Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Stop Yankaing My Chain

What is it with the male vocalist AARP crowd these days?

Like some 3/4 life crisis in a Monty Python sketch, they all seem to be trying to recapture their long lost cool and solicit props from a new audience of young listeners.

News flash to all you Grammy Grandpas, the kids are listening only long enough to laugh at you.

Now I’m not saying that they shouldn’t sing until their death - Mick Jagger is still rocking and able to make it from one side of the stage to the other without a walker - but I have to draw the line at geriatrics crooning today’s greatest hits.

I admit I laughed hysterically several years back when Pat Boone - the personification of all that is virginal, white and religious - tried to butch up his image by covering heavy metal on his CD, In A Metal Mood, but then even God laughed his ass right off his throne over that one.

Then, of course, there’s everyone’s favorite space cadet cum pitchman, William Shatner, who has been trying to rock out since the 60s with albums like Transformed Man and Spaced Out (his stellar duet offering with Spock, Leonard Nimoy). It speaks volumes to the drug society found in the music industry and to the deluded society found in Captain Kirk’s head that he was ever allowed into a recording studio. (Then again, Paris Hilton has a soon to be released CD too) And seriously, did anyone buy last year’s Has Been (no shit Will)? Then again, would anyone actually admit to it?

I will cut a tad of slack for the Man in Black, however. Johnny Cash was way cool enough, with a voice like tar, and enough attitude to squash even an intimation of criticism, to remake Depeche Mode’s Your Own Personal Jesus into his own personal success. But then he was cool enough that he could have covered Walk Like An Egyptian and had a major hit.

Now comes 60s hitmaker, Paul Anka, the man responsible for writing the Tonight Show theme, co-penning the classic Sinatra warble, My Way and for his own vocal stylings on the 70s hit, Having My Baby. His new CD offering, Rock Swings, includes covers of ... are you ready? ... (keep in mind, you cannot cover a song without artist/owner permission) ...

Smells Like Teen Spirit: I swear, if Kurt Cobain could put another gun to his head, he would. This just proves how drugged out Courtney Love is.

Eye of The Tiger: This 80s Rocky theme by Survivor has only been remade once with success, and that was when it was spoofed in a Starbuck’s commercial.

It's My Life: My respect level for Bon Jovi just dropped 20 points. Minimum.

Jump: Eddie Van Halen, I order you to commit Hari Kari with a Les Paul this instant.

The CD moves on through swing versions of True, Spandau Ballet’s one hit wonder, It’s a Sin (no kidding) by the Pet Shop Boys, and Tears In Heaven, which should only ever be sung by Eric Clapton about his son.

Other songs that should never again see the laser light of day or the CD player? Lionel Richie’s Hello (uh, Goodbye) and The Cure’s Lovecats. Yes, Paul - I totally buy the visual of you biting your lover while in the act.

Someone wash my mind’s eye with Clorox, please.

For those skeptics who think I am just criticizing based on what I perceive as bad ideas, think again. While I am never going to pony up the cash to buy these CDs, I did take the time to listen to samples online.

Paul is still in command of a great tenor voice, but again, Smells Like Teen Spirit was never intended for a swing remake, and Mr. Anka doesn’t have enough hair on his head for the original head banging version. My verdict? Sounds Like Pure Crap.

It makes me shudder to think who is in the studio right now, wearing leather Depends, too many gold chains and popping a combination of Viagra and Geritol full speed ahead ... Neil Sedaka singing Hoobastank covers? Johnny Mathis crooning Good Charlotte? How about Jim Nabors taking on the Foo Fighters?

In a word? FOO-ey.

Some songs/artists are not meant to be covered and Dave Grohl, if you’re listening, I know you can’t be thrilled about the Paul Anka thing, so I beg of you, please don’t ever sell out to Gomer Pyle.

Because if Kurt doesn’t haunt you already, he will surely rise from the grave over that one.

It Takes A Village To Raise The Idiots

I watch my neighbors.

No, not in a voyeuristic, peeping Tom kind of way.

I volunteer to collect their mail and newspapers when they go away. I ask after their health, congratulate them when new babies are born and know which newly divorced men are now dating embryos. I note suspicious cars, people, animals. And I’m always on the look out for strange activities in my neighborhood.

Basically, I’m Gladys Cravitz with better hair.

I’m especially observant when it comes to other people’s children because, well, so often they are not.

Now, that’s not to imply they are all bad parents, they most certainly are not. It’s just there are always instances, especially as kids get older, when they are unsupervised by their own Mom or Dad. School dances, bus stops, malls, etc.

I daresay most of us have children, whose asses we would kick into next week, if we were around to view all their antics.

That’s where I come in.

Now, I am not a fan of “Stand By Your Lying, Cheating, Lousy, Libido-laden Man” Hilary Clinton, but I do agree with her on one point. It does, indeed, take a village to raise an idiot - sorry, I mean a child.

I had the pleasure of injecting my nose and my wisdom into several young lives lately...

For almost a week, as I drove past a middle school bus stop, I watched in growing frustration and pissedness (don’t bother checking Webster’s - I made that word up) as a young group of male village idiots took turns running across the street as cars approached - playing sideways “chicken”, if you will. “How close can I come to getting my ass pureed by a minivan?”

By the 4th day of braking for their revelry and so as not to ruin my tires with imbedded human flesh, I’d had it.

To their surprise (I‘m fairly certain several of them sharted in their pants, laying down a skidmark rivaled only by the ones left by my tires), I slammed on my brakes in the middle of the street and got out of my van - stopping traffic in both directions for the show.

I let loose a four letter laden tirade of repudiation, retribution and reprimand that is still hanging in the air over that bus stop and causing pollution alerts on the evening news..

The looks on the faces of these kids was one I have seen all too often. They were shocked, sure, but it also was the look of kids who are completely unfamiliar with being called on the carpet for their actions...especially by an unrelated adult.

All five idiots retreated to their corner, tails firmly between their legs, not daring to utter a single word back at me - which would have been a nearly impossible feat anyway considering they were now all wearing their asses as hats.

The next day they were all staring at the sidewalk, no one setting a foot on the street. Now the addition of a police car adjacent to their bus stop may have had something to do with it (Of course I called the police. Their actions weren’t just stupid, they were dangerous.), but the game of chicken was never resumed and no one had to be removed from the pavement with a spatula.

My most recent contribution to the safety of my neighbor kids happened just 2 nights ago. I had gone to the pool with my daughters and noted that the only other people there were a boy and a girl - age 14 max.

It quickly became apparent by their actions (and the fact we don’t live in Appalachia) that they were not related. Lots of kissing, touching, bareback riding, etc.

I turned away from the teenage water follies to watch my own kids frolic and when I looked back, I noticed the synchronized sex swimmers were no where to be seen.

All their belongings, however, were.

That left only one option for their whereabouts - the pool bathroom.

As I was shaking my head and contemplating interrupting their Restroom Romp, a woman came to the pool gate and looked around. She then worriedly asked if I had seen her daughter and girlfriend - she went on to describe the young Lady Godiva who had been riding her boyfriend around the pool.

I delicately informed her that she was in the bathroom, however, her “girlfriend” only wore trunks and had an Adam’s Apple.

I smirked as she stampeded the bathroom, emerging holding her daughter by the upper arm and talking very low under her breath. They gathered her belongings and quickly left the pool. At this point Elvis left the building and slunked home on his skateboard.

I sat back and felt not a shred of remorse over the ass kicking that was surely taking place.  After all, I have a teenage daughter and certainly hope someone would be willing to tell me if she were not only lying to me, but getting jiggy in a pool bathroom.

Someone has to be willing to keep an eye open for errant, irresponsible, just plain stupid behavior. And I would rather have the kids dislike me a tad than get run over, knocked up, arrested or abducted.

Funny thing is though, they don’t avoid me, in fact they seek me out. I guess in their minds there is a certain coolness factor to any Mom willing to throw down an “F-bomb” in the middle of the street at 7 in the morning.

But what do they know? They’re all idiots.

When It Comes To Picking Greatest Americans, Pops is Tops

When Discovery Channel set out to rank and designate the Top 100 Greatest Americans of All Time, it wasn’t exactly a shocking piece of news.

We’re human beings. We thrive on grouping and rating everything we see. We flourish when we are able to assign numbers and grades, be it to movies, test scores, tennis shoes, diets, games, colas, sports, you name it.

Slap the words “Rated #1” or “1st Place” on anything from condoms to tampons to automobiles and you’re sure to sell more, to a wider variety of people, and at a higher price.

Don’t think so? Would you buy Grade D eggs for a souffle? Eat in a restaurant with a “C” health inspection sign on the door? Place your get-jiggy faith in condoms with a 60% rate of failure?

Of course not.

And so it seemed only natural that, given our need to number, Discovery Channel turned to the unwashed masses to nominate and then vote for the 100 Greatest Americans ... ever.

I stress the ever part. Ever includes a couple hundred+ years. Beginning with our founding fathers (George W) and running right up to our present day floundering fathers (George W), there are countless Americans who should have come to the mental fore when people were thinking of who to nominate.

Should have.

Unfortunately, we are a culture of short term memory freaks, fed a steady diet of constantly changing pop culture, which has essentially rendered us all, what is known in the neurological community as Shittius For Brainius.

Case in point: Oprah Winfrey ranks higher than does Thomas Jefferson in the poll.

Sure, Oprah is responsible for single handedly reviving chick lit - hell, if she went on her show and touted the writing on a package of Charmin, we’d all be reading toilet paper packaging while on vacation. But is she truly a greater American than one of the men responsible for the Declaration of Independence?

And what about Lance Armstrong cycling past Henry Ford? Fine, our one balled wonderboy Lance has won that damned bike race so many times they’ve renamed it the Tour de Lance, but have you looked on the roads lately? Alot more people are driving cars than riding bicycles...

Highlighting how completely ignorant of history and how ensconced we are in pop culture are the inclusion of names like these in the Top 100 Greatest Americans:

Michael Jackson: Yeah, boy. I put the invention of the Moonwalk right up there with the real thing, don’t you?

Ellen Degeneres: I love Ellen, but is bouncing back from coming out of the closet, truly the stuff heros are made out of? Then again, she totally made Finding Nemo.

Dr. Phil: Shit. Even he would examine our heads for including him in this list.

Toms Cruise & Hanks: If you count achieving Hollywood royalty status after beginning in such flicks as Losing It (Cruise) and in drag (Hanks), then yes, they are stellar examples of Great Americans.

How about these winners?

Rush Limbaugh: Yep, I look up to any loud mouthed, drug scandalled citizen, don‘t you? Pisses me off that Courtney Love isn’t on the list. What up?

Martha Stewart: Break the law, go to jail, knit a poncho, get a new TV show. Brings tears to my eyes...and makes me want to gouge said eyes out of my head with a kntting needle.

Laura & Barbara Bush?!?: For what? Enduring life with two of the most rogue cowboy presidents in US history? For making pearls fashionable again?

And what about Thing 1 and Thing 2? - sorry, both President Bushes? They both made the list, but then so did Madonna and Michael Moore.

But back to Oprah Winfrey (#9).

Fine - I realize she is basically worshipped by millions of women who need to be told what to do, think, feel and eat, and that she has built an empire that quite frankly scares the bejeesus out of most men, but does she truly deserve to fall so close in line behind Martin Luther King (#3), a man who unabashedly took on and changed the face of race relations in this country? Does losing and gaining hundreds of pounds and jetsetting from place to place really stand up to that kind of greatness?

I think not. But then again, Elvis and his Blue Suede Shoes are at #8, far ahead of The Wright Brothers (#23), so what do I know?

Not surprisingly, a president actually did take the top honors in the voting.

George Washington? Nope. Abraham Lincoln? Uh-uh. Bill Clinton?  Would not have surprised me, but No.  Try the last one to die - Ronald Reagan. He’s still the freshest in people’s minds when it comes to dead greatness.

Was he a Great American? Who knows. He certainly wasn’t the worst and after all, he did break the curse of presidents who die in office after being elected in years ending with a “0”.

Oh wait! He also introduced us to Jelly Belly jelly beans!

Forget what I was saying.

Don’t believe me? Try a Pina Colada flavored one. You’ll be singing the praises of the #1 Greatest American in no time.

Rest in peace, Ronny. You totally rocked.

(God, we're all pathetic.)

Would You Like Fries With Your Lawsuit?

As a parent I try daily to raise my children to be decent, moral, responsible people. And like millions of like-minded mothers and fathers, I know that their upbringing must include more than just "wash your hands", "don’t talk with your mouth full", "eat your vegetables" and "don’t run with scissors". It must include lessons of tolerance, respect and personal accountability - as in there are consequences for their actions.

Actions = Consequences. Simple. Even a three year old can be taught this principle and respect how it functions.

My daughters understand that should they decide to deceive, hit or steal, they in turn receive punishments that vary from time-outs to suspended privileges. If they do not do their homework, they in turn receive an "F". If they do not bring their dirty clothes to the laundry room, they cannot expect to be wearing clean underwear for very long. And if they cannot eat a decent dinner, they most certainly cannot expect any sort of dessert.

So if this basic tenet is so simple that even our youngest citizens comply, why is it then that the adults of this world are constantly bucking this system and undermining my teachings?

Case in point: Remember McDonald’s being sued for making people fat?

I truly thought we had reached an all-time low in victim mentality when the old woman sued and won over her coffee being hot and it having the audacity to burn her when she spilled it on herself.

I was wrong.

(Note to old lady and other's like her: Coffee is hot.  If you spill it on yourself it is because you are a clumsy ass.  Sue the person in your mirror.)

It must come as great relief to the millions of overweight, fast food chomping Americans that their ever expanding girth is not their fault. They have been unwitting pawns in a corporate game of Cheeseburger Chess.

And as for those elastic waisted pants they have been forced into wearing? I do believe there should be an accompanying lawsuit directed at the garment manufacturers of the world for their obvious lack of concern for the self esteem of the French Fry impaired. Honestly, I can’t believe that I ever allowed myself to feel an ounce of guilt, lo those many times I supersized untold ounces of deep fried delicacies. And how nice to know that should my children grow zaftig, it is neither their fault, nor mine, they are simply Happy Meal Handicapped.

Give me a break.

No, actually in defense of the Golden Arches, I must paraphrase their own slogan and say, "They deserve a break today."

Please tell me when, in the history of Ronald McDonald have they, or any fast food establishment, ever touted their core food menu as heart-healthy, well-balanced or waistline-friendly? Has it been some sort of State secret just now come to light that they deep fry? That chain stores don't exactly serve up ultra-lean Kobe beef on a their buns? That there are caloric consequences involved in Supersizing? No, No, and NO.

Open your fat eyelids and pay attention:  Milkshakes are made with fat, french fries are dunked in fat, hamburger is derived from one of the fatter animals in the meadow.  Those Krispy Kremes you like so much?  Look through that assembly line window next time - they are floating down a river of fat, not saltwater, and then running under a waterfall of sugar.   

What's next?  Let's all sue AMC and Cinemark because they operate under the guise of movie theater chain, when in effect they are really out to make our asses as wide as the screens we watch while piling handfuls of oily popcorn and Milk Duds in our mouths?  It's no wonder movie seats have taken on Barcalounger proportions - they are the only chairs we can still fit in.

These companies are not hiding their true agenda.  They are out to make a profit, selling as much as possible to a public that eats as much as possible.  One way they do that is by keeping costs down.  Fat is cheap, people.  That's why you can get a bag of oily Lay's for $2, but the same chip, baked, not fried costs $4.

Mickey D's could be serving you an low fat ostrich burger, but who is going to cough up the $10 for it?  (Did you see how many people just stuck their fat heads in the sand?)

The bottom line is that there has never been any deep, dark deception going on in the fast food fiefdom. 

What also is no secret is the fact that we are a society of lazy, unaccountable, irresponsible litigants, equally as hungry for a quarter million dollar lawsuit as we are for quarter pounder with cheese. Nothing is ever our fault. What a wonderful example being set for our kids. I suppose next we should sue the grocery stores because they actually stock their shelves with butter, Fritos and gasp! - Haagen-Daz!

My advice to these lawyers who are still attempting to bring suit on behalf of their hefty clientele?

Advise your doughy defendants to get off their supersized asscheeks and take a walk. Not to the nearest McDonald’s, but to the nearest mirror. Have them come face to face with their real problem - themselves. There is only one party responsible for their plight. They ordered the food. They shoved the fries in their mouth. They went back for more and more and more. They have become fat at their own hands. Their choice, their responsibility.

Actions = Consequences.

We teach it to our children. Maybe it’s time we grown-ups practice what we preach and spend more time supersizing our own accountability, not the elastic in our pants.

This Lady Is Full of Bullpit

I am often asked how I decide which topics I am going to write about. My answer is fairly simple, I don’t.

I admit I troll the news for ideas, even the underbelly where the weird stories hide, I watch CNN all day long and I read alot, but truth be told, it’s the story that picks me, not the other way around.

A story or report will strike a chord with me, either because of its level of absurdity (celebrities are great sources of material), its unique revelations (my unending thanks to all research scientists and those who provide their grant monies), or because it immediately pisses me off to such a large degree.

In all cases, given the proper motivation, the rant will simply flow out of me.

The story that caught my eye this morning, however, ripped at my guts in a way I have not experienced in a very long time.

The fact that it was about yet another pit bull mauling death was nothing new. Unfortunately, given the number of incredibly stupid people in the world, those stories appear all too frequently.

Even the fact that it happened to another child - a 12 year old boy this time - was not enough to make me sit down to type, only shake my head in sadness and frustration.

No, what lit the fire under my ass and typing fingers was a comment by the boy’s mother, Maureen Faibish, who is now being charged with child endangerment.

But allow me set up the story...

Not one, but two full grown pit bulls inhabit the Faibish household. That in itself qualifies Maureen for the Stupid Olympics. What brings her into gold medal contention is that by her own admission, she feared the damned dogs.

On the day of the attack, she actually shut her son, Nicholas, in the basement to keep the dogs away from him while she went shopping. It seems the female dog was in heat and the male was acting quite possessive.

Well, yeah.

I have seen the dynamics between my sister’s dogs - two grown Keeshonden - when the female is in heat. These are normally two happy, amiable, fun loving furballs, but when the pheremones are in the air, not only does she get massive PMS, the male gets downright moody and aggressive too.

Nothing like unfulfilled horniness to drive a man to distraction, right?

Unfortunately, even with the admonishment to stay in the basement (why the hell didn’t she take him with her?), Nicholas apparently went upstairs and met a brutal, horrific death at the paws and teeth of the dogs. Mama Faibish returned to find his mauled, bloody body, complete with a massive head injury, in a bedroom.

Of course, like all ignorant owners of these pieces of muscle with teeth, she defended the damned dogs, “My kids got along great with the dogs. We were never seeing any kind of violent tendencies.”

The comment that came next is what fills me with fury.

In an interview with the local newspaper, she is quoted as saying, “It’s Nicky’s time to go. When you’re born you’re destined to go and this was his time.”

Someone pick up a shovel and hit her in the head - surely it must be her time to go too.

No, Mrs. Faibish, it was not his time to go. No one on high preordained that this innocent child would be left alone with two vicious animals and eaten to death. There was no higher power at work when his head and neck were ripped open and his life flowed out on to the floor.

This was ignorance. This was neglect. This was a perfect example of why stupid people should not be allowed to procreate.

I have often said it is people like her that take up the oxygen we decent people need. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the stupid people aren‘t getting enough oxygen.

No one needs a pit bull. They are like sharks who live on land and the reports of these types of deaths happen all too frequently. My own brother owns one, named Precious of all things, and he has three young children. He steadfastly refuses to put their safety over that dog and get rid of it. It will break my heart, but not surprise me should one of its ball bearings finally slip, it turns on one of the kids and he and his wife face a TV camera and say, “She was always such a good family dog. Would never hurt a fly.”

Every child deserves more than being saddled with adults who derive some macho thrill or misplaced dog love by owning or breeding one or more of these animals.

It is one species that deserves to go extinct.

No, make that two. Stupid people come in second.

Anyone have a shovel I can borrow?

Much "I Do" About Nothing

You may have noticed, that missing from my daily rants on current events, was a single word written about Jennifer Wilbanks.

Dubbed the Runaway Bride by a voracious media that turned her disappearance into a three ring circus (as opposed to the two ring circus on her face), I simply refused, on principle, to add to the hooha.

After all, an average of 2,000 women and children were reported missing that same day across the United States. Where was their national coverage? Where was the media village set up in their town? Where were their photos, staring out at us from every news broadcast?

Sorry folks. But little Johnny, snatched in Butthole, Iowa, was just too ugly to make the nightly news. Besides, he wasn't getting married within four days of his disappearance either.

Oh, and he wasn't rich.

And so the lemming public's peepers followed where they were led - right into the toilet bowls of Jennifer Wilbanks eyes.

I swear, if anyone who saw that photo didn't hear it screaming "WACKJOB!", they must be deaf.

Of course, we all know now that Miss Congeniality had flew over the cuckoo's nest of her own accord.

The pressures of a grand, 600 guest wedding, footed by Daddy no less, were just too much for her to handle. That, and as she told FBI agents, she "feared she could not be the perfect wife."

Well, who the hell can, Jennifer? We all do the best we can. And as for that wedding? Most people scrimp and save, and stress over how little wedding they can afford.

She also said, in an NBC interview, that the night she fled, she was suicidal.

"I had a bottle of pills or I had a bus ticket."

Uh - No, Jenny. You also had the option of staying on the block and telling your poor fiance, Mason, that you simply were not ready.

But I guess you figured actions speak louder than words, huh?

Listen, if your actions haven't told him to run far and fast, he deserves no further sympathy from the public.

This "little girl lost", whose Mommy still did all her banking for her, continues to maintain she did nothing wrong by “just disappearing”.

Ask around Sybil - you did a lot wrong. Topping the list is scaring the shit out of every person who cares about you. A close second is the amount of money wasted trying to locate your vacant, self involved ass.

Details of her trek, still emerging, include some insightful tidbits. They offer a look behind the satellite dish eyeballs to the marble rattling around her skull.

With $200 cobbled together from a cell phone rebate check and an old credit union account, she then used her ATM card on the night she disappeared.

Even my 8 year old knows the bank keeps a record of when and where you use the machine. And $40? If I were heading out on an indeterminate journey, I’d max that withdrawal puppy out.

So...after leaving a record of her activities, she dared not use the card again because “my mother would be able to track me down.”

And kick your ass, I hope.

Then Miss Pampered discovered - SHOCK! - that the Greyhound Bus Line doesn’t exactly dock at Monte Carlo, Cannes or the French Riviera, but rather at unsavory, unglamorous places like the Burger King in Shreveport. She soon realized she felt safer on the bus than off, thus abandoning her plan to take up residence in Austin, Texas, which she picked because - are you ready? - Matthew McConaughey is from there and said in an interview that it was a nice place.

Matthew McConaughey? The dude is routinely arrested for playing the bongos in the nude. I don’t think I’d turn to him for life guidance.

So onward she went, to Las Vegas, only to discover she could not stay at a HoJo’s, much less the Bellagio - she only had $80 left.

But wait!, she thought. Didn’t I see a street full of motels in Albuquerque? Yes! I’ll go back there!

And so she used $76 of her $80 to go back to New Mexico.

She then instructed an Albuquerque cab driver to take her to a hotel where she had a travel coupon for a $19.99 per night room.

Obviously, math was not Jennifer’s major in college.

The cabdriver, not familiar with Jenny’s “new math”, dropped her after $4 worth of ride and thus she ended up on the phone to Mason, crying Help! Rape! Kidnap!

Again, words Mason probably should have been screaming all along during their relationship.

Weeks later, she has paid back $15,799 of the nearly 50 grand wasted on her search. Don’t ask me how the court arrived at that number - I imagine they employed Jennifer’s math skills.

And now, like all unworthy insta-celebrity wackjobs, she has a book and movie deal to tell her story.

I swear, it is that kind of injustice that makes people like me, who try very hard to make a name for themselves honestly, crazy.

It might not make me run out and buy a ticket on Greyhound, but it’s sure enough to make me throw myself under the bus.

Wanna Fake An Orgasm? Don't Date A Neurologist

As long as there has been sex, there has existed the fake orgasm. 

Whether employed by women wanting to make their man feel manly, or pulled out and paraded when a women simply wants the event over with so she can return to watching Desperate Housewives, the fake orgasm has endured for centuries.

In the hands of the proper thespian, it is truly an artform, worthy of its own Oscar category.

Can men tell they are being duped? 

Well, ask any man and they will swear it has never happened to them.  (Of course not, sweetie).  But ask any woman and she will tell you she has faked more often than an international counterfeiter.  You do the math.

Men are not that enlightened as to how we work anyway, requiring patience, guidance, manuals and taxiway lights to guide them.  So it is not difficult to ooo and ahh in such a way that he thinks he has hit a homerun when in reality he has totally struck out.

Well, apparently this deception (or talent, depending on how you look at it) needed exploration, so leave it to a bunch of guys who haven't had a decent lay in their lives, university scientists, to set up a study of the fake orgasm.

Yes, Researchers at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands, have conducted a neurological study and found that they are able to detect a fake orgasm from the real deal, based on brain function.

With the help of participants, 13 women and 11 men (apparently a couple men volunteered twice?), who obviously have no compunction about doing the deed with electrodes strapped to their heads - God love those swingin' Netherlanders - they were able to determine that different areas of the brain respond in wildly different ways depending on the true intensity of the sex taking place.

It seems that when in the actuals throes of the Big O, the brain's fear and emotion centers shut down.  Well, that would make sense, wouldn't it?  Personally if my fear center were on alert, I doubt having an orgasm would be at the top of my list.  Shitting my pants, however, just might be.

They also found that the cortex, responsible for consciousness, becomes fairly inactive during passion's peak.  Well, yeah.  A solid orgasm will put anyone under the couch.

But apparently, when these same women were only putting on a good show, all those areas of the brain remained awake, up, and alert.  Again, duh.  You cannot channel Ethel Barrymore without every one of your faculties up and running.  You'll never win the Oscar for sleepwalking through your performance.

Ironically, the study showed that the men's brains didn't vary much at all when having the real deal.  All areas functioned, which only goes to prove what we women have long suspected ... they ARE thinking about work, football scores, cars and food during sex.

More studies are planned by the research team.  I bet. They are interested in further comparing the male and female brains during orgasm.  Uh-huh.  I have no doubt that those 11 men will be the first to sign up.

In the meantime, I guess what this means for women is simple.  Next time you're looking to hook up, make sure the guy isn't Dr. Sanjay Gupta from CNN - those neurosurgeons may not have sex toys in the bedside drawer, but I bet from now on they'll have electrodes.

Jeb Bush: The Emeril Lagasse of Politics

What is one to do when they wind up with an enormous amount of egg on their face?

Apply your own hot air and create a political souffle', of course.

And Governor Jeb Bush is cooking full speed ahead. In fact, he is spinning these particular eggs with such aplomb and flair, one could easily mistake him for a contestant on the Food Network’s Search For A New Food Star.

The eggs to which I am referring are the ones falling out of Terri Schiavo’s autopsy. The ones that indicate everyone else was wrong and that her husband, Michael, had been right. The ones that are cracked and oozing such golden tidbits as, “no amount of therapy would have ever changed her condition”, “all results indicative of persistent vegetative state” and “no evidence of prior abuse”.

But old Jeb, in the grand tradition of all Bushmen, is continuing to create drama where there is none.

He is now calling for an inquiry into the 911 phone call placed by Michael following Terri’s collapse FIFTEEN YEARS AGO.

FIFTEEN. YEARS. AGO.

Yes, I realize that from a judicial standpoint, we have turned into a nation of grave robbers, digging up every questionable dead body in order to apply new millennium technology to their cases. I’m fine with that, I get it. DNA testing, the growing calling card of definitive guilt, was not available thirty years ago.

But this fax to the Florida prosecutors is based on a discrepancy in time only.

Apparently, Jeb, at the continued nudging of Terri’s parents, thinks there is some smoking gun in the timeline of Terri’s collapse and the time the call was made by Michael to authorities. Micheal himself has said repeatedly that the morning was a blur and he cannot be sure of the exact moment his life changed forever.

Quite frankly, if your spouse collapsed, would you be concerned with noting the time or would your efforts all be on reviving and calling for help? I certainly hope it’s the latter.

For that matter, can you tell me exactly what time you went to the bathroom this morning?  Brushed your teeth?  Ate your breakfast?

No, you cannot.

Even doctors are saying this is ludicrous. And that if Michael had not gotten her help immediately, regardless of the exact time of the collapse, Terri would have died, period.

The bottom line is that there was not a single shred of trauma to Terri’s body when she was taken to the original ER fifteen years ago. They look for that. And her autopsy shows there is not a single sign that she had ever been abused.

Why then do her parents and soon to be presidential candidate Jeb Bush, refuse to let this case die along with Terri?

Her parents need to get on with life. Cling to the happy memories of their daughter and move forward. As it stands, they are determined to continue to spin their wheels in a moment 15 years ago that they refuse to accept.

As for Jeb? Get busy on real problems in your state, sir. Terri is dead, but there are hundreds of children needing your time and attention. Your state turns up on CNN almost weekly with a new child-sex abduction. Your Child Protective Services is shameful, with hundreds of children unaccounted for.  You lead the pack with illegal immigration.

But no. You seem to see political windfall in continuing to bang the Terri Schiavo drum.

I have news for you. No one cares. All those people who picketed and phoned your office at the beginning of the year? They went home. They got on with their lives. They don’t care anymore.

The country is tired of seeing this poor woman dragged through the media and so many politicians willing to stand on her grave for their own gain. Terri has become a means to an end.

What end?

Right now, I’d say a political souffle' the size of Jeb’s homestate of Texas.  Unfortunately, someone is going to eventually slam the prosecutorial oven and it is going to fall.

Personally?  I just think someone needs to smack Jeb Bush upside his stupid, presumptive, privileged, interferring, slick manuevering, puffed up head, and I would be happy to do the honors. 

As Emeril would say, BAM!

Terri’s Gone - Let This Case Die Too

So much for all the grassy knoll-conspiracy theorists out there - you know who you are - the people who were spreading rumor like fertilizer two days after Terri Schiavo’s passing. Pure manure that her autopsy showed multiple healed bone fractures, et al, when the autopsy had yet to even be started.

Today’s release of the true autopsy findings showed - gasp! - no bone fractures, no signs of abuse, she was not starved to death - she dehydrated - and a brain that was ½ the expected weight and seriously atrophied to the point that Terri was, in fact, BLIND.

What? No drugs had been given to hasten her death either? But all those people said they had been!

I have news for you - all those people - and again, you know who you are - did exactly what I predicted they would do when Terri’s body finally ceased functioning - they ceased functioning too. All the chest beating, teeth gnashing, wailing people went back to their little lives and have not been heard from since.

They did not march on Capitol Hill. They did not caravan to the next nursing home and begin to protest on behalf of someone in Terri’s exact same circumstances - and there are many.

No, if you autopsied their behavior, you would find an unfortunately chronic condition called “ButtinwhereitisnoneofmybusinessbutIwanttomakeitmybusiness becauseWowisn’titfuntobepartofsuchabiggroupandmaybe  CNNwillinterviewme!”

The problem is, like hemorrhoids, you never know when the condition is going to flare up and cause extreme personal discomfort.

But back to the real autopsy...

While there is no way to conclusively determine if Terri suffered from an eating disorder prior to her collapse (advances in testing have morphed lightyears in the 15 since), the doctors who released their findings support the diagnosis that she was in a “persistent vegetative state”. They went on to state unequivocally that no amount of therapy would have ever made her recover - Terri was gone, period.

And yes, I realize that hope springs eternal, miracles do happen, yada, blah, yada, blah, but Terri did not ever want to be kept around just because she could.

Why people could not allow that maybe, just maybe, Michael Schiavo actually did have prior conversations - however casual - about what ifs with Terri, is beyond me. I talk about a gazillion things with my husband that I don’t talk about with other people. Does that make the conversations less real?

If a conversation falls out of our mouths in a forest and the National Enquirer is not around to chronicle it, did we actually make any noise at all?

I stated this during the height of the protesting and absurd Presidential interference in the Schiavo case, and I stand by it today: You all know damned well that if anyone butted into your personal affairs, whether it is when you can fish vs spend time with your family, whether you can wear tampons vs pads, told you that you can’t spank your kids, can’t drink beer on a weeknight, must watch ten hours of PBS a week, must give 25% of your income to Dogs Without Borders, what kind of mouthwash you can use, or whether or not you can let a loved one pass away - you would all scream like banshees that it is nobody’s business but YOURS and to get the F**K away.

The autopsy has been released. Read it, shut up, slink back behind your grassy knolls and pray that the next public flare up of “ButtinwhereitisnoneofmybusinessbutIwanttomakeitmybusiness becauseWowisn’titfuntobepartofsuchabiggroupandmaybe  CNNwillinterviewme!” doesn’t happen to you.

War Of The Words: Talking With Your Child About The State of the World

Terror Alerts. Suicide bombers. Nuclear weapons. Military Death Toll. Saddam Hussein. Osama Bin Laden. War in Iraq. No matter where you turn, these words are bound to be lurking.

Whether on the front page of the paper, in the deep baritone of Tom Brokaw, on your monitor when you go online, or around the water cooler at work, the state of the world is front and center. And when you consider the current threats being made to our way of life and our, well ... life in general, this is as it should be.

We are afraid, and as discomforting as the information may be, information empowers us and eases our fear of the unknown.

The same holds true for our children. And we need to be open to discussing the state of the world with them.

Our children?!? But I don’t want to scare them!,

you say? They don’t need to know about all this!, you retort.

I have news for you. They know. They talk about it, even if you don’t. The playground is a child’s version of the office water cooler, and world events are at the "top of the monkey bars" as far as schoolyard banter goes.

Children as young as five are very aware of the increased stress in their parents’ demeanor. They hear the evening news reports, they can make out the headlines on the newspaper.

Go up a few grades and those children are reading the front page and the pages that follow.

Wander into a teen chat room and you are as likely to find an international debate on world leaders, politics and war, as you are a mindless discourse on the latest fashions, CDs and reality TV shows.

Kids are talking, and one thing they keep saying is that the grown-ups in their lives are not.

Complaints I hear range from a six year old who practically begged me to explain why her Uncle was sent off to the Middle East, to a ten year old who exasperatingly told me how she had tried to talk to her parents about the war in Iraq and they just told her "it was nothing for her to worry about", and the fourteen year old who stated simply that she interprets her parents’ silence to mean they "just don’t care."

It would seem, as with the infamous "sex talk", many parents are falling into the "if-I-don’t-acknowledge-it-to-my-child,-they-won’t-know-about-it" camp.

And I understand . . . to a point.

Like any parent, my husband and I fight daily to preserve our children’s innocence. Kids grow up all too soon, encouraged to do so by the industries of fashion, music, movies and television.

Innuendo, a word I could not even spell in high school, is now foisted upon, and understood by, kids still in grammar school. And while we make our attempts to shelter them from sexual lyrics, violent video games and crass reality TV, it is time we accept the fact that in one arena of their lives, information is power and ignorance is not bliss.

Many parents kept 9/11 away from their children - a feat at which I still marvel. Afraid of exposing the kids - regardless of age - to the horrors of man’s inhumanity to man, they managed to insulate their children from the endless onslaught of media. When Elizabeth Smart and Danielle Van Damme disappeared from their beds, they refused to discuss the abductions, not wanting to risk nightmares, convinced they were doing the right thing.

But the best of intentions are seriously going awry.

When a serious event takes place, whether locally or on the world stage, even if you don’t acknowledge it to your children, chances are they will find out.

And your silence is as frightening as it is confusing.

Children of all ages are remarkably insightful, and possessed of a compassion that belies their youth. They are also incredibly imaginative and the questions they allow to form in their minds are far more frightening than the factual information you could provide them.

Let’s face it, the world around us is not the world in which we envisioned our children would be raised. And these discussions? Unpalatable at best. Sure, we pictured talking about wars, inhumanity, human suffering - when they studied these things in History class. But our children are living history class right now.

We can no longer afford to insulate, isolate or shelter the world’s children from the fact that there are very bad people who do very bad things. We teach them math, we teach them spelling, we teach them manners and hygiene. We must now be willing to teach them reality.

Talk about current events at dinner. Sit around the fireplace and let them ask their questions. Allow them to watch the news with you. And to the best of your ability, give them answers. Empower them. They can handle it.

And one last thing: There will be times when you may have to admit that you just "don’t know". That’s ok, too. When the words won’t come or the answers are out of reach, pull your child close.

Sometimes a simple hug can provide the security that a million answers never will.