Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

African Refugees: Literally Starved For Attention

I did something very simple, yet quite drastic today. 

Upon seeing one of my children stare into a full pantry and again bemoan, "I'm starving and there's nothing to eat.", I went to my computer and printed out a recent picture of starving children in one of Africa's refugee camps and stuck it on the pantry.  I added one to the refrigerator door for good measure.  Under the photos, I added the words, I am starving.  You are not.

Judging by the look in my own kids' eyes, I may have gotten my message across. 

I wish it were that easy to affect the rest of the world.

Right now, as I type, as you read, exists in Dafur, Africa what the UN is calling the "the worst humanitarian crisis in the world".  Tens of thousands of victims of attempted ethnic cleansing, living in refugee camps, literally starving to death every single second.  In fact, in the time it took me to type that sentence, ten more innocent children have lost their lives to hunger and/or disease.

It is not enough that they have seen horrors we cannot even begin to imagine: rapes, mutilations, mothers and fathers massacred before their precious eyes, their homes burned down around them.  They now face an even more horrible reality: a world so busy supersizing its Big Macs and listening to its iPods, that no one seems to care. 

It is shameful that the largest amount of news coverage Africa has received in the past month has to do with Angelina Jolie adopting a baby girl from there.

Ask the typical person on the street and they can tell you her name is Zahara.  They can tell you all the details of her private jet trip to the United States and her weeklong hospitalization with Jolie by her side.  They will go on to tell you how Brad Pitt caught meningitis when he was there.

But ask them about Dafur and you'll draw a blank stare.

Are we truly that warped in our priorities?  Don't answer, it's a rhetorical question.  Of course we are.  I've said it before, proximity to an awful event is in direct proportion to how much a person cares.  And Dafur is halfway around the world.  You do the math.

The UN has finally begun to mobilize and coordinate airlifts of food and medicine, but it is sadly coming in too little and far too late.  The people are dying every single second.  The children scream constantly from a hunger so strong they can feel their bodies digesting themselves.  And for every child that is allowed to slip away, a mother takes up the wailing - her own hunger now compounded by unspeakable grief.

I understand the world is full of strife, terror and problems of unfathomable magnitude.   I understand that conflicts and killings go on in every society.  But I also understand that in a world so bloated by its own indulgence, no one needs to starve.

If 911 and the recent terror bombings in London have not illustrated for people that tragedy is an equal opportunity employer and that "they" today could just as easily be "you" tomorrow, I don't know what will.

One thing I am certain of, however, is this.  These people cannot be left to die because we are too busy watching HBO and playing Xbox.  It's not like we're talking about a cancer we cannot cure.  The solution to starvation is not rocket science.   It is food.  The solution to disease is medicine.  We have it, they need it.  The fact that they are thousands of miles away from us doesn't matter.  They are people.  They are YOU.  They are ME.  They are made of the same flesh, blood, tears, joys, sorrows and capacity to love and hate. 

I urge everyone to start paying attention and help.  Give to Unicef.  Www.unicef.org.  Skip your latte, pack your lunch, and send what you can. 

And while you're at it, print out a picture for your own refrigerator.  Because maybe, just maybe, the solution to apathy and distorted priorities lies in facing the simple, heartbreaking photo of a dying child each time you are tempted to look into your own larder and say, "I'm starving."

This Study Stinks

Someone tell me why, WHY?, am I still constantly surprised by the type of research studies being conducted with my tax dollars via government grants?

You would think after years of watching scientists and university researchers receive money to study everything from the sex life of the gnat to the sex life of the nattily dressed, one more strange and worthless study wouldn’t even register on my incredulity meter.

But just this week, two have managed to do some Richter level damage to my tolerance yet again.

The first? A study to determine the lifespan of stressed out vs. mellow worms. Yes, worms. I honestly could care less how long they live, however, I admit my curiosity is piqued as to just how one stresses out a worm? Show it a fishhook?  Personally, I’d rather see my tax dollars used to figure out why, after a good rain, my sidewalk looks like a cement hamburger covered with grilled onions?

But onto the 2nd study...

It seems that, in an attempt to properly identify and place blame for, the insane amount of pollution gases hanging in the air over some parts of California, University of California researchers have set out to answer that age old question - “Just how much gas does a cow produce anyway?”

(This is apparently an age old question among scientists, not people like you and me, who have lives.)

Yes, Bessie is under the gun and her fartage is being scientifically measured.

Udderly ridiculous, you say? Now, now, before you, too, sprain an eyeball over this one, let me explain their thought process...

With nearly 3 million cows in California, the majority grazing in the Central Valley (home to the state’s most polluted air), scientists believe it is vital they pin down just how much of the volatile organic compounds (VOCs) that hang in the air owe to the bovines vs. the BMWs.

This is important because on August 1st the San Joaquin Valley Air Pollution Control District will announce its new emissions factor for cows- the amount of VOCs, in pounds, that a cow releases each year.

Emission factors for cows. I’ll pause while you card catalog this new knowledge in your mental library.

Researchers defend their study because the number will eventually determine which dairies must apply for air quality permits and invest in mitigating air pollution equipment.

Catalytic Converters for cows? Now there’s an avenue Henry Ford never envisioned driving down.

Frank Mitloehner, the head of the study, says he just wants to make sure the new number is based on science. The current emission number of 12.8 pounds of VOCs per cow, per year, is woefully out of date - a number set in 1938. Just curious, how did they determine this back then? Stand behind the cows with a Mason jar?

The 2005 study is, of course, much more high tech. Mitloehner and his team have built a highly controlled environment, replicating normal dairy conditions, inside a “bio-bubble”. The “guinea cows” go about their routine, eating, regurgitating, manuring and farting, while scientists use expensive equipment that can detect a single fart molecule in a trillion clean air molecules.

Whoa.

Fine, I realize this all somehow translates into a dollar amount that will impact dairy owners and ultimately my gallon of moo juice, but I really think they are studying the wrong animals.

I have a better idea.

There are only 3 million cows in California, but nearly 17 million men. Turn that fart detector on them and who knows? We may just be able to figure out how the hole in the ozone got there to begin with.

Anyone know how to write a grant?

You’ll Get A “Kick” Out Of This

I’m all for personal civil liberties. I believe people should be able to come and go, laugh and cry, eat and sleep, love and hate, live and die, as they choose, provided they are not stepping on someone else’s toes in the process.

For instance, if you prefer to worship dung beetles during total eclipses while wearing a tunic made out of toilet paper, more power to you. Just don’t demand that I do the same. (I prefer my tunics to be a flowy rayon/poly blend.)

I even cut the planet’s new resident wackjob, Tom Cruise, some slack. I don’t care that he embraces Scientology, that’s his choice. I don’t even care that he goes on Oprah and dry humps her couch over new love Katie Holmes. However, when he uses his high school drop-out education to publicly lecture and lambaste the masses about subjects he will never personally have any knowledge of - like post-partum depression or stretchmarks - I draw the line. Shut up and suck on Katie’s face some more - we’re tired of hearing you ramble.

Anyway, my point is this: If it’s not hurting anyone, the rest of us really don’t need to understand.

And so, on the wings of that brilliant statement (feel free to embroider it on a dishtowel or Tom Cruise‘s forehead), we arrive at today’s candidate for “Live and Let Live”: Ezekiel Rubottom of Lawrence, Kansas.

It seems Rubottom, an artist and recovering meth addict has suffered, all his life, with the physical limitations and problems of being born with a clubbed foot. This past year, his ailments, from pressure sores to minor infections culminated in an infection so severe, doctors had no choice but to amputate Ezekiel’s foot.

His story might have ended right there, fading into rehabilitation oblivion, however, Ezekiel declared eminent domain over his body parts and decided to keep his tootsie as a souvenir.

Yes, I realize most people just take their water pitcher or bedpan home as a memento of their hospital stay. What can I say? Ezekiel is a unique individual (read: brain curdled crackhead).

So home he went, one foot on his leg, one foot in a bucket of formaldehyde.

Unfortunately, he kept it on his front porch for all to view and some children got seriously freaked out by his “welcome mat”. Police, concerned a crime may have been committed, confiscated the ped until they could track Ezekiel down.

When he finally surfaced, demanding his foot back, police escorted him back to the hospital where doctors and administration backed up his story and his rights to keep the foot.

Karen Shumate, a vice president at the hospital, said people can keep parts removed from their bodies if they want them. “They've had women that want their uterus,'' she said. “People take tonsils. They take appendixes. I think it's unusual that someone would want a foot, but it's within their rights because it's theirs.“

And so police, admittedly more than a little bemused, drove Rubottom and this severed foot back home to live apart, yet together, happily ever after. (He has since added a porcelain horse and a can of beer to the bucket, creating as he calls it, “A collage of myself”. He has also cut off two of the toes and is considering giving them to friends. )

Um...yeah.

OK, ok, so I admit, I don’t understand wanting to keep a severed body part, but again, it is his choice to do so and I am not required to understand.

I would, however, like to go on the record right now, and say to my family, friends and acquaintances: Should you ever decide to go Ezekiel’s route and keep a disconnected piece of your body, I will support your decision, but if you dare stick a finger, toe, or ovary in my Christmas card, I will cut off my own foot and plant it solidly in your ass.

“Cool Mom” In Hot Water

It’s not unusual for a parent to do almost anything to stay connected to their child as they enter the teenage years, those days of a kid’s life when they begin to distance themselves and live behind a closed bedroom door. Just as puberty arrives on the waves of a hormone laden tsunami and they need life support the most, teens tend to turn away from helping hands, choosing to flail and flounder in a sea of scary choices rather than hold onto their parents for dear life.

Of course, it’s a normal and to-be-expected rite of passage, and the majority of kids come through, while not quite unscathed, at least in one piece and a little wiser for the wear. Others, however, don’t just turn away from their parents out of instinct, but because Mom and Dad are fairly worthless parental figures to begin with - closed off, judgmental, unfair, etc. These parents are their own worst enemies and will never acknowledge the part they play in their child’s downfalls.

So, given the challenges of parenting a child through today’s potholes and minefields of trouble, I generally applaud any Mom or Dad who manages to maintain a healthy relationship with their offspring.

Healthy, being today’s operative word.

A word with which Silvia Johnson, 40, of Golden, Colorado, is apparently not acquainted.

It seems dear Silvia, desperate to stay connected to her son and be considered a “cool Mom” (her own description), not only hosted weekly parties for her child and his posse, but supplied drugs and alcohol for them as well.

Now while that, in itself, is unfortunately a fairly common occurrence in 2005 (many parents believe they can somehow control things if they allow them to happen under their own roof), uber-Mom Johnson decided to one-up all the other “cool” parents in the world and passed herself around as a human appetizer of sorts, having sex with any hungry boy who asked.

And as teen boys tend to be particularly ravenous, not just when the refrigerator door is open either, this went on for a solid year.

Yes, that’s right, a year of this Booty Bacchanal, wherein she reigned as Her Highness of Horniness.

Her monarchy crumbled, however, when one of the boys, while conversing with his own mother, let it slip that he had been allowed to “let it slip” for almost 365 days. And this mother, not obsessed with being cool, quickly became hot under collar and sicced the police onto Silvia.

She was arrested and is charged with two misdemeanor counts of sexual assault and nine felony counts of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. As part of a plea agreement, prosecutors dropped two counts of distribution of methamphetamine. She now faces up to 58 years and a $500,000 fine.

Now while this story, in itself, takes parenting to an all-time pathetic low, Silvia actually manages to dig her grave a little deeper. Her defense? She “was never popular with classmates in high school and (had) now begun 'feeling like one of the group.”

Oh well then, that’s makes it all better Sil.

Give me a break. You’re not popular in high school, so sleeping with your son’s friends is justifiable because you’ve always dreamed of being a part of a clique?

Grow up. Move on. Transcend. If nothing else, buy a wheeled cart for all your emotional baggage - it won’t be as heavy to drag.

It remains to be seen what verdict and punishment will be laid out by the penal system for her, well, laying out her own penal system - ahem - but one can only hope she serves as cautionary tale for other parents who misguidedly think “cool” and criminal are interchangeable words.

Your kids need honesty. Your kids need open lines of communication. Your kids need love. Your kids need consistency and consequences for their actions. Most of all, your kids need to know that when they screw around, you will be there to bail them out.

I guess Silvia had that last one backwards, huh?

No If or Ands, Lots of Butts However

I’m all for cosmetic enhancements. From mascara to liposuction, I believe if it makes you feel better about YOU (and is relatively safe) - more power to YOU. In fact, I am no stranger to the plastic surgeon’s and cosmetologist’s offices, having revived my boobs, once sucked dry and left for dead by three children, and a devotee of the Botox needle, not to mention the standing appointment I have for Mystic tanning.

It’s about me. It’s for me.

So when I hear about people getting permanent eyeliner, butt implants or having the follicles fried out of their skin - I get it. I even get procedures like vaginal rejuvenation and penis girthitation (don’t look in Webster’s, I made it up), I may roll my eyes a tad, but I understand it is their choice and their self esteem involved.

The following (thanks to my fabulous friend Brian for the heads-up), however, knocked me on my ass - which is ironic considering the subject matter.

It seems that the search for aesthetic perfection is now boldly going where only Brazilians have gone before . . . the Black Hole of anatomy as it were.

Yes, my friends, it is now possible to bleach one’s anus, eradicating years of use and stainage, making it look like the driven snow, not snow that has been driven through.

And let’s face it, it ain’t called The Dirt Road for nothing.

I’ll be honest, this I don’t get, especially the part about it becoming an increasingly popular procedure. Then again, I can‘t say I have ever taken a mirror to the area either, butt then neither do I have a predisposal to grab my ankles and greet people with one eye.

I prefer a handshake and a smile, thankyouverymuch.

The procedure involves a few steps, the first being to check your modesty at the front door.

Next, staring at the ceiling, legs on either side of your head (think pelvic exam gone wild), the ... ahem... area, is waxed.

Anyone else just feel a pucker?

Once the area is smooth and clean, anal bleaching cream is applied. Now, as we are typically talking about making a Michael Jackson leap in pigmentation eradication, one application will not deliver the desired hue. You are sent home with a jar of the cream, a brush and instructions to apply it each night until your anus transforms from MJ - circa Off The Wall to MJ - circa Man In The Mirror.

Should you experience any burning or discomfort (God help you if have a sudden hemorrhoid pop up) you are advised to decrease/discontinue use.

Now, I would hope that is just plain common sense, but then people these days endlessly whiten their teeth to the point of exposing nerves, so maybe the warning is needed.

The genesis of the butt bleaching can be traced back to the Adams and Eves of the porn industry - folks who wear their hearts, breasts, testicles and yes, their anuses on their sleeves for all to see.

OK, so maybe I get it a little. I mean, if I regarded “it” as a tool of my trade, then I suppose I could see wanting the Paris Hilton of a-holes, but as I consider mine to be utilitarian in nature, I guess I view good hygiene as an adequate “enhancer”.

Butt - I realize I am only speaking for myself. Should yours enjoy more recreational use than an RV full of AARP members, and this article sends a wild hair up your ... well, you know ... I am happy to point you towards Google with the search words “Pink Cheeks Amazing Anal Bleaching Cream”.

Just don’t invite me to look at your before/after photos.

I can promise you I won't R.ASS.V.P.

Splendor In The Grass?

"Honey," hollered my husband from our deck (for the third time in as many days), "can you come look at the grass? I think it is getting greener." And for the third time in three days, I feigned interest and assured him that the color was indeed "deepening from lime to forest green, dear."

While he stood there beaming as if he had wrought a miracle, I walked away shaking my head and pondering the question that has plagued women for ages.

Since Adam spied the first blade in the Garden of Eden and quickly lost interest in Eve's nudity in favor of weeding and fertilizing, we have all asked, "What is it with men and their grass?"

As if their virility is measured on a spectrum of green, men sweat, labor, swear and rejoice over their lawns. Seeding, weeding, trimming, mowing, I swear if the Grass Decathlon were an Olympic sport, I know many men who would be leaving for Scott's training camp, a duffel bag on one shoulder and a bag of Turfbuilder on the other.

Much like a sport, it is both a passion and an obsession.

Several summers back, my husband was so possessed by a bad run of weeds that had somehow taken over our yard, that he literally spent two hours every night, for weeks, on his knees, meticulously picking each one. His friends, who stood around clutching their beers and praising his tenacity, dubbed him The King of Weeds. We women simply stood in the distance and referred to him as "Idiot".

And it is not as if I am having to deal with this just since marrying my husband, NOOOO. I grew up with a father to whom "weed" was literally a four letter word. Use it around him and you stood the chance of having your mouth washed out with Miracle Gro. Much like a mood ring, we quickly learned to read his emotional state by the color of the grass. Deep, vibrant hues, the color of an Irish landscape, he was happy, peaceful, approachable for your allowance. Pale yellow to light green, steer clear of him or risk being caught in his emotional weedwacker.

We grew up unable to play in the yard on Sunday evenings, regardless of the weather, because in a ritual akin to baptism, he lovingly hosed it with the holy waters of Weed and Feed. Now that I am an adult, I know that while it is not recommended that you walk barefoot through chemical fertilizer, it will not, and I quote, "eat your tennis shoe and foot right off your leg!"

I have lost count of the number of peaceful Saturday mornings perverted by the drone of every man in the neighborhood revving their lawn mowers the way Andretti and Unser do their cars as they take their positions in the Indy 500. What follows is almost comical to watch. Who will choose the basic back and forth cut? Ahhh, I see Joe is going for the aesthetically pleasing diagonal! And look! Is it . . . yes, I do believe Rudy is attempting the intricate, criss cross design, usually reserved for televised golf tournaments! What an athlete! What a man! What an IDIOT. Cut the damned grass and get on with life.

As I alluded to in the beginning, my husband's obsession has recently taken a turn for the worse.

Our grass has been suffering from a combination of too much sun and too little irrigation, a.k.a., DEAD. Ok, ok, maybe not dead, but on life support, read: MY HUSBAND + HOSE + AMPLE FERTILIZER.

Unfortunately, the new house next door, which until this week had only dirt for a yard, has received its lawn from the landscapers. Fluffy, new, GREEN, perfect, my husband is suffering from a severe case of Sod Envy. I actually had to talk him out of heisting a pallet left sitting overnight, destined for another new house across the street. Think of your children, I begged! "What is your Daddy in jail for?" "Grand Theft Sod(o)", as they would hang their heads in shame and embarrassment.

And so I am prepared to endure another summer as he wages war on crabgrass and weeds. And while I know my children will not lose their tennis shoes or their feet, I pity the poor dandelion seed stupid enough to float over our chemical dependent lawn. It will surely vaporize before it has a chance to land.

I believe it is Psalm 23 in the Bible that contains the passage, " . . . He maketh me to lie down in green pastures . . .".

Green pastures, huh? Though not a theologian by any means, I am certain this was written by yet another man, albeit long ago, sitting on a camel named John Deere as he proudly surveyed the grass he had managed to grow around his abode in the desert.

Want Free College Tuition? Move To Uganda And Keep Your Legs Closed

I’m all for higher education. I believe it not only strengthens one’s knowledge base, but it also serves to broaden a young person’s horizons and expose them to new ideas, people, places and viewpoints.

Unfortunately, what it also does, is drain the bank account of the person/people footing the bill. Whether it is Mom and Dad, grandparents or the student him/herself, college tuition and all related expenses are a major financial burden.

Those broadened horizons and late night pizzas don’t come cheap.

Of course, there are myriad scholarship programs, grants, loans, etc of which one may avail themselves, but for the normal student, even those may be out of reach.

So what’s an ambitious, college seeking student to do? Work a couple part-time jobs? Hack into the institution’s computer and clear their tab? Bankrupt Mom and Dad?

Nah.

Just move to Uganda and keep your legs together.

Oh, and be a girl. That’s important too.

That’s right, the parliament of the Kayunga district of Uganda has pledged to pay the university fees for any female student who is a virgin upon graduation from high school.

A hymen being the golden ticket to a higher education.

Now, if this was New Hampshire, one might be ready to get their panties in a wad and call the ACLU on the grounds of discrimination, government interference with private lives, etc, but we are talking Kayunga, a district which holds the world record for the highest AIDS/HIV occurrences - 80% of families having lost at least one member to the disease.

So perhaps this isn’t a bad carrot - or cherry, as the case may be - to dangle.

The goal, according to County MP Sulaiman Madada, is to urge pupils to manage their lives responsibly, and for parents to explain the threats from HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases to their children.

"Our children should be told the risks they face if involved in early and unprotected sex," Madada said.

Again, I agree. Universally, popping one’s cherry is taken way too lightly, spurred on by excessive sex in the media in Western culture and too little information in others. The horror stories I hear from my own daughter about the sexual escapades of classmates in her MIDDLE SCHOOL, make me crazy. And no, not because I’m a big prude who thinks everyone should wait till their wedding night. But because these kids are getting jiggy as young as 11 and 12.

The only thing I find unfair about the “trade your virginity for a degree” program is that it does not extend to boys. But then how could it? Girls seeking the government paid tuition will have to submit to a gynecological exam in order to qualify, and whereas we have a pretty telltale sign of proving virginity up there, boys just don’t.

Their dingle still dangles the same way regardless of sexual status or frequency of use.

It will be interesting to see how many young women actually take the government up on its offer.  After all, young love, hormones and full moons are pretty strong to battle.  But then again, in a country with such a high mortality rate due to AIDS/HIV, even one taker is a pretty good start.

All These Flips Are Flops

It began annoying me a couple years ago. The appearance of shower thongs on people’s feet with nary a shower in sight. A pair here, a pair there, typically seen on middle school feet in the dead of winter.

Soon, like a rabbit gone wild, they were multiplying and popping up on every pair of feet I passed. Adults, teens, kids, even babies too young to know what a shoe is.

My distaste and disdain for the emergence of the Flip Flop as standard shoe attire exists on three fronts:

1. Most people do not have feet worth looking at. Chipped polish, dirty toes, and nails that immediately alert the observer to just how flexible is the wearer - it takes some limber legs to get that toe into your mouth to chew off the nail.

2. The noise they make, which is, in fact, where the name comes from: FLIP FLOP Scuff Scuff FLIP FLOP Scuff Scuff FLIP FLOP Scuff Scuff. (The scuff scuff part attributed to the fact that these people cannot completely lift their lazy feet from the pavement.)

Pardon me while I channel my inner Grinch, but the “noise, noise, noise” is enough to make me rip, rip, rip them from their peds, peds, peds and beat them in their heads, heads, heads.

3. People seem to think they are suitable footwear for all occasions. Take Bo Bice, not only wearing them with a suit when he performed on American Idol, but the fact that he wore the damned things to his own wedding.

And it is number three that sends me on today’s rant.

Apparently the women of Northwestern University‘s championship Lacrosse team were invited to the White House to meet the President. Nothing unusual there - presidents have done the sports meet-n-greet for decades. What was unusual is that preserved in photos for all eternity are many of the young ladies, wearing dresses and skirts, also wearing flip flops.

Flip flops. In the White House.

Talk about a fashion flop.

I admit, my own daughters own close to 20 pairs of these cheap rubber sandals, but even my 8 year old knows that they are just not acceptable attire for certain occasions. You don’t wear them to climb a rock wall, you don’t wear them to play soccer and you sure as hell don’t don them when you are meeting the President of the United States.

What amazes me the most is that these young women, all who have been reamed out by their parents (''Don't even ask me about the flip-flops,'' said the mother of player Aly Josephs. ''It mortified me.''), grandparents, even siblings (''YOU WORE FLIP-FLOPS TO THE WHITE HOUSE?!'' an e-mail sent to player Kate Darmody from her older brother), maintain that it was perfectly fine because flip flops are mainstream attire.

Yes. Yes they are. FOR THE BEACH.

Player Josephs tried to defend the fashion faux pas, ''Nobody was wearing old beach flip-flops.'' Ooo La la, hers were a $16 brown pair with rhinestones.

Darmody added, ''I tried to think of something that would go well with my outfit and at the same time not be that uncomfortable. But at the same time not disrespect the White House.''

Too late Kate - you took disrespect right in the front door and now there is a picture of you with the President that looks like you can't wait to get out of the White House and head straight to Cabo for Spring Break.

Have young people these days so little social grace?

Don’t answer. It was a rhetorical question.

Of course they have no social grace, no social strut, no true awareness of etiquette or acceptable standards of special occasion dressing. Their idols are Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan - fashion scions, not.

They see these people on the covers of every magazine they pass and then assume they should be wearing what the “stars” are wearing. Unfortunately for many of these girls (they are the main culprits, although for the love of God guys, pull your pants up where they belong and get your hair out of your eyes.) they squash, squish and paint their overly McDonalded bodies into outfits that only the stick thin Paris can fit into.

A recent trip to an amusement park gave me more chills than the roller coasters. Fat rolls falling out of teeny tank tops, shorts made shorter and tighter by rolling down the waistband to expose ample assage and “Gut by Burger King”, and of course, flips flops. Everywhere. And out of the hundreds of toes I perused, I saw TWO people who had actually given thought to their toe hygiene and appearance.

TWO.

The rest of the feet were filthy (occupational hazard of wearing them 24/7), their toenails were jagged and if polish were present, it was three weeks old and chipped. I don’t care of your flip flops are studded with rhinestones, covered in fake flowers or have enough glitter to double as a disco ball, if your feet are ugly, no amount of accessorizing is going to make up for it.

Like Eddie Murphy in Boomerang, nothing skeeves me out more than a pair of nasty feet.

But back to the Lacrosse team. I doubt even an admonition from Grandma is going to change their lack of social etiquette. And that the headlines of “Flip Flop Scandal” will do little to make them rethink their choices.

I can only hope that the next fashion wave soon washes these rubber shoes to the bottom of the couture ocean. But until then, be warned: Watch your heads. I’m out there and wielding a giant size 15 I found for $1.99 in Walgreens.

Flip Flop, Flip Flop ... WHOP!

This Willy Is All Wonky

I was one of the contributors to Tim Burton and Johnny Depp having a $55 million dollar payday this past weekend - I took the family to see the new Charlie & The Chocolate Factory.

Honestly, when it first appeared on the horizon, the fact that they were undertaking this effort, I vowed I would not go. Remake Willy Wonka? That much beloved piece of celluloid starring Gene Wilder? Noooooooo.

I just did not think it was possible to one-up Gene’s quirky, debonair, quick talking confectioner. And besides, I’m a purist when it comes to things like this. I hate when 16 year olds remake Lovin’ Spoonful hits from the 60’s and when money hungry studios attempt a remake of something so classic it should never be touched. Sometimes, like Coke or a Hershey bar, the original is just plain better.

Yet spurred on by glowing reviews, I relented and took my daughters to see what Johnny could do with old Willy.

As it turns out, I was right. Johnny Depp is a fabulous actor, take his portrayal of pirate with a heart of pyrite, Jack Sparrow, in Pirates of the Carribean, but when he and Burton get their heads together, truly weird shit leaks out. Think Edward Scissorhands, Ed Wood, et al.

Like a rare confectionary delicacy, think chocolate covered cockroaches, his Willy Wonka is truly an acquired taste.

Where Gene Wilder’s Willy was soft spoken and wise, Johnny’s version is a downright scary, too-close-to-Michael-Jackson-for-comfort dandy of a man-boy. He may have the flamboyant finery that Gene wore in the original, but where Gene was actually handsome, even sexy, Johnny is more like a little boy playing dress up.

A little boy playing dress up in Mommy and Daddy’s bondage attire. What up with the purple latex gloves?

The movie’s highlight is the deft portrayal of Charlie by Johnny’s Neverland costar, Freddie Highmore, a child actor who can give Dakota Fanning's thespian chops a run for their money. For me, it wasn’t just that he can act - he really can - it was that he was angelic to look at, with a face any Mother would just want to kiss right off his head. Whereas the child who played young Bucket years ago was not exactly the shiniest tomato on the vine. In fact, I always come away from watching it thinking two things, 1. “God they should put a Bucket over his head” and 2. “His head is too large for his body, they may have trouble finding a big enough Bucket.”

But back to Johnny’s take on Willy Wonka. For what he was trying to do, I guess you could say he was brilliant. If what he was trying to do was create a character that is so afraid of anything touching him (those purple latex gloves?) and so out of touch with human beings (that menacing, wide eyed crazy look perpetually on his face) that he never comes off as a sympathetic character.

I just never warmed up to him at all. My kids echoed the feeling.

That’s not to say he isn’t funny, he has his moments, but they are all based on rudely ridiculing his guests to their faces, “You’re weird.”, “I wish you would stop talking. You’re really annoying me.”  Gene Wilder was tempered chocolate - smooth and refined, whereas Johnny Depp is overheated, chunked up and inedible.

Also, knowing the original so well, I kept waiting for that pivotal moment when Willy realizes Charlie is the one that will insure the future of his candy empire and the safety of his Oompa Loompas.

It never comes. As in the original, the children are offed one by one, until Charlie is the last child standing. But then Willy simply offers him the factory. No preamble. No test of virtue. Just a “Oh, you’re the last one? Well then , you win.”

They have added backstory about Willy’s childhood which is how they bring the story to a close, but even that falls flat when the entire escapade seems like little more than an attempt to persecute the other four kids and their p..p...pp...pp

Oh yeah, he can’t say the word “Parents”.

Again, the Chocolate Factory, perhaps because the movie’s release comes on the tail of so much coverage of the Michael Jackson trial, reeks more of Neverland than of cocoa. And Johnny’s Willy? More of I-refuse-to-grow-up-ever-ever-ever Jackson than of a man who had the faculties to build an empire responsible for the world’s finest candies.

I’ll say it again. Some things should not be remade. Whether it is because they were so perfect to begin with (Gone With The Wind) or because they were so bad they are still so good (Poseidon Adventure - headed into a production studio near you), some things just deserve to stand alone.

Unfortunately, in this case, they have taken the perfect Hershey bar and added way too many nuts.

(All that being said: take your kids to see it.  They will definitely enjoy it, although even mine missed the original Oompa Loompas - played in this remake by ONE actor and computer generated into hundreds.  Is nothing sacred?)

There Oughta Be A Law: Seattle Gets A Slew of Bad Publicity

I’ve often said that the world is a beautiful place because we are all so different. That if we were all alike, it would get really boring, really fast. From skin color to beliefs to food preferences, our differences make us interesting and offer new experiences to be had by dipping our toes into another’s lifestyle pond.

Of course, I acknowledge that in extreme cases, take cannibalism or insurgencies, our differences stray far, far afield from the accepted norm and cause major problems for the rest of us.

And so with that thought in mind, we arrive at today’s story of “love among the livestock” out of Seattle.

Yes, bestiality is apparently alive and well on a farm in the little hamlet of Enumclaw, Washington - the animals, however, are not, tending to wear very confused looks on their faces at all times. The approach of strange vehicles grinding up the drive sending some of the livestock into flat out panic, running around like chickens with their heads cut off - or chickens with human anatomy invading their rectums.

Pardon me whilst I vomit a tad in my mouth.

The unique “farming” done on this acreage came to light after a Seattle emergency room received a patient who was quickly dropped at the door by a companion who then fled the scene. Realizing the man was already dead, they set to figuring out what exactly had ailed him so.

It wasn’t long till they identified the killer: acute peritonitus due to a perforated colon.

Yes, that’s right - while most of us with a cursory knowledge of bestiality would say it involves people getting jigging with the animal (and it does - there are thousands of violated sheep, ducks, chickens and goats in need of a support group), in this case, the animal was “pitching” and the man was “catching“.

It gets better.

The animal that did the “honors” was a horse.

I’ll pause while you throw up a little in your mouths.

Yes, apparently the man took the words “My Friend Flicka” to extremes. And he was not alone. Once the hospital and police tracked down relatives and acquaintances through identification found in his wallet, they stumbled upon his proclivities and into a world they had no idea operated in their fair town.

The “farm”, as they found out, is widely known in Internet Bestiality Chat Rooms (yes, they have chat rooms) as THE place to be a party animal - literally.

Now, you may be thinking, “well obviously the police must have arrested the two men who run the place and shut it down”, right?

Wrong!

While most states take a very dim view of bestiality, Washington is one of the 17 states which currently do not have any laws preventing the practice. So the men are free to continue to run the Washington branch of Mustang Sally’s.

But someone died, you cry!

Yes, but he was there, and quite frequently from what they have found - even buying two of his own horses to have stabled there - of his own volition and apparently the tape does not show he had to do much more than give the horse a carrot and some foreplay to commence the “conjungle” visit.

Of course, PETA has got its panties in a wad now, demanding Washington’s senators immediately convene to get a law on the books that outlaws the abuse of animals in this fashion. And while a part of me agrees, another part thinks that maybe more of these sick perverts should be allowed to travel to WA and get themselves perforated to death because while I embrace differences, these folks are simply taking up our oxygen.

I must pause here to wonder out loud about the logistics of receiving a horse up one’s anus. I have seen a horse penis and it outstrips the biggest Hickory Farms sausage by a mile. How (I would ask Why as well, but I really don’t want to know)do you deal with the size and height differential? God, these people must be creative. I mean I understand grabbing a defenseless duck (understand meaning I get the proportions) and taking liberties, but a horse?!?!

Ahh well, authorities will soon know the answers to these questions and probably far more. They are reviewing hundreds of hours of videotape confiscated from the farm to see if any crimes were committed (other than the one against nature) against smaller, defenseless animals.

It will be interesting to see if the Washington legislature will move quickly on this, or not. Typically you need proof, social outcry and parties willing to testify that a law is needed.

Unfortunately, the sheep aren’t talking and the horse could not be reached for comment.