Weenie roast.

We went to a friend’s house this past weekend for a grill-out. It was our first date, so to speak. In lieu of the Whitman’s Sampler, we brought $20 worth of kebabs, lips and assholes for the kids (hot dogs), cut fruit, pasta salad and my famous crack dessert bars. Boo-ya, instant BBQ.

Both untitledhusband and I know the wife quite well through work and whatnot. We hadn’t spent much time with her husband, though. When we arrived, he was cutting his grass with his new lawn mower. I didn’t think much of it, for I assumed he would put it away once we got out of the car. But oh contraire. He did not stop until one hour later, when he had finished his yard.

In all, we were at their home for, oh, four hours. Except for the short time we spent together eating at the dinner table, he was constantly doing something else – mowing the grass, playing with the kids outside, masturbating to the table saw spread in the Lowe’s circular. It was clear that he preferred tinkering around in his garage to spending time with us. In addition, their kids wanted nothing to do with untitledson. This did not bother him. He just took the opportunity to raid their toy room and fart on the heads of all their stuffed animals. I was tempted to have him poop in the pink Barbie Hummer, but even I see how that might be crossing a line (especially with how common DNA testing has become).

All in all, the whole situation was quite awkward. Here we’d come with armfuls of carefully prepared food (hey, it was prepared by someone, somewhere). It was clear we’d gone to lengths, if not the deli section, for this one. Then the husband has to go and make us feel like over-anxious virgins at our first prom. It was as if we weren’t worth the effort.

By all other accounts, this guy seemed quite nice. When he did stop his chores long enough to talk, he was very cordial and engaged. He just didn’t seem to understand that abandoning your guests so you can play kick ball with the neighborhood kids was rude. In my mind, I kept making excuses for him – anything to deny the possibility that he just had better things to do that visit with the likes of us. I thought to myself, “Maybe he has ADD. Or maybe he has been working on home projects for so long, he just doesn’t know when to stop.” But there really is no good excuse, now is there.

I’d like to think that we’re not boring people. So maybe we play Scrabble on our Tivo and watch “Big Brother” when everyone else is outside, creating “Eight is Enough” family pyramids, waving flags and playing bocci ball. Does this make us boring? I mean, christ. We are certainly more entertaining than a gaggle of six year-olds that eat their own boogers. I mean, if it’s gross stuff that you’re into, I can tell you for a fact that I myself have an obsession for zit-popping. untitledhusband gets a sick joy out of playing with his own toenail clippings. untitledson will fart on demand, followed by what could only be termed the funky fart dance and a loud vocal declaration of “excuse mah BUTT!” If this isn’t excitement, hand me my nitro pills.

Child of God.

This last weekend was untitledhusband’s younger (adopted) sister’s confirmation. She is 16 and – I don’t know if I’ve ever talked about this before – she is mentally challenged. As we were sitting there at the party, satisfied by the fact that we were able to pilfer a corner piece of cake and avoid the Brazil nuts amidst the bowl of cashews, I sensed an awkwardness in the air.

In many aspects, this was like any other party. People came from states away. Cakes were baked. Punch was made. Gifts were given. Yet I wasn’t the only one who noticed that at the center of it all was this girl – a child – who has trouble combing her own hair and still watches Arthur from time to time. Aside from Christmas and Easter, she has very little concept of God. And to her, this whole confirmation thing was more about getting an iPod than anything else (which makes her just like every other 16 year-old, I guess).

But still, I say shame on us for confirming someone who doesn’t really understand what confirmation is. I’ll even go one further – shame on us for baptizing or confirming anyone into any organization before the age of 18. What kind of cult wants you to sign on the dotted line before you can even drink a beer? I believe it’s the Amish who send their 18 year-olds out into the world to live independently before they decide if they’ll spend the rest of their days harvesting wheat with a machete or playing “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” with their homies and smoking hydroponic fatties. I expect as much wisdom from those who carve rocking chairs out of an Oak tree with little more than a pocket knife.

Certainly, it won’t hurt untitledsister-in-law to sit in church every Sunday and recite chants that she and probably half the church members don’t understand. But let’s just say I’m a little skeptical about any organization that would confirm a girl like her, at this point in her life. I’m all for her being part of a church if it brings her joy. But make no mistake – churches are businesses. They want members, because they want to grow. They want to grow, so they can bring in more money. They want more money, so they can keep the Pope in red velvet Armani slippers.

This girl isn’t going anywhere. And I doubt if she’ll be dropping a 20 in the offering plate anytime soon. So how about waiting to confirm her until she is a bit older, people. Like until she’s able to microwave a bean burrito or wash her own underwear.

Big ups to the Duggars.

Every time TLC airs their documentary on the Duggars, untitledlife gets a wave of hits from Google. So let’s all take a moment to thank god for Michelle Duggar’s ever-blossoming uterus. Praise BE!

Some of these new visitors are Duggar supporters, so I can imagine the toes curling when they stumble across my posts on cockrings, poop etiquette and my tampon-eating dog. I have no idea who these people are or where they live, but I imagine them all in calico dresses and braids. One of the commenters wrote me a nastygram and DECIDED TO SHOUT HER ENTIRE POST. Jesus fuck, lady. That’s pretty much the equivalent of grabbing me by the throat and shitting down my neck. Not very Christian of you. But on the positive side, it gives me comfort knowing you broke a commandment (or at least came damn close) in my name.

Seriously, I enjoy reading dissenting opinions, in the same way I enjoy listening to Rush Limbaugh. But I do feel an ethical responsibility to repeat the obvious — having 16 children is wrong on so many levels. Environmentally, you are taking more than your fair share of earthly resources. Plus, it is not humanly possible for two people to properly care for all of the physical and emotional needs of 16 children. I have one child, and there are many times when I feel like I could be doing more for him, if only there was more time. I don’t care how peachy things look like in the documentary. Inevitably, things will fall through the cracks — which is exactly how the Duggars got themselves into this situation to begin with.

The bitch is back.

I entered this cruise vacation that I just returned from full-well knowing that there was a good chance I’d see some visually assaulting images along the way. But I was not prepared for the parade of human curiosities that I encountered while on the high seas.

I repeatedly saw a woman I came to call Cancer Stick. I would watch every day as CS slathered Hawaiian Tropic all over her crusty crop of melanomas, which sucked up the tanning nectar like dehydrated spores.

I saw 50 year-old European Speedo man. “Excuse me, sir. But god did not invent lycra so that I could count the number of wrinkles on your decrepit ball sack.”

I also saw Natural Woman. She had this curly, out-of-control mane that cascaded past her behind. She walked barefoot and swathed herself in a mystical-looking shawl. I got the feeling that every night, her and Natural Man (who also had long hair) went back to their cabin for wild, dirty, patchouli-fueled sex. “YEWWWWW make me feel like a nah…chur…uhl… wuhMAN!” Ewww.

But all these specimens pale in comparison with Lobster Woman. Lobster Woman’s feet were so hideously deformed and mangled, that it left her with no choice but to paint her knarly, cantankerous nails hooker red and wear sandals the entire trip. Oh, the humanity.

I tried to get a picture for you all, but untitledhusband felt strongly that the photographical gods would not look kindly upon him using his gear for such dubious purposes. “If Kodak can build the theater where American Idol is filmed, surely he could rain down his fury upon me, and at the very least, make me lose a lens cap.” This made sense to me, so I proceeded to take a picture with my… mind (insert dramatic “Dr. Who”ian chord).

First off, the feet themselves were bloated, blue and swollen. I created this whole story line for her, like maybe she contracted a nasty case of trench foot while serving as a jungle interpreter in Nam. The big toes on each foot were aggressively pointing inwards, as if each one was blaming the other for the sad state of affairs they found themselves in. “You did this to us!” “No, YOU did! This little piggy wanted to go to market, but NOOOOOOOO. YOU wanted to hang around to smell the roses. Thanks a lot, Dr. Scholls. Now pass the pumice and the corn pads, muthafucka.”

Between the big toes and the second toes was a wide v-shaped gap, which gave her feet the unsightly appearance of, you guessed it, lobster claws. The rest of the toes lay in a mangled pile in the nether regions of her sandals, each one twisted over the next, as if they were fighting to escape whatever made the toe next to it so damn ugly.

Now, I understand if this woman was physically unable to squeeze her breadboxes into normal shoes. After giving birth to untitledson, I couldn’t even wear slippers. Things like this happen. But why in hell couldn’t she cover up those bad boys with some socks? It’s downright disrespectful to unfurl such hideousness on a captive audience whilst at sea.