to invade
her school. He will pay dearly. There was another one down the hall.
Let those two team up, and we would be out of Iraq in no time. I DO
feel safe in that building. Another teacher has asked how far to go when
subduing a student with a gun. He was told, "Do what you have to
do. Take him out, if necessary. We'll worry about that after we get
the gun." I can envision the hapless perpetrator, being crushed beneath
a wall of flying bodies, like a fumbled football at the goal line.

Our staff rocks. But that doesn't mean I want them all armed. Especially
in February, when we are all sick of each other. Let the sniping begin.

Winging It

My head is spinning. And not in a good way. But not in that bad
Exorcist kind of way, either. We had an inservice half-day, and I
am not sure exactly what we did. There was a bunch of talking and
listening and responding and new plans to implement and some
handouts that we highlighted and were in the middle of deciphering,
and then it was time to leave. Mabel, what did you do at your meeting?
I regret that my presence was not permitted there. I hope you were not
saving me a seat at your table, Mabel. That would be as sad as Grizzly
when HH is gone. He waits hopefully, looking...looking...no HH.

I sort of missed the boys on the drive home. It was SO quiet. Except for
my car-singing. That was a thing of beauty. I really can't describe it
adequately. I was singing along with one of those teacher CDs by the
guest speaker we had last month at our professional development. Last
weekend, HH heard them in the car when we went to the movies. He said,
"There's what you oughta do...do what she's doing." Yeah, right. "Well, the
only things stopping me are the facts that I don't play guitar, I don't write
my own songs, and I can't sing. Except for that, I'm sure I'd be good at it."
HH. Always ready to pimp me out for spare change.

Tonight I stopped by Wal*Mart to pick up some chicken wings for supper.
I should have known better than to buy fowl at The Devil's Playground.
They were out of those Honey Dijon Wings, and the Teryaki Wings, with
only Chipotle Wings left in the cooler thingy. Hillbilly Mom is educated,
my friends. She knows that 'chipotle' means 'pepper'. Like those friendly
little yellow sweet banana pepper rings. Yes? NOOOO! They smelled so
good, warming in the oven. Mmmmm. When they left a greasy red stain on
my hands after picking them up to put them on the plate, I sort of wondered
what the deal was. Because it looked like the greasy red stuff that floats to
the top when I put taco seasoning in the hamburger. I took a bite. Woooo
Hoooo! Call the paramedics! Hillbilly Mom does not like the spicy greasy
red stuff. Hot sauce is OK. It is not greasy. It can be controlled. This stuff
could not. I could only eat 7 of them. Hey! I had to give them a chance!

Apparently, the chipotle is a black-sheep relative of the sweet banana
pepper. While Sweet Banana will offer to babysit your children, Chipotle
will see that offer, and raise it with a trip behind the barn to teach them
how to smoke a grapevine. Chipotle likes acid rock, skateboarding,
drag racing, tatoos, and piercings. Sweet Banana enjoys folk songs, dog
shows, bicycles-built-for-two, crew cuts, and helping old ladies across
the street. Do not confuse the two, my friends. Heed my words, or you
will be posting bail for your beloved offspring. Do not let Chipotle into
the house unless you like to live on the edge. Hillbilly Mom prefers to
live in the middle...the middle of nowhere, middle of the road, middle
of the bed, middle of the country. Just middle.

What shall we talk about tomorrow? Teachers armed with guns? Here
now! That wasn't MY idea. Our dear governor gets credit for that one.
Or how about my upcoming Trivia Competition, what the dog chewed
up in the yard, things I throw off the back porch, posts I plan to steal
from Redneck Diva, why Hillbilly Mom hates history, or things that
piss off HM? Pick one. I'm flexible. But tomorrow is my TV night, so
I'll be in a hurry. What tickles your fancy?

Ask Hillbilly Mom

As I promised a few days back, I'm going to let you in on my new
advice column. I hate to ignore those poor folks who Ask Jeeves
a question, end up at my Mansion, and never hear back from me.
See there, Ask.com people? You never should have forced Jeeves
to retire. It ain't right! People (even pervs) need that personal touch.
So here we go, for those inquiring minds who are too shy to leave
comments:

ASK HILLBILLY MOM

Dear Hillbilly Mom: What does the name Mabel mean?
Contrary to Aussie opinion, it DOES NOT mean 'imaginary friend'.
Perhaps the shortest answer to that query is: it's a dressmaker
dummy synonym.

Dear Hillbilly Mom: Can you tell me how to make a who-ville costume?
First of all, these are not hillbilly costumes. At the risk of sounding like
a yappy little snot, I must explain that hillbilly attire is designed for laying
around the shanty, moaning oh my aching sacroiliac. Your best bet
would be to buy a who-ville costume, perhaps at cardin's insurance
salvage stores. I used to work there, you know.

Dear Hillbilly Mom: What is hillbilly 7?
Shh...it's a GANG! I shan't tell you who's in it. Did you like my
Hayley Mills impression? Anyhoo, Hillbilly 7 is a secret society.
We hang out in spawn ranch stoners cave, downing hillbilly shooters,
talkin' our hillbilly lingo, writing the history of the slogan older than the
hills. Stay away, unless you've filled out the hillbilly application, or
we'll take a shot at you with our tater cannon.

Dear Hillbilly Mom: What are the 8th and 14th admendments to the
us constitution? Slow down there, Einstein. Perhaps you need a little
refresher course in spelling, and a lesson on giving the U.S. the respect
of capital letters. Those 'admendments', as you call them, are: 8th-
prevents you from being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment,
such as reading my blog every day. The 14th has been quite the
busy beaver. It guarantees you to have rights at the state level as well
as at the federal level, did away with counting slaves as 3/5 of a person
in the census, and proclaimed that the U.S. would not pay the debts of
states who rebelled against the union. You're welcome. I hope you
pass your citizenship test.

Dear Hillbilly Mom: Who was the fat man in a little coat original artist?
That would be the late Chris Farley. It was a song he used to sing to
cheer up or make un-mad his good buddy David Spade. They even
put it in the Tommy Boy movie.

Dear Hillbilly Mom: I need to know how to make meth using benadryl
and vicks. Sure. And people in Hell need handbaskets. We're sending
them a shipment soon. And you will be in it! Since i'm not worthy to
give you that formula, I'll refer you to a hillbilly pothead. He's one of
those hillbillies sitting around. The one with the inflamed windpipe,
coughing up yellow green mucus every now and then. His tongue has
a yellowish green coating, and he's covered in man boob sweat. Yeah.
He's a sight to behold. I think he also deals in histinex no prescription.

Dear Hillbilly Mom: I must find out how to iron nylon graduation robes.
Why? It's nowhere near graduation time. Put it off. Better yet, the week
before graduation, hang it in your bathroom. The steam from the shower
will make the wrinkles fall out. Nobody at graduation will notice your
robe. They will be too busy wondering what you have on underneath it.
Hopefully, it won't be wet worn panties crusty pee. Because woohoo
mcgraw! That just ain't right. You'd be sure to get the boston terrier
stink eye for that graduation faux pas. A child misbehaving at 3 knows
that much, by cracky!

Dear Hillbilly Mom: Please tell me how to solve roof nail popping roof
cases. Hold on now, possum whacker! This ain't exactly Mystery, Inc.
Scooby and Shaggy are out with the hillbilly pothead right now. My
best guess is that it's some kind of spooky monster that will turn into
a reasonable explanation such as a robot designed to pull out the nails
and sell them for profit. That'll be 500 Scooby Snacks for my fee.

Dear Hillbilly Mom: I don't have to kill you to kill you.
Simmer down now, surelick holmes! That ain't no question. And
sure as you're lickin', Holmes, you ARE absolutely killing me. I
know your type. You need a do as you're told worksheet. Fast.

Alas, all good things must end. Check your ticket stubs for the
hillbilly drawing. The number is 420. Aww...you didn't win? Too
bad. The winner of the framed picture of toothless homeless person
is...the man who pays big to church and nothing to wife. There's no
justice in this world, huh? Come back next time when we'll raffle
off a little guy camper, a 15 minute mom, some hillbilly with jug
cartoons, a blind cave nub, and an 8 year old and the eiffel tower.

Until then, have a happy hillbilly day, and watch out for poo girls.

All In A Day's Work

I had many a DoNot tale to tell today, but I have forgotten most of
them. I'm really going to have to jot these things down. My brain is
full of knowledge for the upcoming Trivia competition. More on that
another day.

One of the DoNots was a bit upset that her boyfriend was absent,
and had the nerve to have his jacket with him. She felt entitled to
it. Alas, she was outnumbered, being the only female in the room
besides myself. She carried on about how even the math teacher
tells her boyfriend that she needs a calculator, so he'd better get
her one. I am sure this is a joke the math teacher is perpetrating.
The boys turned on her, snarling, "Why should HE buy everything
for you? What are you gonna do when he isn't around to supply
you with things? Then what? Huh?" I added a bit of fuel to the
fire by asking, "Do all his OTHER girlfriends expect him to provide
THEM with jackets and calculators? Because he might be out
earning more money to keep you all happy." She was not amused.

Then the kids started discussing their advisory teachers, because
a kid was absent, and his advisory teacher had promised the group
a pizza party if the kid came to school 10 days in a row. He made
it to day #3. That was still a record since school started, what with
him being in ISS and absent several times per week. Then they
asked who had whom for advisory, and one sadly stated, "I have
Mrs. Nobodylikesher." You'd have thought the kid was Charlie
Brown, saying "I got a rock" on that Great Pumpkin show.

From there, talk turned to fashion, as in, "I don't get Mrs. Nobody-
likesher. She wears this belt, but it doesn't hold anything up. And
she wears it on the outside of her shirt! I don't get it. What's the
point? She doesn't have to hold her shirt up!" I told him it was most
likely a fashion statement, not a functional accessory. This concept
was a bit foreign to him, he of jeans, t-shirts, and gray hoodies. Then
the girl who favors pink as a complementary color to camouflage said,
"I wear a belt over a shirt to hide my fat belly." Who knew I was
hosting the fashion critics from the New York Times?

Yes. We really do work in my class. But it was Monday morning.
We were so glad to be reunited after the weekend. Another class
informed me that one in their midst keeps his girlfriend on a short
leash. "Only to keep her from escaping," I stated.

Let's not forget the boy who told me that his father has instructed
him to answer his cell phone EVERY time he calls, no matter if he's
in class. I told him he'd get it taken away. "No I won't. I'll run out the
door and run home. Nobody's taking MY phone! I've already told
my dad that, too." It seems the school has not been notified that we
have one set of rules for everybody else, and one for him.

The kid who said the principal 'let him go home' last week because
he didn't want to go to ISS asked about his grade. "Still the same
as last week, " I told him. "WHAT! I thought I was doing better."
"Well, you are. But you had to take a zero on the assignment the
day principal let you go home." To which he replied, "He DID just
let me go home." I'm beginning to think I'm on the wrong side of
the desk, what with all the privileges the freshman class believes
they have.

Then there's the battle of the teachers being waged in the other
building. Oh, it's a friendly rivalry. It's been going on as far back
as I can remember, the year when one had the other's classroom
door removed and hidden away during Christmas door decorating
season. Hey! He got it back after the contest was over! Last week,
he came to Lower Basementia, asking "Where's the Sea Hag?" Oh,
don't think I'm not taking sides in this one. Of course I informed the
so-called Sea Hag that she was being maligned. "Thanks for having
my back," she said. Now the plot thickens. My #1 son has the
Hag-stalker for class. He was instructed to ask: "Mr. Hag-stalker,
is there such a thing as a...how you say...Sea Hag (?) in this building?
Because I was on my computer researching them this weekend, and
it seems that they are the most intelligent creatures in the ocean."

Heh heh. I saw Mr. Hag-stalker in the hall this afternoon. "Hey! Did
my boy tell you he's been doing some internet research?" Mr. Hag-
stalker laughed. "I know EXACTLY what you're talking about!"

We're waiting for round two.