Can O' Whup-Ass

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Lady Gaga

Um...Lady?

Ms. Gaga?

Hi. May we call you Ga? Why are you staring at us? Is that a "no"?

So, what do you say we hop the next spaceship to Planet Claire and order a pitcher of Supernovatinis? Or we could just go to TGI Friday's and slam back some fuzzy navels...same diff, really. Doesn't that just sound marvy? We KNOW!

Listen. Here's the deal. You're a serious broad. And we've resisted writing this BNoFC because you're fully aware (indeed, you're the architect) of your craziocity. And anyone who ridicules your LSD-inspired wardrobe is woefully UNaware that the joke is on them. You are begging to be talked about. You frequently leave the house having remembered to bobby-pin a Judy Jetson wig to your noggin, yet somehow you always forget the pants. Beyond that, while we rather enjoyed the rumors that you serve your hair pie with a side of kielbasa, we also strongly suspect you were the one behind that particular meme. You are, as our Beantown friends might say, "wicked smaht."

We've been tempted to drop you a note before. Especially that one time, whilst performing, you confined your breasts (whom we've fondly dubbed Etna and Vesuvius) to a maximum security brassiere and they rebelled by erupting. The point being while fashion has never been about comfort, it shouldn't incinerate your fans in a  pyroclastic flow.  But no, we held our tongue. Because any gal whose boobs are wont to spew magma and embarks on a career as a disco diva (instead of, say, an X-man), has spunk in our book. Besides, any concert during which a performer zaps her frankenboobs to life is well worth the ticket price.

But now, Lay-Ga...now we're concerned for your mental health. How we wish we could have read your mind today when you stood before your vast wardrobe. We're more than a little curious about the thought process that caused you to strap a JC Penney's "naughty grandma" underwire bra over your Mary Poppins blouse, hike up a pair of crotchless satin Depends, and secure a Charo wig to your noggin with what appears to be the wrapper from a Hickory Farms "deepest sympathy" cheese and fruit basket. 

We're certain it seemed like a good idea at the time. But you look like you're attending the funeral of your sanity. See here's the thing. You're a trend-setter. Do you really want the entire world to start wearing their underoos as outerwear? Have you given the slightest thought to the potential ramifications? For starters, it would force us to cover our furniture in plastic. Is that what you really want?

You look like (pick one):

1. Morgan Fairchild in a very special Lifetime movie-of-the-week called "Not Without My Mom-jeans," the heart warming story of a woman who goes into mourning when The Gap discontinues their line of high-waisted acid wash stretch pants
2. The winning design from that episode of Project Runway where Heidi Klum gives the designers one day to stitch together a wardrobe for the soon-to-hit-the-toy-stores Bi-Polar Barbie
3. A publicity still from "I Was an Incontinent Space Widow," a daring independent film directed by Darren Aronofsky and starring Charlize Theron, which swept the awards at Sundance
4. That long lost episode of Love Boat, wherein cruise director Julie McCoy spikes the punch with ecstasy causing Charo to hurl herself overboard, whereupon her distraught lesbian lover Donna Mills disrupts a shuffleboard tournament with her shocking announcement that her girdle's been possessed by beelzebub.  
5. Bloody hell.

xox
WAM

Lady Ga-Ga sez: "I got so wrapped up in my subscription to this blog's feed, I forgot to put on a skirt."

A Letter to Tanya C. Butz, Outraged Virginia Woman

Dear Outraged Virginia Woman,

First, since your name is missing from every account we could find, we've decided your name is Tanya C. Butz.

According to the story, early one morning you were walking your sensitive son to school when you decided to cut through your neighbor's yard. Naturally curious as to what was going on inside his home, you spied Mr. Eric Williamson standing all nekkid and stuff in his kitchen. Then, to be sure you saw what you saw, you crept around to another window and sure enough, there this pervert stood, making coffee in his kitchen, shame hose and filthy bits on full display.

Naturally, you called the cops and Mr. Williamson is now charged with indecent exposure. And we have a few things to say about that.

It seems a gal can't take her young son tiptoeing through the bushes of a neighbor's yard these days without having her eyeballs raped in the butt by all manner of lascivious nakedness. Back in the day, good Christians could go a-peepin' and be greeted only by images of God-fearing folks who had the good taste to remain fully-clothed in the privacy of their own homes. Ms. Butz, we congratulate you not only for keeping your sights trained on Mr. Williamson's swarthy exposed personage, but for circling his house to get a better view, thereby giving your impressionable son a good lesson in spying on our heathen neighbors.

And now, we'd like to address the distastefully exposed Eric Williamson. As scripture tells us, when God made man (and subsequently yanked a rib from his chest to fashion his serpent-fraternizing, fruit-coveting baby maker), He was immediately disgusted by His creation. And that's why Jesus invented the polyester house robe.

You claim when you arose from slumber and ambled to the kitchen to brew some coffee, that it was dark outside and you had no idea a God-fearing neighbor might be skulking about your property. Spare us, sir, your pitiful excuses. For the gentleman who engages in naked coffee-brewing is precisely the sort to download she-male bukkake porn, sacrifice goats at the altar of Beelzebub and sass his mother.

Furthermore, Mr. Williamson, Jesus gets fidgety and nervous when our sin viper isn't safely tucked away within our aquaman underoos. He only allows us to drop our drawers when making uckie-poo or rinsing our oopsie zone (and only when it's absolutely necessary, for although cleanliness is next to Godliness, excessive lathering of one's flesh flute is next to something else entirely).   

So next time you spring from your sweaty mattress after a night of wet-dreaming about pooping on our Christian sensibilities, you'd do well to remember the audience of outraged townsfolk camping outside on your lawn. Put the jewels back in the vault and look into pajamas. Man-pajamas, pervert. Your next door neighbor and her son hardly expect to see you in a see-through Victoria's Secret teddy next time they traipse through your flower bed, peering anxiously through your kitchen window.

xox
WAM

Eric Williamson sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed so I could read it nekkid."

Mamma Will Provide (PLUS: Post-its of Friendly Concern!)

When we arrived in NYC in 1987 to pursue our ill-advised dream of becoming a renowned classical actor, we experienced a period of extreme poverty (who saw THAT coming??). We were reduced to jumping turnstiles, and our daily sustenance consisted of a banana in the morning and either a slice of pizza or a box of kraft macaroni and cheese in the evening. One afternoon we were loitering in Tantalus Deli on East 55th, trying to decide what delectable morsel to purchase with our last remaining 68 cents. Suddenly, we spied a hundred dollar bill on the floor in the beer aisle. That night we had the most delicious pastrami on rye ever.

Likewise, having suckled at the bitter teat of Unemployment Insurance for a year, the milk recently ran dry. The very day the payments ceased, we found ourselves hired by a prominent financial news agency, and now hold full press credentials ("smell YOU Nancy Drew!" we hear you utter under your putrid mentos-and-decaf breath).

But listen, bitches; Mamma will provide. In the darkest moment, something in the universe clicks; the planets align. We blink, and suddenly we're enjoying a delicious pastrami on rye. Burp!

Now that we're once again a respectable (shut up) working member of society, we've found little time to spare. And this, our baby, has suffered. Yet COWA remains our secret crush. Posts will come with more frequency in the future, and we shall ruthlessly whup the asses of those who deserve it until our computer crashes, our hands cramp, or Yahweh yanks us home to Jesus whilst smiting the internet because of Ashton Kucher's sophomoric twittering. We're back.

With that in mind, there have been numerous items of late with blatant "whup my ass" signs taped to their fannies. We've been chomping at the bit to open a can. What follows is the Reader's Digest version of what we've been simply DYING to say:

Dear Mackenzie Phillips:

When obnoxious divorcee Anne Romano relocated her two girls (Valerie Bertinelli—future hair band frau, current fat person—and thou) to the urban shangri-la of Indianapolis, who expected her oldest daughter to be arrested at airports with a kilo of horse wedged up her oopsie hole? Worse still, Schneider hardly foresaw the day when Julie Romano would hit the talk show circuit yammering endlessly about her icky 10-year affair with her father. I'll say it to your face Mack. It's tacky.

What gal hasn't accidentally done the the hippity-dippity with pops for ten years, ultimately aborting his misbegotten inbred womb-booger because hubby wouldn't approve? We're so glad you've decided to launch your extra-classy "I boned pops and all I got was an aborted fetus and a book deal" publicity tour and press junket. We knew you were bad news when you ruined Harrison Ford's evening in "American Graffiti." Do us a favor, take a job as a second shift Stuckey's hostess and slither away into obscurity. Thanks.

xox
WAM

***

Dear Prisscilla Mechell,

Our first impulse is to beg you to run a spell-check on your unfortunate first name.

Beyond that, as we know, a woman just isn't a woman unless a fetus is kicking her abdomen from within her fruitful womb. So when your ample tummy rudely ejected your woebegone uterus spew, you sensibly decided not to tell anyone. Instead, you faked the remainder of your pregnancy and kidnapped a neighbor's infant. Then, to remake the poor thing in your ghastly image, you shaved its noggin and tarted it up under layers of Mary Kay cosmetics. Upon reconsidering the wisdom of those actions, you deposited the wailing diaper-filler in a convenient dumpster, where it was later found by the authorities gurgling under half-eaten chalupas and curbed dog poop. 

We see absolutely nothing wrong with your actions. What does a modern gal want with someone else's tarted up baby? To hell with it. Let's go shopping!

xox
WAM

P.S. To Prisscilla's miscarried fetus: we congratulate you on your foresight with respect to your erstwhile mother-to-be's parenting skills. Better luck next time.

***

Dear Mayor Eric J. Brewer,

Okay, so being Mayor of East Cleveland is pretty much like being crowned King of poop. Sure, it's nice to be King of anything, but East Cleveland? What's second prize?

Howev, if one is running for public office, it's a good idea not to prance about in women's lingerie, snapping nasty pics of ourselves looking like a chorus girl in the all-crack-whore production of Chicago (a production we'd quite enjoy, come to think of it).

Bitch, it's like this; one does not pose for pictures in corsets and panty hose like an unholy hybrid of Betty Page and Flip Wilson if one yearns for a gig in the political sphere. For not only are you a freakin mess (we beg you to investigate proper skin care, pubic mowing, lipo, hot oil treatments and drastic rhinoplasty), you are now known as Ms. Mayor Nasty Pants. Can you really govern dazzling East Cleveland when everyone and their Facebook friends know you're wearing Victoria's Secret's entire "tranny-mess" line underneath your JC Penney double breasted seersucker? We suggest a new career. Perhaps you could give hand-jobs at truck stops or join the gals on The View, or something.

xox
WAM 

***

Dear Ms. Davina Warren:

First, let us dance on the precipice of political incorrectness by saying that the black bitches have ALL the hair. We have seen weaves that gave us vertigo and/or motion sickness. We have seen bitches who are so braided and bobby-pinned their architecturally unstable hair looks like exploding turkeys emerging from chocolate wedding cakes.

So we quite enjoyed the story about how you grabbed hold of a bitch's weave and held it for ransom whilst wielding scissors. And now you find yourself charged with aggravated assault and false imprisonment. 

Chanda. Chanda-Chanda-Chanda. As anyone from Tootie on "Facts of Life" to Beyonce (and her team of nervous wig-wranglers) will attest, one simply does not take a bitch's weave hostage and expect to live to see Tyler Perry's next cinematic masterpiece. Especially considering the fact that, judging by your photo, weaves have waged the cruelest war on thou; for you look like the second-string Big-Mac-assembler at the Tuscaloosa McDonald's.

Perhaps you intended to purloin gal's locks, to pirate her braids in order to supplant your woefully inadequate hairdo.  

xox
WAM

Julie Romano sez: "I'm totally addicted to my subscription to this blog's feed"

A Sex Prayer for Catholic Couples (PLUS: A Letter to Miss Lisa Newsome)

As we all know, Cathy-lick priests are experts on everything sexual. Of course they're all celibate (wink-wink), so hippity-dippity is pretty much all they ever think about. So who better to write a charming book called "A Prayer Book for Spouses," which includes a Catholic sex prayer that opposite-married heterosexuals can say together before getting down to the unpleasant business of spousal coitus. Just prior to part where the wife does her duty by bending to her husband's will and allowing his spitting sin-serpent to spelunk in that place "down there" where Cathy-lick babies shoot out with alarming frequency, the couple gets down on their knees for a Jesus-approved orally-delivered prologue. 

This is a sticky wicket, natch, as The Bible gives little reason to believe that God wants to listen to us praying about S-E-C-K-S. So as one might imagine, the priests who wrote the prayer went through many drafts before getting it just right. Thanks to our underground cadre of ninja operatives posing as sensitive altar boys, we were able to get our hands on an early version. You're welcome.

Dear Lord,

We ask, in Your Infinite Grace, to guide us through the proceeding ickiness. May the miracle of Viagra pull a "Moses" by transforming the limp snake into a staff. Let us not enjoy it, for a grunting middle-aged alcoholic's pasty rump piston-pumping a long suffering cellulite-afflicted baby factory is hardly an occasion celebrate. Have mercy, O Lord; for although You instructed us to "be fruitful and multiply" we've multiplied quite enough, having been blessed with eighteen insufferable children who sass us and smoke pot. To that end, please make the army of sperm about to spew forth get lost in the shame cave and wander about like a bunch of Jews in the desert. And speaking of being fruitful, while the husband has found many opportunities to defy Leviticus by placing ads on Craigslist for randy truckers into watersports, help us to avoid the temptation of using a condom. For as the Pope said, condoms spread the AIDS, which is our punishment for answering the urges you put in our heads to test us. And please help us wrap it up during the commercial break so we don't miss any of CSI: Special Victim's Unit. In Jesus Christ's name we pray,

Amen.

***

Dear Lisa Newsome,

We were enchanted by the heart-warming story of your recent brush with the law.

As the story goes, one day it occurred to you that you might enjoy a nice cold beer. So you sauntered into a liquor store in the dazzling Louisiana metropolis of Zachary, hiked up your house-dress, and stuffed a twelve pack of Miller Light up your tuchus.

We appreciate the kind of gal whose hair pie doubles as an ice box. Moreover, it's the only way you could conceivably compel us to reach betwixt your thighs. However, while we always like our brew with a nice healthy head, that's hardly what we had in mind. And although we shudder to contemplate where you might have stored the pretzels, we'd be much more impressed if you did the same trick with a keg.

At any rate, thanks for the suds. You can pull your dress down now. By the way, do you have a bottle-opener? Oh. We see.

Nevermind.

xox
WAM

WAM sez: "Have a great Labor Day Weekend! And subscribe to this blog's feed."

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear K-Fed

Um...Mr. Federline?

Kevin?

Hi! You're looking...um...summer-y. What do you say we haul our carcasses to the nearest Taco Bell? You can order a couple dozen gorditas whilst we lounge over a super-sized vodka-spiked Sprite. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it bro? We KNOW!

So it's like this. We've never hated on you. Sure, you are famous only for the dippy broad you banged. You embarked on a meteoric rap career wherein your freshman effort went pewter. But after the divorce, when your ex was busily shaving her head, flashing her hair pie and dropping the issue of your loins on their soft lil' noggins, you became the responsible one. And although we know we're entirely alone in this (and we're likely to lose our readers' respect with this shameful admission), we always secretly thought you were something of a hottie, in a trailer-trash-crystal-meth-guest-star-on-COPS kinda way.

As your baby momma disappoints thousands with her spectacular lip-sync-to-gawdawful-music-whilst-dressed-like-a-pole-dancing-circus-whore tour, you're being paid $30,000 a month to babysit your own children. That's a truly excellent gig, and it leads us to believe that you're no dimwit; you know exactly which side your bread is buttered on. Which brings us to our point: You could stand to cut back a tad on both the bread and the butter. 

It's like this: just because you're pulling in 30 g's this month doesn't necessitate investing it all in Ho-hos, Little Debbies and Ringdings.

Dude. You're big as a house.

The thing is, we really don't have a beef against fatties (as long as they purchase two seats if they insist on flying coach). Okay, perhaps we've ridiculed Val Kilmer, Simon Lebon, Oprah Winfrey and thunder-thighs herself, Nikki Hilton. But that's just 'cause we care too much. Honest.

As you waddle hither and yon in that seck's-y Chairman Mao capri pants ensemble you picked up at Tents-4-Tanks Discount Big-n-Tall Emporium, scientists are finding oodles of new ways fatties die of fattiosity. Their hearts fart to a stop. They get the diabetes. They fall through floors. They snap bungee cords and elevator cables. And as we learned from Bugs Bunny, to a Tasmanian Devil they look like yummy hams.

Worse still, a new study undertaken by the University of California has shown that folks with excessive gravitational pull have smaller brains. Their fat bodies are choking their noggins with all the fat.

The results are incontrovertible: fatsos are dumb. This, among other things, explains the Southern Baptists.

So drop the malomars and the yodels, stat. Pick up jogging, K-Fed, you've been K-Fed enough.

Otherwise, as science demonstrates, your new nickname will soon be Special K.

xox
WAM

K-Fed sez: "Science has shown that subscribing to this blog's feed makes you less dumb and stuff"

A Gal Named Stu

Sometimes, as in the case of LA Times sports writer Mike Penner, a dude decides to send back his plate of bratwurst in exchange for the clam dish. Or in the case of Chastity Chaz Bono, a gal realizes she's not in the mood for meat pie, and opts instead for the kielbasa. In either case, it requires a brass set of cojones to willingly have one's shame hose hacked off and replaced with a batcave (or vice versa). It's not like having one's cavity filled. This is not an out-patient procedure. As we've mentioned previously, unless you're Mr. Potato-head, genitalia are not easily interchangeable.

And of course, transgendered folks make the Jesus crowd all nervous. Any man in a dress (who isn't Milton Berle or Flip Wilson) makes them all fidgety. The sight of Ru Paul makes them want to vacuum their Volvos. If a man isn't the pope, he simply cannot flounce about in a gown. And of course, there's a blossoming fear that under Obama's health plan everyone will be forced to have sex changes. It's ironic that the uberconservative Iranian theocracy will execute a dude for fagnicity, but accepts gender identity displacement as a valid medical condition; if you chop it off and wear a hijab, they won't give you a rope necktie. But that's neither here nor there. Let's get into the meat of things, shall we?

Meet Stu Rasmussen. Girlfriend has recently undergone sexual reassignment AND been elected mayor of Silverton Oregon (we admire multi-taskers). Since being freshly equipped with a set of boobalicious ta-tas and corresponding oopsie hole, Lady Stu has been displaying the merchandise; she showed up for a speaking engagement at a children's charity clad in a mini skirt over a backless one-piece bathing suit and open-toed "f*ck me" pumps. This prompted yelly vibrator hobbyist Bill O'Reilly to yell about how trannies are harming the kiddies. But f*ck O'Reilly. He's retarded and yelly.

We'd like to address Ms. Stu:

Dear Mayor Rasmussen,

First, get a load of you. How many years have you longed to shake your maracas and mince about like Mitzy Gaynor? It must be terribly liberating. So you go, girl.

What's more, we believe our country needs more transgendered mayors. For instance, if Lady Bunny was Mayor of New York, everything would instantly be much more entertaining (we imagine Bunny at a press conference spontaneously lip-syncing "Come on-a My House"). But more to the point, city hall would be whipped into shape faster than you can say "sashay shantay." One does not irk a queen and live to see tomorrow. The only thing scarier than an angry transsexual is a premenstrual minotaur.

But we have some issues. First, you've endured the discomfort of having your pants worm refashioned into a hoo-hoo. You've had more estrogen jabs than all of the Golden Girls put together. Why then are you still named Stu? To our mind, you look like a Babette or a Prudence. That settles it; hereinafter you shall be Babette.

See, Babs, it's like this. We really have no qualm with an ex dude tarting himself up like Lady GaGa and slinking into a Children's Charity fund raiser. Kids will accept you; they've been acquainted with gender illusionists since Tinky Winky pranced onto the scene like Lola Falana at a Key West gay bar, since Lady Elaine vamped about on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. And it's not that we object to the fact that you're uglier than a pole cat on a mud fence. Just because you couldn't win the Miss Landmine Pageant even if the judges were blind doesn't mean you're incapable of holding office. Heck, Golda Meir looked as if she'd been hit in the face with a shovel more than once and that broad was serious.

No, our main beef is taste, or your tragic lack thereof. If Mayor Bloomberg marched in the Saint Patty's parade clad in fuscia spandex biker shorts and pasties, it would be inappropriate (though certainly amusing). Likewise, if Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa attended a ribbon-cutting ceremony dressed as Charo, eyebrows would raise. Babette, a bitch cannot expect to dress up like disco gidget at public appearances AND retain the dignity of elected office. You are hereby sentenced to open a charge account at Dress Barn. Pick out a lovely pants suit or three. Some tasteful separates. Invest in some closed-toe flats, stat! (and, not for nuthin, maybe some moisturizer)

Save the hoochie-mama get-up for latin night at karaoke. Capice?

xox
WAM

Stu Rasmussen sez: "I like to dress up like a whore and subscribe to this blog's feed."

Dear Madge

'Nuff said?

xox
WAM

Mercy Ciccone sez: "Mommy says if I stop throwing poop from my baby cage she'll let me subscribe to this blog's feed."

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Bono

Um...Bono? Mr. Vox?

Hi. Misplace something?

Listen, whatya say we throw on our caftans, make a bee-line for the beach-side tiki bar and order a mai-tai or seven in a dirty coconut? Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? We KNOW!

So here's the shizzle-dizzle. We were in high school when "Boy" was released. It fit our surly 16-year-old, angst-ridden aesthetics to a tee. We saw U2 play Red Rocks, one of the best concerts ever. When you warned us that should we decide to "walk-away-walk-away," you'd most likely "follow," we were okay with it. And although there's something faintly insufferable about anyone who'd rename themselves "good voice" in Latin, we nevertheless tolerate your pretentious op-eds in the NY Times in which you remind us you're a soulful genius who cares about Africa and stuff.  

But Bono. Bono-Bono-Bono. Were we to take a beach stroll and encounter a sperm whale fondling itself, we'd "run-away-run-away," and if it were to "follow" we'd call security and have you tazed.

Sadly, after lo these many years, you Still Haven't Found What You're Looking For; because unless what you're looking for is ball sweat, crab lice or jock itch, you're unlikely to find it down the front of your Target Big-n-Tall board trunks.

The thing is, anyone with a penis knows that several times daily it becomes necessary to do a little nad-juggling. Things get twisted, itchy, mushed, discombobulated and outa-whack; and sometimes the only remedy is a full frontal crotchular expedition. But one does not go testicle wrangling on a public beach in full view of the paps. Jesus, Mary and Jehoshaphat! Have we learned nothing from Simon Le Bon?

In the name of love, Mr. Vox, un-hand mini-Bono this instant. Drop the chalupa. Do it now so we can discuss that overly-yeasted loaf of back-fat rising from your shorts and making a break for the border. Do you you hate our ability to see?

You look like (pick one):

1. Gene Hackman IS James Lipton in an ill-fated bio-pic called "Inside the Actor's Underoos"
2. You've embarked upon an eeling expedition in lake paunch-ertrain
3. You're scraping barnacles from the hull of the USS Augustus Gloop
4. Moby Dick, preparing to brandish his pants-harpoon
5. Your shorts have been inexplicably annexed by Pillsbury to manufacture pop-n-fresh biscuit dough
6. Your Prince Albert has become painfully wedged in your taint ring
7. You've tragically misunderstood the concept of "going crabbing"*
8. Bloody hell.

xox
WAM

* a recycled joke we enjoyed making at Mr. Le Bon's expense, deemed worth repeating

Bono sez: "I will subscribe to this blog's feed, with or without you."

Dear Mable Peabody

Hiya Mable,

We have no idea who you are, but we're inclined to like you. First of all, we suspect you're hilarious after your third harvey wallbanger.

Beyond that, this must be said: there's multi-tasking and there's multi-tasking. For instance, we recall watching a beauty pageant as a child and were enthralled by one particular contestant whose talent was tap-dancing as she juggled lit torches. While we doubted she'd have much practical real-world application for her spectacular tap-juggling, it was nevertheless an intriguing skill-set.

But Mable, the ability to give a bitch a rinse-and-set, while adjusting the carburetor on a McCulloch MXC kicks tap-juggling's ass.

We live, Ms. Peabody, in the era of one-stop shopping. We've seen everything from laundromat/tanning salons to dog-grooming chiropractors.

With that in mind, we admire the entrepreneurial spunk required to open the world's first go-to resource for the sensible lady who'd like her permanent did while getting her chain drive greased. Or for that matter, your establishment is a convenient alternative for the discerning transvestite logger whose fuel line is clogged yet who also needs his brows tweezed and his roots touched up. 

However, we are just a wee bit concerned that in the middle of an unforeseen rush you might inadvertently give a henna rinse to a refurbished Black and Decker and replace some poor woman's front hand grip and tighten her bar nuts. We also hope you're even-keeled and you avoid the meth, because on a bad day you might snap and give a gal a little off the top with a turbo-charged Husqvarna 359.

Why, that would make about as much sense as Paul Bunyan trying to fell a sequoia with a lash curler.

xox

WAM

Mable sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed while giving a frost-n-tip to an Echo CS-341." 

Shovel-Toting Ohio Granny pwns Bambi

Euclid, OH -- Dorothy Richardson loves gardening. Her flower beds kick the ass of every other flower bed in dazzling greater Euclid. So one day, when the frail 75-year-old woman was greeted with the sight of a cute fawn sitting in the midst of her pansies and gladiolas, what do you suppose she did?

Why, she grabbed a shovel and beat bambi 'til he was dead, that's what.

So now, natch, every hippy animal hugger from the redwood forest to the gulf stream waters is offering to return the favor. She's been charged with animal cruelty and could face 18 months in prison (coincidentally, the same maximum term faced by a certain wig-wearing child porn purveyor named Vance Fulkerson).

As one might imagine, we have some stuff to say about that.

Dear Dorothy,

While bludgeoning a fawn until its brains are splattered amongst one's petunias might sound a wee bit harsh, we are not without our sympathies. One puts down bulbs and spreads excelsior in the autumn, mulches, seeds, and fertilizes in the spring, composts, weeds, and waters almost daily in the summer, all so one's neighbors will turn green with envy at the sight of our floral display. It was neglectful of that thoughtless doe to leave her baby sitting provocatively amid your prize-winning snapdragons while she foraged for food. We suspect, at the sight of it, a toxic cocktail of geritol and metamucil kicked in, causing momentary homicidal dementia. It wasn't until later, we're certain, when your arms cramped and bits of fawn skull shrapnel had peppered your trellis of morning glories, that you came to and realized the extent of the carnage you'd wrought.

The thing is, oldsters are wont to hack wildlife to death with shovels. To them, it's as satisfying as shuffle-board or mah-jong. Take for instance our own Auntie Magnolia, who once shovel-bludgeoned a cottonmouth water moccasin to death in our horrified presence. Sure, there are those of us who might be charmed by the appearance of a fawn. They might even take a picture and post it on their insufferable blog. But they don't understand that if you'd wanted any fauna cluttering up your flora, you'd have purchased a plastic flamingo or a lawn jockey and be done with it.

And now, those rude prosecutors are trying to send you to granny jail, where presumably your cell won't be festooned with a window box of forget-me-nots. But fret not, for we suspect that as soon as word spreads that a bitch will beat bambi with a spade til its legs stop twitching, you'll be given wide berth and substantial cred. Not only that, we're rather certain your garden will be doing quite well once you're released; fawn brains are likely a FABULOUS fertilizer.

xox
WAM

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