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This is How Wonderbutt Negotiates

We have a bulldog.  His name is Wonderbutt.  He listens to public radio, reads and/or eats books, and recently switched to the unlimited texting plan.

Oh, and his farts are noxious.

And he doesn't mean the kind used in American politics either

And he doesn’t mean the kind used in American politics





Some Seek Asylum While Others Should BE in an Asylum

Wonderbutt, my bulldog, has been listening to NPR too much today.  The Snowden case is freaking him out.

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Wonderbutt trying not to look guilty...

Wonderbutt – worried that his leaks have opened him up to prosecution.

I am Terror Shattering – Which I Think Translates to “People Laugh When They See Me”


I decided to look up my Roller Derby name today.  According to Mia Psycho’s Roller Derby Name Generator, I am “Terror Shattering”.  It’s good George W. was not aware of this during his interminable term, what with his whole hostility against horror.  I might have  been drafted to be some kind of weapon of mass emotion obstruction, which I would, of course, have found morally reprehensible.  Even though, ironically, I take a pill every morning to obstruct my own emotions.  And I think I can pretty much directly trace the necessity for that back to George W.

George’s Roller Derby name, by the way, would be “Anger GimmeMore,” according to Mia Psycho.  She is amazingly accurate, that Mia.

I am not intending to join a Roller Derby team.  I just ended up watching this unique sport last night when Kanye West got a bit too intense and creepy on Saturday Night Live and I was looking for another channel to switch to that would not be too engrossing because I definitely wanted to switch back to SNL in time to see Seth Meyers do his last news report.

Looking at the online guide, it seemed that Roller Derby might fit the bill, and I arrived on the scene just in time to see some kind of penalty being assessed, and a giant wheel being spun to determine the consequence, and the ensuing pillow fight between two of the opponents, the winner of which was determined by some kind of peanut gallery of spectators who certainly seemed completely objective.

I nearly did not get back to Seth Meyers in time because I found this human behavior so sociologically absorbing that I could not peel my eyeballs from the screen or shove my chin back up to meet the rest of my skull.

I’m not really into contact sports.  Or sports.  But I have got to admit that Roller Derby is fascinating.  And not nearly as disturbing as Kanye West.  It’s a bit like Quidditch combined with football and roller-skates.  And without the flying, of course.  I’m not absolutely sure there are no broomsticks, though.  The rules seem a bit vague on that.

I only had to watch Roller Derby for two minutes and seventeen seconds to realize that this is the solution to every major conflict on this planet, and that women definitely should rule the world.

Just stick me on the rink with Aim Antagonism (Kim Jung-un) and a pillow, and I’ll have things sorted out before you can say, “Ithaca New York Suffer Jets versus the Empire Skate Troopers”.

God, I love puns.

I Guess I Should Depend on More Than the Daily Show to Keep Me Informed

Dear Man Who Rescued Me from My Solitude While I Waited for My Daughter to Finish Swim Practice, Foolishly Thinking I Could Spend My Time Writing:

I was so overcome during our conversation the other day that I could not find the words to properly thank you. So, here it is.

First of all, thank you so much for offering me your used earbuds so I could listen to your daughter’s video on your phone.  Your generosity apparently knows no bounds.

Secondly, thank you for educating me about gun control. Now that I know that the government is out to get us, I am going to save up some money for an AK-87 (the bigger the number, the better, right? but I thought an AK-97 would be too greedy) so I can defend myself. Because when the government finds a way to persuade the military men and women who have sworn to protect our country to start dropping bombs on my house, I want to be ready.

Once I was edified about my need for an arsenal in every room of the house, your insights into the welfare system and health care illuminated how completely selfish it is for my friend to ask for assistance for his son, born prematurely, who maxed out his health insurance life-time benefits before he turned one.  I can’t wait to inform him that his money-grubbing ways are, in a large part, responsible for our titanic national debt.

I only wish you had been around to admonish me before I made my foolish choices in the last two presidential elections.  Of course, you would have had to find some kind of loophole in the 22nd Amendment in order to keep the man who, “at least you knew where you stood with him” in office.  I say just blast a hole in that pesky little alteration to the Constitution with your assault rifle “that isn’t any more dangerous than a revolver”.  That’ll knock some sense into people.

I’m probably leaving out something important, but I think you can get the gist of my gratitude.  It’s not every day that someone takes as much time as you do to rectify all of my clearly preposterous beliefs and assumptions.

I’m only sorry that you did not get the chance to enlighten me on abortion and gay marriage.

Maybe next time…


Mrs. Cap’n Firepants


All Hail King Wonderbutt!

As our great nation celebrates another peaceful bestowal of power upon someone chosen by the people, I would like to describe to you what it is like to still live under tyranny – with the imperious King Wonderbutt as our leader.

Less discerning subjects may feel that the King has matured, as there are fewer incidences of pillaging to be reported.  This is not due, however, to any mellowing on the part of Wonderbutt; instead, we are the ones who have submitted to his autocratic laws.  We sometimes forget our servility, and Wonderbutt swiftly issues his own version of justice, as dictators are often wont to do.  For example, Wonderbutt no longer chews on shoes.  This is not because he has not developed any kind of shoe restraint; we just try not to leave shoes in his vicinity.  Our daughter frequently places them on the front windowsill when she enters our home, so that anyone who climbs our porch is greeted by a parade of boots, tennis shoes, and flip flops staunchly standing guard.  This will probably not increase our chances of having our home featured in Better Homes and Gardens, but it does decrease the chance of Wonderbutt redesigning her footwear or forcing us all to become Hobbits and grow our own leather soles on the bottoms of our feet.

The King no longer chews up our carpeting because we got concrete floors.  And, he doesn’t eat our sofa cushions because we finally purchased leather sofas.  It’s even been awhile since we’ve found book pages strewn around the living room because the entire family gave up reading.

Well, we didn’t stop reading.  Just stopped reading in the living room. (I would like to point, however, that it is a common trait amongst tyrants to limit the available reading material of his subjects.)

If we foolishly leave a dish towel draped over the counter, Wonderbutt reminds us of our slovenliness by dragging it out to his Poop Pen (don’t worry, we throw it away once it’s reached that Point of No Return; we do not dry our dishes with poopy towels, I promise.)

Another dishcloth consigned to the Poop Pen

Another dishcloth consigned to the Poop Pen

We are not allowed to play card games anymore, either.

We are not allowed to play card games anymore, either.

So, rejoice, Americans, and all of you who live in democratic countries.  You are fortunate to have some input in the laws that you must follow.

And to not have to do battle every evening in an attempt to dethrone the King.

King Wonderbutt upon his throne

King Wonderbutt upon his throne

This Just In – Wonderbutt Chooses a Candidate

Our bulldog, Wonderbutt, did his research and carefully made his U.S. presidential election selection:

Missed Opportunity

When I’m President, I promise to make college more affordable for your sons. They, too, will be offered scholarships for synchronized swimming.

Given my recent struggles with depression, an inefficient colon, and a bulldog who hates Halloween, I decided to drop out of the United States presidential election for this year. So, don’t write me in or anything. I don’t think you really want someone who mentally decapitates the person who spelled her name wrong on an offer for a free oil change for the car she sold 6 years ago to lead your country. Or, maybe you do.

If I was still running for president, you can bet that I would add some more pertinent issues to the national debate. Most of the topics being hurled back and forth seem to deal more with domestic problems, and I tend to have a more global view.

For example, one of the top priorities of my campaign would be to lean on the International Olympic Committee to eliminate their archaic sexist policies. They seem to think they are free and clear now that woman can box, but I refuse to turn a blind eye to the two last exclusionary sports – rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. It’s completely unfair that men cannot compete in these sports. They have just as much right to cake on the makeup and paint their hair with Knox gelatin as the rest of the population.

And, come on, a few more handsome men in speedos or leotards certainly couldn’t be detrimental to the numbers of viewers tuning in.

More and more men have been participating in synchronized swimming, in particular, and I think it’s an international tragedy that their talents cannot be showcased on the world stage.  If Martha Raddatz does not grill Obama and Romney in the October 11th debate about their intentions for rectifying this situation, I will lose all faith in Martha and her journalistic ability to cut to the chase.

Of course, when I run in the next presidential election, I will make this a priority in my platform, as the next Summer Olympics will be right around the corner.  But I will expect the men to refine their performance a little bit more by then…

I Have a Hard Time Getting Out of Bed

How You Know Your Anti-Depressant Medication is No Longer Working

You get your driver’s license in the mail and wonder if the photo will be used for your obituary.

You come home to an iPhone 5 package on your doorstep, you bring it inside – and go take a nap.

You realize that you are part of Mitt Romney’s 47%, and not part of the 1%, but also in the 99%.  And your life is 60% over.

You realize that your hair will never look as good as Mitt Romney’s.

You are upset because Penny Marshall just published a book called, My Mother Was Nuts, which was totally what you planned to do – publish a book about Penny Marshall’s mother.  

You look at this face wistfully and wish you could be even half that happy.

Why I Should Have Been Chosen as Mitt Romney’s Running Mate

After a couple of glasses of wine, I have a tendency to get a bit feisty.  Cap’n Firepants tends to avoid conflict, but when we’re stuck in a booth together at a fancy restaurant, I don’t give him a whole lot of choice.  

Me:  So, gun control.

Cap’n Firepants (eyeing me cautiously across the table):  What about it?

Me:  Assault weapons seem to be a bit controversial.

Cap’n Firepants:  Yes.

Me:  I think it’s ridiculous for an ordinary person to own one.  But I can kind of see why we should have the right.

Cap’n Firepants (incredulously):  You can?

Me:  Well, if the government people are the only one that can own them, then they can take us over any time.  What am I gonna do – shoot down an AK-747 with my starter pistol?

Cap’n Firepants:  I never really thought about it that way.

Me:  Well, you obviously don’t read dystopian teenage novels in which the government force adolescents to kill each other in a sick attempt to quell rebellion.

Cap’n Firepants:  No, I really don’t.

Me:  Of course, we can’t just let every Tom, Dick, and Harry Potter own a weapon like that.  There should be some kind of control.

Cap’n Firepants:  Okay-y-y

Me:  But the government can’t be in control because then we’re just gonna have the same problem.  They can stick it to the man anytime.

Cap’n Firepants: I don’t really know what to say to that.

Me:  Don’t worry.  I’ve got it figured out.  I think the NRA should be in charge.

Cap’n Firepants:  The NRA?

Me:  Yeah.  Think about it.  It’s perfect.  They’re the ones trying to keep the government out of it, so they should be the ones responsible for what happens when the guns get in the wrong hands.

Cap’n Firepants:  Hmm.

Me:  And if someone goes crazy, they should have to suffer the consequences.

Cap’n Firepants:  The NRA?

Me:  Of course.  Checks and Balances, you know.  You really need to read your Constitution more often.

Cap’n Firepants: Again, really not sure what to say.

Me:  Aren’t you lucky?  Aren’t you glad you married such an out-of-the-box thinker?

Cap’n Firepants:  You’re out-of-the-box, alright.

I’d make a great running mate – as long as you don’t run too fast.
photo credit: Sangudo via photo pin cc

Is it Possible to be a Socialist Socialite?

So, I realized yesterday, a bit belatedly, that I am a Socialist.  Apparently, I have been for some time, but I was of the mistaken belief that I was a Socialite.  I just needed Jon Stewart to point out my error.  Well, and then I needed to Google it.  Because sometimes I think I know the definition of something, but then, well, I’m wrong.  But sometimes, shockingly,  the internet can be wrong, too.  Like this time.  According to this definition of Socialism, I could also be called a Fabianist – which I will completely deny.  Because Fabian was way before my time.  And I only like guys who pose next to living tigers.  Rare, endangered ones that need large financial donations in order to save them from extinction.  (The tigers, not the guys.)

Anyway, I want to thank Jon Stewart for pointing out my economic (and possibly philotherianistic) beliefs.  I think he’s really the only person who understands me.

Now, I should probably clarify; Jon Stewart did not announce, “Mrs. Cap’n Firepants – you, my dear lady, are a Socialist.”  That would have been totally cool, though.  To have Jon Stewart talk to me directly, I mean – not the labeling part.

No, I inferred that I am a Socialist from his amusing attempt to define Socialism using the language of other people who seem to like to bandy that term about.  (I’ve always wanted to use the word “bandy” but no one in my family seems to really like to bandy things because they are far too thoughtful and deliberate, so it’s never actually applied to anything in my life.)  As I was laughing at how funny it is that the same people who call everyone else Socialists, by their own definition, are Socialists, I turned the spotlight on myself for a moment (because everything is about me), and realized that even though I have not once, not ever called anyone a Socialist, I am one.  It was like some major epiphany right in the middle of The Daily Show.  I don’t know if Jon Stewart fully realizes the power he possesses.

You see, we throw this fair at our school once a year, and the teachers are expected to work the booths.  The first few years, I noticed that a couple of the grade levels not only had the cushiest jobs (like selling donated cans of soda – as opposed to sitting in the dunking booth), but they also made the most money to spend on desired curriculum materials.  When I suggested rotating the jobs, no one could agree on a fair way to do this.  Then I said, “Why don’t we just split the money evenly after each fair?”  there was a lot of grumbling.  But we did it.  And it seemed to work.

Then I said, “Everyone needs to give me 5% of what you earn for coming up with this awesome idea, and I will split the rest with you evenly.”

And that didn’t work.

Anyway, my point is, I am a Socialist.  Just by nature of participating in and supporting the public school system, I am a Socialist.  I think.

So, I would like to thank Jon Stewart for helping me to come this realization.    And I would like to apologize to everyone I have offended with my Socialistic form of bullying.  I shall work on rectifying this matter as soon as I start making enough money to not care anymore.

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