I'ma get controversial on yo' ass

Driving down Liberty Avenue through Bloomfield earlier this week, I was waiting at a red light. When I glanced to my right, I saw (do not click unless you have a strong stomach) this. It was on a sign carried by an anti-abortion protester. Of course, it wasn't that exact picture of a dead baby, but you get my drift. I see things like this all the time, because on my way to work every single day, I drive past a clinic in East Liberty.
Although I have never been pregnant, I am staunchly anti-abortion. I do not believe in it. To me, it's a horrible thing. It goes against all my moral principles and everything I was taught growing up in church. It is not an action I would choose for myself. Now, before all you pro-choicers start emailing me all "Who the hell do you think you are," please note that just because I am pro-life does not mean I expect you to be so. It doesn't mean I'm your enemy or that I think you're going to hell if you believe in abortion or even if you've had one yourself. I am certainly not going to try and change your mind.
In fact, as far as abortion protesters go, I'd rather not be associated with them in any way. At 8 o'clock on a Thursday morning, I, even being pro-life, don't want to have dead babies shoved in my face. Hell, I don't want dead babies shoved in my face at any time of the day! Do you really think you're changing any one's mind? Be honest now. Does any woman, on her way to have a abortion, see those signs and think, "Oh, my God, I can't do this?" I'm sure that any woman arriving at the decision to terminate her pregnancy did not get there lightly. If I were pro-choice, I would retaliate for this nonsense by printing up huge-mongous pictures of women, dead from back alley and coat hanger abortions, and plastering them on signs to protest in front of churches and high schools.
I find it completely offensive. Moms drive their kids to school down Liberty Avenue. School buses full of children use Liberty Avenue. Do you think that I want to have to explain that graphic, disgusting photograph of a dead baby to my five-year-old? Shouldn't I get to broach that topic on my own time and when or if I so choose? If your sign is any indication, you're supposed to be all about protecting the innocent and their rights. What right do you have to expose them to that kind of horror? This is a free country and you have every right to believe what you want to believe, but so do I. And if you ask me, I believe you should stick your signs up your self-righteous asses.

Hating Me Won't Make You Pretty

They're picking on me!!

When I started this blog, I made a promise to myself. This isn't like the time I promised myself I'd never snort coke again. This one I was actually going to keep. I promised myself I wouldn't write posts bitching about my co-workers, but they'll never know it's me and I'm pretty sure no one is reading this (that was a desperate and thinly veiled plea for comments, by the way), so I'm breaking my promise to myself. I'll never trust me again.

I am getting the silent treatment from a co-worker. No, my company does not employ four-year-olds. I am getting the silent treatment from a 68-year-old woman. That's right boys and girls, Grandma Moses is pissed off at me.

I take that back. Comparing her to Grandma Moses is not accurate. Grandma Moses was a sweet old lady who took pleasure in her art. This old hag (I'll call her FC) doesn't take pleasure in anything. Except maybe making my life a living hell. I could sit here and list everything I can't stand about her, but I don't have that kind of time. So, I'll just tell you that she has absolutely no redeeming qualities. At all. What she does have is such an overinflated sense of self-importance that I'm baffled by the fact that her head fits through the front door. This Mount Everest sized ego does not keep her from being jealous of me. I am a hopeless flirt, it cannot be helped. Mr. Pitsberger knows and accepts it. It's what I do, it's who I am. Well, the boys at work flirt back and she absolutely cannot stand it! On more than one occassion, she has chided our married warehouse manager to "Remember your vows!" I can feel her vast hatred of me emanating from her like stink from shit. I don't like it when she stands behind me...I'm that afraid that she's plotting my demise. Like I haven't been feeling well for the past few days, and I've almost convinced myself that she's poisoning my lunch.

I know you're sitting there reading this and thinking to yourself, "That's mean. FC is just an old lady." But that's part of her plan, you see? If you spent 10 minutes listening to this fossilized bag complain about the weather, her job and life in general you would see the error of your ways. You would pray for mercy and beg for death.

The reason that she's not speaking to me is because she was 'noiding out yesterday and convinced herself that I was laughing at her with some of our colleagues. In truth, we were having chuckle about the stupidity of one of our customers. So, when I giggled about an email I got from one of the salesmen, she looked up from her cube and said (in the bitchiest, snottiest tone of voice I've ever heard), "What's funny?" I replied, "Yeah, it's about you. You need to get over yourself." Silent pouting ensued. She hasn't spoken a word to me since.

I can't complain too much, though. When I'm getting the silent treatment, I don't have to hear about her dumping in K-mart, the car and various other public places.




FC in a rare moment of joy.

The Little Red Lock

Ok, I am 28 years old. I am married. I wear my rings. So I am not at all embarrassed to walk into K-Mart and take a box of condoms and a bottle of Astroglide (bow chicka bow bow) to the register and check out. Not in the least. You may think it's strange that two people who've been in a monogamous relationship for over 5 years still use rubbers. There's a reason for this. Actually, two reasons. One is that due to my family medical history it is dangerous for me to be on hormonal birth control. The second reason is I'm convinced that 1/2 the effectiveness of said birth control is that is makes you not want to have sex. Plus, when I'm on hormones I'm like that hot chick in "Army of Darkness" after she makes out with bad Ash. I'm not a very nice girl.
I discovered that K-Mart no longer stocks the brand of condoms that Mr. Pitsberger prefers. I personally couldn't give two shits what kind of rubbers we use, but he refuses to wear Trojans and he's had a bad experience with Durex. He likes the Lifestyles Ultra-Sensitive "Almost like wearing nothing at all brand." That was probably a bit more than you wanted or needed to know about our chosen prophylactics. But I digress. Since K-mart doesn't have them anymore, I tried Target. No use. The last place I had seen them was Rite-Aid. So, I march into Rite-Aid and since it's Easter and there's candy all up in my face, I cannot resist grabbing a bag of mini Reese's cups, a package of marshmallow Peeps (the bunny ones) a box of Cadbury creme eggs and a pack of 1 dozen mini Cadbury creme eggs (better than the full size ones because they don't put you on a sugar high for three days) adorably packaged in a little egg carton. Then I'm off to the "Family Planning" section. Yes, it says that. What it should say is "Not Planning Family." I'm checking out the lube cause we're almost out of Astroglide, too. I grab a bottle of that. Then I'm checking out the other lube and they have this "Play" stuff that's made by Durex with menthol in it. It's supposed to make your va-jay-jay all tingly. Now I'm remembering the Gold Bond incidents at a friend's house years ago and I have to try it. If you've never had Gold Bond on your va-jay-jay, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it. So, let's recap. I now have in my arms:

1 humongous bag of mini Reese's cups
1 package (12) marshmallow Peeps brand bunnies
1 box (3) Cadbury creme eggs
1 package (12) mini Cadbury creme eggs (adorably packaged in a little egg carton)
1 bottle (10 oz. - the big one) of Astroglide Personal Lubricant
1 bottle (8 oz.) of Durex Play personal lubricant

Sounds like a recipe for one wild party, right? I'm all set except for my condoms. I'm extremely pleased to see that they have the Lifestyles Ultra-sensitive ("Almost like wearing nothing at all") Brand. They're hanging up by the little tabs on the top of the box. I reach down to grab one and notice that there is a little red plastic lock on the end of the bar from which my desired prophylactics are hanging!! Now I am realizing, to my horror, that I am going to have to go to the counter, get the one available employee, who by the way, looks like he is about 15, and tell him that, "Hey, I need a box of condoms," hang out in the "Family Planning" section while he gets the keys and point out that I need the value size 36 count box of Lifestyles Ultra-sensitive ("Almost like wearing nothing at all") brand, with my arms full of candy and lube. And that's exactly what happened. I'm just glad we weren't out of Hershey's chocolate syrup and whipped cream. I would have had to just go somewhere else for my rubbers if that were the case.
I know I said I'm not embarrassed to buy rubbers, but there is a huge difference between taking your condoms to the counter, where both parties involved can just pretend that the cashier doesn't know someone's tapping your ass tonight, and having to chase down an employee to tell him directly to his face "Hi, I'm getting laid later and I need the biggest box of condoms you sell. Thanks." Let's lock up the maxi pads and hemorrhoid cream while we're at it.
I honestly thought I was going to die of embarrassment. Have you ever tried to NOT blush when you are completely mortified? There's no way to NOT blush. It's like trying to sneeze with your eyes open. Impossible. Anyway, I paid for all my shit and I was outta there. It didn't occur to me until I was halfway home and my face had faded to merely pink instead of crimson, that I could have just ripped the damn tab on the top of the box, taken them to the counter and been like, "I'm not stealing these, obviously, but I am not about to ask a 15 year old boy if I can have some rubbers. Thanks." God, was that humiliating. I'm buying my birth control on the Internet from now on.

Screw Tahiti!!

Since the weather was so great a few days ago, I decided that I should start planning my next vacation. I'm not one of those beachy people. I love the ocean, but I HATE, HATE, HATE the sand. Butt cracks and va-jay-jays are not meant be exfoliated. Not ever. Also, German Irish + sun = bad news. When I go on vacation I like to visit museums and Halls of Fame and The World's Biggest Ball of Yarn. I started doing some research and I found quite a few places that I am interested in visiting in the near future.

1. The National Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame - Hayward, WI

If I was driving around Hayward, WI and I came up on that humongous muskie unawares, I would probably piss my pants. And if that didn't do it, the Bigfoot dummies inside most certainly would.

Reminds me of my Grandpa Amos.
You will also see "a memorial exhibit to Herman the Worm, a sickly Canadian night crawler that was nursed back to health by a freshwater fisherman and eventually made a guest appearance on The Tonight Show." I swear on my future children I didn't make that last part up. PETA is going to be all over my ass for this, but why the hell would a fisherman NURSE A NIGHTCRAWLER BACK TO HEALTH?? More importantly, how do you go about doing so?

2. William P. Didusch Center for Urologic History - Baltimore, MD


What a good time this is gonna be. Who hasn't wondered about the history of urology? I certainly have. In fact, I've spent many a free hour contemplating exactly what type of instruments are utilized when poking in and around someone's pee hole and how the instruments and procedures used today differ from those used during the Civil War. When I get back from the Urologic History Museum, I'm fully expecting to have a more restful night's sleep. Plus a lot more free time.

Here's a quote from curator Rainer M. Engel, who was born in 1933 Germany. "My early years were heavily influenced by World War II—bombings, troops marching through our city and bodies in the street—which left an indelible impression on me." Ya THINK?!! Unfortunately, that impression was, "I think I'd like to make a career out of poking in and around peoples' pee holes."

On a side note, that picture makes me want to curl into a fetal position and cry.

3. The World's Only Double Decker Outhouse and America's Only Two Story Outhouse


I know that title makes no sense, but it does. Let me explain. There are several towns that are actually fighting for the title of the "only" double decker outhouse and the di"stink"tion that comes with it. Ok, that was beneath me. But I thought it was funny anyway.
"The Booger Hollow Trading Post, along Scenic 7 Byway, in Dover, Arkansas, proudly" lays claim to the World's Only Double Decker Outhouse. Do I even need to make a joke here? This isn't even a challenge.
I can only imagine that a double decker/two story outhouse must be twice as disgusting and smelly as a single story one.

This is the Samuel Bowler house in Belle Plaine, MN. And that structure to the left of it is a two story outhouse. What's cool about this outhouse is that not only does it "boast" five holes, there's a skyway that allows access from the upstairs. Did I just say something was "cool" about an outhouse? I have got to stop putting Jameson on my frosted mini wheats. Tours are conducted of the house so you can check it out. And there will be plenty more where this came from.

Ok, boys and girls, can you say "road trip?" I call shot gun!!

He's Got a Purty Mouth

It was brought to my attention yesterday that there is a Burt Reynolds Museum. I discovered this because my boss left me a voicemail asking me to look up the phone number for said museum. As soon as I heard "Mrs. Pitsberger, can you get me the telephone number for the Burt Reynolds museum," I shouted "HA!!" and started laughing hysterically. Good thing I get to work earlier than most of my colleagues. Anyway, as soon as I knew that there was a Burt Reynolds Museum, I surfed over to Google. Remember I'm afflicted with Chronic Acute Nebbitosis. And by God, there IS a Burt Reynolds Museum. It's located in Jupiter, FL, which I think is appropriate because anyone who would actually visit a museum dedicated solely to the Bandit must be from another planet. Anyway, here (verbatim) is the mission statement:

"The mission of the Jupiter Film and Theatre Institute is to provide educational opportunities to young actors and filmmakers, and to preserve the history of the cultural contributions of Burt Reynolds."

On the one hand, that is a noble mission. I mean, think about it. If it weren't for Burt Reynolds, Trans Ams would never get their due. Especially the ones with eagles and the like painted on their hoods. And I ask you: who rocks a seventies porn 'stache better than Burt?

Proof that the answer is no one.


On the other hand, "THE CULTURAL CONTRIBUTIONS OF BURT REYNOLDS"?!!! Are you freakin' kidding me? Burt Reynolds? The Burt Reynolds that Norm MacDonald impersonates? You know when you're a joke? When they make you a SNL character.

Just a few things you can see at the Burt Reynolds and Friends Museum:
The Deliverance Canoe, the Bandit Car, the helmet from "The Longest Yard" and the boots from Burt's most famous and well-acted movie ever, "Striptease." But the very best part is the gift shop.

Check out this bad boy and remember that my birthday is in November.

Hopefully, I can hold out that long.