Mother’s Day Gift Guide, Part Two

Yesterday, we plumbed the depths of our mother’s psyches by taking an Extremely Scientific Quiz to determine her alignment. Is your mom Good or Evil? Fun or Stodgy? Now that you have that in mind, I present to you the I, Asshole Gift-buying Guide for Mother’s Day.

You can use the placement of the dots on the scientifically-plotted matrix to determine the perfect present. Does your mom skew towards pure “Fun” Evil? Look to the left of the chart. Is she a mix of Stodgy and Fun Good? Look towards the center of the Good continuum.

If your mom is so close to the middle you can’t tell, then I’m sorry you had such a wildly inconsistent childhood. I recommend a fondue set. Or a gift certificate to a major chain bookstore. Surely she likes books…or music…or coffee?

Good luck, friends, and Happy Day Your Ass Got Spawned.

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In Other News: Meta Strudel

And FIGHT!

Yesterday I watched the Nightline debate between Kirk Cameron and the Oh Noes Atheists. It was kind of disappointing, because the whole premise to the debate was that Kirk Cameron and the banana dude would prove that God exists using scientific evidence, and without invoking the Bible. In the first part of the debate they immediately invoked the Ten Commandments.

The atheists weren’t that smokin’ of debators, but it was really no contest. I suspect the Mike Seaver and Banana Man were using this as a platform to proselytize and sell product.

I loved what the Atheists said when Banana Man said, “What if you’re wrong?”

“Then we’ll go to hell.”

Classic.

I took a peep at the discussion boards at Nightline and there was a little of that tired, “Oh you morality-free atheists” business going on. It made me think about God and nature and purpose of hell. Is it necessary to have external rule enforcement (threat of hell, the notion of a vengeful god) when you have a code of rules that comes from the outside? I struggled for a long time, and now I have my own code of morality. It really makes me bristle when people imply that atheists have no morality.

Okay, I have to go now. I’m going to the grocery store to stuff some steaks in my pants and then run out. My conscience tells me it’s important to exercise, because I don’t want to be a burden on my children.


There’s No Cookies in the Library, Bitches
. Don’t tell SPL that. I like sippin my mocha-latty in the stax.

YOU KNOW, in six years of wasting bandwidth, I have never done a quiz and posted it on this crapheap.

You are 91% Washington State!

Are you a tour guide? High-five, man! I see SOMEBODY paid attention in their history classes. You obviously know Washington well. That’s awesome.

How Washington State Are You?
Quizzes for MySpace

I thought this was relevant, since I like to dog this place. And now…Seppuku! Or, as I like to send in text messages: :'(

I think I am going to stop writing new entries and just add on to this one for the rest of my life. HAW!

Take Your Hand From the Box, Young Human, and Look at It

Whoa, Schnapples, Mother’s Day is coming AGAIN. What, you still don’t have a present or a clue? Normally I’d just say, “Get with it, Jackass,” but not this time.

I am here to help you, my friends. The first step is to take this Very Special Quiz, created especially for you by the Offices of I, Asshole. And you know this is quality information, as it is presented by a person whose own mother has not spoken to her for a year-and-half. Mad qualifications, yo.

Anyway, this quiz will tell me something about your mother so I can make a recommendation, based on an alignment system found in the popular RPG Dungeons & Dragons. Why not, I tells ya. I set up age and gender (which were required questions) so they have zero affect on your results, so don’t worry about that. Answer whatever you like.

Once you have your results, be sure to come back tomorrow for a Very Special I, Asshole gift-buying guide. Because if you are not participating the the Capitalism machine, you are letting the Royalists win.

Oh, and I DON’T recommend this quiz software. They edit swears, so my website link is 404’d. BOO! Also, they tell you not to write in leetspeak, which is just generically dumb. And you can’t set up the quiz so if the results are very mixed you get a sort of non- or neutral result. I didn’t know they were censoring uneditable things until it was too late.

All that said, enjoy. Sorry about teh typos.

In Other News

The Onion also features a Mother’s Day Guide. Oh yes.

And if you get married in one of these weak-ass piles of corporate booshit, I will laugh at you. Sorry. Wait, NO I’m NOT. Count how many times the word “girls” is used on this website to refer to grown-assed women. And then count the number of instances of the word “women.” Yikes.

Also, snaps to Flea at One Good Thingan article about sexualizing children’s toys, children, and Brooke Shields. via.

A Walk in the Park

Sunday was a beautiful sunny day. The wife and I decided to play bocce in the park near our house. I was measuring and taking score, and wife was looking for a ball had “gotten away from her.” I noticed a small object in the air, near head height. Just as I was thinking: “what is that? That seems out of place.” WHAM!

It was a rock. Nailed me in the noggin, and dropped me like a stone. I sat up rubbing my forehead. I hear small squeaky giggling behind me. I feel two tiny hands deftly and unceremoniously grab my ears. POW! I start seeing stars again as a tiny knee, POW! Keeps drilling, POW! Me in the POW! base of the skull.

“I’m Doin’ it Mama! LOOK!” POW! More stars.

“You sure are baby!….Yer never gonna get it like that. Franny, you’ve got him by the ears.”

“Well this jerk’s got no hair.” POW! Extra vigor on that one, that really hurt.

I look up and through the stars I see bright pink hair…Pink hair…Franny….

“S.J.?” POW!

I get a sideways look, and a frown.

“S.J. It’s J.B.

“Aww hell. Let him be Franny he’s got no money. You should hear about the piece of shit truck he drives.” The tiny hands are reluctant, but they let go of my ears. The stars clear. S.J. reaches down with one hand and hefts me to my feet by the scruff of my shirt. She’s at least 6’2″. She smiles and claps me on the back so hard it nearly sends me back to the ground.

“Franny didn’t hurt you much did she?” I shake my head rather uncertainly.

“You gotta start em young if you want to really train em up right.” She turns her head, and cups her hands over her mouth. “P!!!!” Her voice carries like rolling thunder. I see ‘companion’ across the park. He heads over with Strudel in his arms. We’re all introduced around. I introduce the wife, and shake little Franny’s hand. Strudel is cuter than a bug in person, but much biteier than you’d expect.

After a short conversation S.J. announces “Well, it was nice chatting with you two, but we’ve got more work to do. Isn’t that right Franny?” Little Franny picks up a rock and nods. “Besides, it’s gettin late and momma needs some love!”

Raise Your MF Glasses to Momz Half-Assin It

1. Franny’s coming back in, like, a half hour. She is six now. Because of my awesome freedom from Seattle Federline, I did not get to see her on the actual day she shot out of my body, which was the ninth. This is okay. There must be sacrifices.

HOWEVER! We are having a family party tonight and a lil’ friendlet party on Saturday, featuring cupcakes from Cupcake Royale that we will decorate ourselves. It should be pretty bomb. I’ll keep you updated.

Because of random scotch tape scarcity, i.e., we could not remember to buy any anytime we set foot out of the house, I was only able to wrap her presents this afternoon. Frankly, I did a terrible job. I think that wrapping presents is maybe something Momz* are supposed to be good at, but I get impatient and start throwing shit. The motto of my presents, as anyone who’s received one from me knows, is “don’t judge a book by its wrinkled, poorly cut cover.” I mean, look at this. I misunderestimated this job so badly that I had to patch underneath.

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Figure 1: Egregiousness.

I should be ashamed, but lo, I am not.

Bonus FAQ !

Q. Will there be unitorns?

A. Do Ann Coulter like to take it up the butt? Alright then. I can’t believe you even asked me that.

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Figure 2: Unitorns!

* Momz: n. What Grrls can grow into if their birth control fails.

2. On Saturday night, I had dinner guests. I made a frickin chicken fricassee and some salad and there was lots of wine. I talked Companion into whipping up a chocolate cake and he used some old Kahlua to flavor the frosting. Yum!

Here is the mannerly Jakums with my sister. I think he got a little squicked when we brought up our usual dinner topics, such as buttsecks and Tara Reid’s boobers. This is how we roll, Jakums. You are welcome to come back.

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And here is Daniel, who is growing out his hair a bit so he can go all Taxi Driver mohawk on us. And Companion, of course.

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3. After Jakums skipped out, begging me to stop feeding him so he could “save room for booze later,” and Daniel left, then we got really crazy. Well, by our standards. Morgan, Companion, and I were arguing about supertasters and whether or not she was one after she did not find the smoked salt caramels I fed her crazy delicious.

Additionally, Morgan and I have long thought that Companion is the opposite of a supertaster. The Jimmy James-taster to Morgan’s supertasting abilities, if you will. So we dropped food color on our tongues to see how our tastebuds are clustered.

It was just as we suspected. Companion had very few tastebuds, which explains why he happily glomps expired leftovers for breakfast and he complains about having a tummyache later. Morgan had many, many tastebuds. I was somewhere in between (a little closer to Morgan), so I can handle hot peppers and weird nouvelle cuisine, but can still tell when I am eating rancid victuals.

I’ll spare you the tongue pics. You are grateful for this small mercy.

Could we be more attractive? No, we could not. At least, not without the inclusion of some goiters.

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JUST TO REACH YEW!

Tori Spelling, overcome with confusion and sadness relating to her estrangement from her mother, broke into my house last night and attempted to assault poor Companion.

I caught them just as he was succumbing to her succubus-like embrace, Chihuahua eyes bugging out and stick arms enfolding him. To his credit, I think he only gave in after she said “This will hurt less if you don’t fight me.” Fortunately for him, I’ve been keeping a can of Spelling-B-Gon under the bed.

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Drug Store Plastic Surgery: Lip Inflation

Everyone loves puffy lips! Whether a person is unconsciously into the cross-symbolism of the female lips and female genitalia, or they are just turned on by the violence-suggestive aspect of “trout pout,” people love PUFFY CHIC!

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Figure One: “Help me, I can barely talk or breathe.”

Even superstar Jessica Simpson (see figure one, above) has jumped on this bandwagon in the wake of her failed marriage to what appears to be a gay Ken Doll.

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Figure Two: Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

What is this Puffy Chic all about? We at the offices of I, Asshole wished to find out. I can’t afford the $300-$5000 it costs to enhance one’s lips via surgery, so I decided to go the drug store route.

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R U Bean-Curious?

Morgan, my fabulous sister from Fabulous-port, was grocery shopping with me the other day when we spotted something curious at the cash register.

“Look,” I said, “Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.” They appeared to be a Harry Potter product. I don’t know my Harry Potter from the hole in my butt, because I read the first one and ran back to Dahl and Tolkien as fast as my brain’s tiny legs could carry it. (Don’t email me about how great HP is. I am jus’ jelus. I do wish I could write something so commercially pleasing so I too could feather my bed with G-notes. There, I said it.)

This prompted the cashier to immediately jump in: “Oh, yeah, those are awful. We tried them here. Sardine, soap, ugh.” This sounded like a challenge to me.

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