Random Happenings That Explain My Current State of Insanity

First, thank you for asking about Mom. She's home now, but they don't really know what happened. At least she didn't have a stroke. This is good. What is bad is that she either has some mysterious illness (and no Dr. House to diagnose it and provide Funky with eye candy) or two, she is playing possum. The later would NOT be the first time for that particular explanation to rise to the top.

Instead of droning on about that, I wanted to share two conversations with my children that have occurred since they returned from their dad's house.

While driving to the mall (shudder the thought) on Sunday, I tried to put some perspective on Christmas giving. Each year their wants escalate, and each year I find myself with a ransom note disguised as a Christmas list.

Funky: You know, Christmas is supposed to be about the joy of forgiveness. It's all about the Baby Jesus. I don't get this "presents" thing. I don't know why we don't give gifts on Thanksgiving, since that's the day we're supposed to honor and be thankful for our family.

Bug Children: Well, the Baby Jesus got presents, so you know... it's to honor the Baby Jesus. He got presents, and we remember his birth by GETTING presents.

Funky: Oh really? Fine! This year you get three presents; in honor of the Baby Jesus, you get deoderant, air freshener, and a golden chicken McNugget.

Bug Children: *grasshoppers chirping*

Last night Cuddlebug hit me up about skipping out on his class field trip. Why? I'm pretty sure it had to do with assigned seating and said seating not being with his rowdy buddies.

Cuddlebug: Can you pick me up before 3rd period so I don't have to go?

Funky: No, I have a job, dorkass.

Cuddlebug: Can I stay home from school?

Funky: Golly...let me think... NO!

Cuddlebug: I don't want to go to this Christmas play! Why are they forcing their Christian religion down my throat????!!!! (WHERE does he GET this stuff?)

Funky: Buddy, you're a Christian, remember?

Cuddlebug: Well, can I be a Buddhist just for tomorrow?

Yes, conversations like these always happen on the backside of Thanksgivings like that. Yes, this explains why I maintain a healthy level of insanity that sheilds me from the troubles of life.

This is Funky, and that is all.

Thanksgiving Curse, Strike...

... damn. I lost count.

Thanks for all your well-wishes on my Turkey Day Hiatus post. I know you assumed I was celebrating with thanks, but what I was actually doing was hiding under the bed. I was hiding from the Thanksgiving Curse.

Thanksgivings were horrible holidays for me as a child. I had a set of relatives on Sarge's side that insisted on spending that day with us. They HATED me. To this day they refuse to recognize that I am family. Believe it or not, I actually prefer the status quo of now, when compared to the hell I went through as a child. All that torture I endured seeped into this bastard of a holiday and cursed it. I have never had a decent Thanksgiving -- no, not one to my recollection.

My grandmother died the day before Thanksgiving.
My step-dad died three days before Thanksgiving.
In my previously life, I was forced to spend Thanksgiving in a trailor with my in-laws and approximately 20 - 30 pomeranians. YOU try eating and fellowshipping under those conditions.
In my current life, my kids go to their dad's (to carry on the above-mentioned tradition) while I end up having dinner at Bennigan's.

And if that weren't bad enough...

The phone rings at 10pm Wednesday night, and it's my sister. She is hysterically relaying the details of my mother's hospitalization while driving 90 miles an hour down HWY 50. Ten minutes later I'm starting the two-hour drive to their town. I arrive at midnight, the first moments of this oh-so-thankful-day, to see my mother hooked up to machines, bp running rampant, and "we're not sure what's wrong" floating through the corridors. They kicked us out at 2am and we slept in a Hampton Inn.

At 10am I was back, and I spent the entire day sitting by her bed. We watched the Macy's Day Parade, the Westminster Championship, and Miracle on 34th Street. She ate bland turkey at noon, with bland dressing and bland pumpkin pie. When we left at 4pm, they still didn't know what was wrong with her.

I had dinner at Bennigan's.

I really hate Thanksgiving. It is my Friday the 13th, but thankfully (ha!) just once a year. I guess I do have something to be thankful for, in that Thanksgiving has a 1:365 ratio.

I surely hope your Turkey Day was better.

Me-Me #10 - Family Matters

Welcome to another installment of, "Come ON -- tell me the WHOLE story!" otherwise known as "I love to talk about myself", and in a pinch can be called Me-Me Monday. The object of the game is to refer to your 101 Things About Me list, pick one of your "things" and tell the whole sordid tale.

I've had some requests for the image, and to make life easy for you, I've put it on my flickr page. Here's your sign ;)

Make sure you replace the parenthesis with < > .

(a href="http://funkybug.blogspot.com/")
(img src="http://static.flickr.com/29/43386062_d480de8e1d_o.jpg" border="0")(/a)

Remember... no "()", but "<>"

10. I have a sister.

That's her to the right, dancing with me, Scotty, and Joel on my wedding day. I chose this picture because other than shots of her an a very young age, this is the only time you'll see her genuinly smiling.

My sister Sandy is actually my half-sister. We share the same mother, but not the same father. She was the lucky one in that she grew up knowing both her parents. After my mom married the Sarge, Sandy was conceived. She would be the fifth child he was charged with raising, but the one and only biological child he would ever have. She was thus crowned Queen and Center of the Universe.

Growing up with a sibling four years younger who was indeed Q&CofU presented a bit of a challenge to our ability to properly bond. Likewise, she was everybit NOTHING at all like me. We had exactly two things in common: the same mother and the same address. She was prissy, I was sloppy. She was timid, I was adventurous. She was spoiled, I was tolerated.

When the Sarge died, he took her crown and title to the grave with him. She was appalled that the Universe no longer recognized her as a reigning deity. That's when she became the saddest person I have ever known. While my adult life has been relatively charmed, she has struggled to find her joy. She's still searching, and that makes me very sad for her.

Truthfully, my sister and I are not terribly close. We do not shop together. We do not call each other to complain about our kids or husbands. We rarely spend time together outside of necessity. Yet, as I get older, I'm finding that when we do get together, she laughs at my jokes. Actually, she laughs so hard that tears form in her sad little eyes. As I get older, I think I'm finally beginning to realize that while we do not share the same address, we share the same history.

That's my sister smiling. Look closely, because it doesn't happen very often. I'm trying my best to change that now.

You want some linky lovin'? Let me know if you played!

Happy Thanksgiving

The Wisdom of Funky Bugs will be on hiatus until November 28th.

Go forth and be thankful.

Naughty Grown-up Night

I said to myself:

Self, you should wait until Thursday so as to combine HNT with Naughty Grown-up Night.

To which I replied to myself:

Self, I'm not the most popular blogger in the world (nor do I pretend to be), but if I do that, certain bloggers who are my friends may revolt.


To which myself replied:

Good point, I'll get the wine, you get the glass.

So with a glass of Fat Bastard Shiraz nearby, I present to you (drum roll, please...)

Funky's Naughty Grown-up Night (aka Gawd I Hope My Kids Aren't Still Reading My Blog)

*Cue the flashback music*

By Friday evening, LoveBug and I poured over your very creative, very naughty suggestions. There were a few we had to nix immediately.

We apologize, but we do not do golf courses. Funky dated a golf-pro for a short period of time, and to this day LoveBug becomes madly deranged at the mention of such things golf related.

We also apologize for the fact that Funky works for the State of Florida. As such, it would be an egregious error to get caught having sex in an adult bookstore. While Funky and Love enjoy the voyeuristic things of life, we neither desire for Funky to lose her job, nor do we desire to be something a frightfully grotesque man beats off to.

We likewise apologize for not partaking of swinger-related activities. Love has been there and done that, and while it's his story to tell, suffice it to say, "he had a bad experience." (bonus points if you can tell me what movie that line was stolen from).

SELF! I know for certain none of these bloggers came by today to hear what we did NOT do. Get on with it!


So finally I say to LoveBug, well, they were nice suggestions, but we've already done the sex in public thing, and the groping in a restaurant/lounge thing. To which LoveBug responds, "Yes, but we haven't done either in about three years."

M-kay. So.

After dropping my children (who I pray do not read mommy's blog and if you are said children and you are reading mommy's blog, you must know that there are some things mommy needs all to herself, and you must respect her privacy. Likewise, remember the time you saw mommy naked? Yeah, it's like that, only more uncomfortable) onto a plane, LoveBug and I made out in the airport. Yes, in.the.airport. You see, after a year of long-distance lovin', we both are incredibly good at finding places in airports with which to release certain, um, tensions.

We proceeded to Wolfgang Pucks, where LoveBug proceeded to explore certain areas of my upper extremities with his tongue, intermittantly describing what he'd rather be eating.

We check into our hotel and Funky tries valiently to get ready for our date. LoveBug is not helping. Have you EVER had a man's mouth water so profusely out of desire, that he's drooling? I swear, it's sexier than it sounds... especially if you're looking in the mirror while his saliva trickles down to your breasts.

Fortunately, LoveBug discovered the dry cleaners ruined his shirt, so he had to go to the lobby for a new one. This gave Funky time to do some, er, gardening. Funky must now stop speaking in third-person. I barely made it out of the bathtub without exploding.

We chose Sleuth's, a murder-mystery dinner theater for our first outing. On the way, I announced that it was "Penalty-Free, Truth Syrum Friday." Darlings, the only way to find out what your man really wants, it to give him immunity in telling you what he fantasizes about while masturbating.

I barely made it out of the car.

Sleuth's is oh-so-kind as to provide unlimited alcohol during the three or so hours you are being entertained. With a bottle in me from Wolfgang's, and a glass in me from the bar, it's no wonder my hands found their way into LoveBug's pants. Bless all creatures GREAT and (not) small for making long, floor-length table cloths. Inside the theater, we greeted our dining companions, taking extra precaution to note WHICH hand we used for greeting, and which hand we used for er, shaking. An actress approached LoveBug and began flirting with him mercilessly. I'm assuming she thought he was flushed because she was so cute. I'd like to tell you what she said, but I dropped my fork.

After massive quantities of alcohol, public (and not so public) displays of, er, affection, and numerous sexual fantasies spilled throughout the night, we headed into Orlando in search of a classy jazz/cigar bar.

We.Did.Not.Make.It.

Really, I'm out of practice, and I just couldn't carry on with the tantric foreplay.

Which reminds me; I need to call the hotel manager and ask him if they were able to retrieve my stockings from the ceiling fan.

Me-Me Monday #9 -- Meet the Brat

Welcome to another installment of, "Come ON -- tell me the WHOLE story!" otherwise known as "I love to talk about myself", and in a pinch can be called Me-Me Monday. The object of the game is to refer to your 101 Things About Me list, pick one of your "things" and tell the whole sordid tale.

I've had some requests for the image, and to make life easy for you, I've put it on my flickr page. Here's your sign ;)

Make sure you replace the parenthesis with < > .

(a href="http://funkybug.blogspot.com/")
(img src="http://static.flickr.com/29/43386062_d480de8e1d_o.jpg" border="0")(/a)

Remember... no "()", but "<>"



9. I would have been a brat even if my mother hadn't rebounded with a military man.

Last week I discussed the fact that I misinterpreted the phrase "military brat" to be a brat raised by someone in the military. Well, my number 9 attests to the fact that I am, with or without Sarge's iron fist, a brat.

I have to say in all honesty, that I was always a brat, but it was buried very very deep. The brat gene was dormant. It's only surfaced in the last 4 or 5 years.

I don't think I knew I was a brat as a kid. I pretty much towed the line for fear of retribution, but looking back, I realize that I DID always have to have my way, I was just intelligent enough to manipulate circumstances to my favor. I didn't have to throw tempter tantrums, I just had to smooth talk and/or trick those around me into getting what I wanted.

Today, with the help of LoveBug, I am a full-fledged Brat. I've still got a ways to go, but here are some Exhibits for your consideration:

I refuse to carry a fake Louis Vuitton, even though I've bought several in both New York City and Rome, Italy.

I bought a fake purse in Rome, and I snub it because it's fake. Hello? I bought it in Rome!

I see absolutely nothing wrong with wearing $200.00 shoes with $20.00 jeans. The shoes redeem the jeans.

If I want to buy a $200.00 pair of shoes, I see absolutely nothing wrong with it. After all, I can't buy a $300.00 pair of sunglasses, and then wear them with Keds.

If I want something (and I'm careful with this power, I promise) I need only mention it to my husband. As a result, I have some pretty bling, a new computer (to replace the "old" computer that was only a year old) to play Sims on, and yes, I've been to Rome.

I don't know if the Brat gene will ever really come out -- but I'm definitely spoiled, and throwing a fit is something I don't really have to do. But I'm very well aware of the fact that when I want something (a thing or a moment, or whatever), I MUST make it happen.

Some will call that determination, others will say I'm just a brat. It's okay. Really.


Some of you mentioned wanting the details of my naughty grown-up night. I'll sit down tomorrow and give you all the details. I say that not only to let you know I haven't forgotten about you, but also to warn my ex-husband (who regularly reads my blog) that he might want to skip Tuesday's post.

If you play, let me know and I'll give you that linky lovin'!

Bring on the Weekend!

I'm just all over the place tonight -- forgive the random nature of this post.

Here's a thought on HNT:

Some of you are vewy vewy disobedient. When the bOSs tells you to turn off verifuckation for the day, you should do so. If I'm in a good mood, I may try to break your barrier of xoeuwnv -- but if I'm trying to get through all 300+ of you, well... it's the chance you take.

Here's a thought on the value of blogging:

CadiBug: Mom, we're out of conditioner.

Funkybug:Okay, we'll get some tomorrow night. It's 10pm, so it's too late now.

CB: We're shopping tomorrow?

FB: No, we're buying conditioner.

CB: Well, while we're out, we need long sleeve shirts and coats to wear to Indiana. It snowed.

FB: Yeah, well I've had this conversation with your dad before. You do not need long-sleeve shirts and coats in Florida because it's always warm. If you need those things in Indiana, then your dad needs to have them there for you.

CB: Not true! We need jackets here!

FB: And "jackets" you have -- a closet FULL of sweatshirts, if I recall.

CB: Oh my gosh, Mom! Have you SEEN my sweatshirts? They're so worn and outdated!!

FB: Including the sixty-dollar one I just got you at the beginning of the school year, huh?

CB: Oh, the one everyone has now? I can't be seen in the same sweatshirt everyone else has!

FB: Really? Damn! Sucks to be you.

That last line I got from Kimmy Ann. This is one of the beautiful things I've gained as a result of my blogging addiction. The best part of this line is that there is simply NO retort. For shutting a teenage mouth, it's the verbal equivalent of duct tape.

So as far as my son goes, he's been incredibly pleasant since I took his skateboard away -- well, he's been pleasant until he asks if he can have it back, and I say no. Then he slams a door or raises the pitch of his voice. His efforts at negotiating the terms of his punishment range from hysterical-funny to hysterically pissing me off.

Other than that, I've been preparing a transcript for a child molestation case.
Yeah, sucks to be me.

But that was the week -- bring on the weekend!

Speaking of which -- LoveBug and I have Saturday night sans kids, and he says we should have a naughty grown-up night out. Any ideas? I think I'm slightly out of practice.

Oh, and we've done the "Funky gets lap-dance from stripper while hubby watches" thing already, so you're going to have to do better than that.

Oh yes -- this commenting thing should be good today ;)

HNT -- Kissing My Sanity Goodbye

Why yes I am half-nekkid in this picture, can't you tell?

The rest of this post has nothing to to with Osbasso and HNT, unless of course you count the fact that I'm talking about baring your soul.

Yesterday's post was mostly for me -- getting my feelings out and sharing with people I really don't know at all (yet somehow do).

I have to say that with few exceptions, each and every comment left on His Stupid Mouth played a very large part in helping me cope with Captain Vagina. Whether you were cracking up at his smart mouth, or reassuring me that everything is going to be okay, YOU HELPED!

So here's how the after-grounding conversation went down -- let's just say I talked and he pretended to listen.

Kid, I'm disappointed for a lot of reasons. I'm disappointed because I really thought you were capable of making better choices. I'm disappointed because I really thought you knew how to handle your anger in a productive way. Mostly, I'm disappointed because since you were very little, I've tried to help you understand -- and I think you do -- that there are people in this world that are innocent. These are the people we protect. These are the people we shelter.
Your teacher is an Innocent, but instead of protecting him, you joined the mob and attacked him.

I've tried to teach you that the most important thing we can do while we're stumbling around God's earth, is to make a difference in someone's life. I guess I should have stressed that you must make a positive difference, not a harmful difference.

You have two choices every single day -- it's that way with everything, Kid. What kind of difference you make from here on out is entirely up to you. Just know that if you choose to go against everything I've taught you about love and compassion, Mommy will be here to kick your sorry little ass. Now give me a hug, and clean up your room.

It never amazes me how blogging can actually be more than just random ramblings -- it's like free therapy, and you are all my little Freuds.

So uh, yeah...thanks. Oh, and Happy HNT.

His Stupid Mouth

Two words:

"Cafeteria Scene"

That was the best television in decades. I haven't seen dialogue like that since the second season of Friends. Thanks, House. I needed the distraction.





I'm kind of at a loss with this parenting thing. Tell me how a perfectly sweet, absolutely loveable and adorable child can suddenly become an asshole?

My daughter was bitchy, but she was never disrespectful to any adult but me.

My son? Lord in Heaven help me, he mouths off to anyone that crosses him.

First referral: Mouths off to his math teacher.
Second referral: Tells said math teacher "I hope you get fired."
Third referral: Tells SAME math teacher to clean out his vagina.
Okay, actually one student in this little mob my son apparantly associates with asked the math teacher, "Don't you have anything better to do?" to which my son quips "Like clean out your vagina?" Said math teacher is of the male variety and does not at all have a vagina.



Third referral means, most likely, that all my attempts at trying to teach my now-13 year old son to be respectful have failed, and he is at the mercy of the school board. He very well may be finishing his 7th grade year at a discipline school.

I don't get this; I thought I was setting a better example. I thought I was raising my kids to take pity on the persecuted and love the unloveable. I thought I stressed that "fries with that" was the only future for a kid who doesn't value the opportunity to educate him/herself. I thought, at the very least, I had taught them that when you fuck with authority, you get fucked in return.

I vascillate between thanking God that he's not robbing liquor stores and sniffing markers, and wondering how on earth he's going to make it to adulthood.

If you work a full-time job for fourteen years, you usually get some vacation time. I'm thinking it's time to call Dr. Happy Pill and request he put me back on Lexipro.

Am I Dreaming or am I a Nutbar?

It started last night. I don't remember what I was dreaming, but I remember the underlying theme of each vignette. Try to follow...

In dreamland, no matter what I was trying to do, I couldn't keep from nodding off.

In real world, I wake up and think "What a strange dream!"

In dreamworld, I realize the reason I'm having such a hard time staying awake is that I'm asleep in real life.

And this makes perfect sense, whether I'm dreaming, or briefly experiencing a bit of consciousness.

WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?

I'm only partially Freudian when it comes to dreams. I do believe there are some things which are symbolic, but I think other things that come to us in dreams are just parts of our brain firing weirdness, and other parts of our brain tuning into the sounds outside our sleep realms (a dog barking, the a/c kicking on, the snoring of a spouse, etc...) But this was just too fucking weird.

Someone analyze this! Or -- tell me one of your weird dreams so I feel less alone and/or freakish.

Me-Me Monday #8

Welcome to another installment of, "Come ON -- tell me the WHOLE story!" otherwise known as "I love to talk about myself", and in a pinch can be called Me-Me Monday. The object of the game is to refer to your 101 Things About Me list, pick one of your "things" and tell the whole sordid tale.

I've had some requests for the image, and to make life easy for you, I've put it on my flickr page. Here's your sign ;)

Make sure you replace the parenthesis with < > .

(a href="http://funkybug.blogspot.com/")
(img src="http://static.flickr.com/29/43386062_d480de8e1d_o.jpg" border="0")(/a)

Remember... no "()", but "<>"

8. I'm an Army brat.

Okay - let me just say that there comes a time in every 101 Blogger's life that they realize they are just talking out their ass. When I sat down to write this post, I realized I had NO idea what an Army Brat really was. That's when I realized that I had, in essence created verbal ass-age. I should probably change #8, and eventually I will, but I'll just go with it for now.

According to THE INTERNETS, an Army Brat is a child of an active serviceman in the Army. See, there's where I screwed up. My step-dad Sarge married my mom when I was like, three years old. He retired from active duty about four years later. SO, technically I was not RAISED an Army brat.

An Army Brat never lays down roots because they never know when the Tree Service will come and chop them down. Again, not me.

So, I'm not an Army Brat. BUT I was raised in a military-style household. Even though Sarge retired when I was in second grade, he took a job working for Indiana University as an ROTC instructor. My house was boot camp, all day long, every day, constantly. No, the sheets didn't need to be tight enough to bounce a quarter on...that would have required Sarge to put down the bottle and fish out a quarter. However, I definitely knew the fear of mis-speaking (or speaking in general) and leaving anything, ANYWHERE it did not belong.

I had roots, but I wasn't rooted. So I guess I wasn't raised an Army brat. I was just a brat being raised by an Army guy. More on THAT next week!

You know the routine -- let me know if you play, and I'll link you up!

Flirting and Being in Love

"We got the afternoon
You got this room for two
One thing I've left to do
Discover me
Discovering you"

LoveBug came back from the gym this evening and settled into his chair. Another typical evening in the FunkyB household -- kids fast asleep, me playing Sims or blogging, LoveBug listening to Stephanie Miller and reading Daily Kos.

Or so I thought...

"One mile to every inch of
Your skin like porcelain
One pair of candy lips and
Your bubblegum tongue"

FUNKYBUG: Whatcha doin' ?
LOVEBUG: Nothin' (grins).
FUNKYBUG: I love John Mayer.
LOVEBUG: I know (still grinning).

And then, one after one, the song list rolls -- our first song, our make-out song, our break-up song, our we-were-meant-to-be-together song, and so on. Occassionally he gets up from his seat to tilt my head back and kiss me passionately.

And this is how he surprises me today. He loves me by taking care of me. He loves me by spoiling me. He loves me by kicking me in the ass (figuratively) when I don't take care of myself. He loves me by taking my daughter to the dentist and my son to a skateboarding exposition. He loves me by flirting with me -- by playing our songs, one after another, after another.

"And if you want love
We'll make it
Swimming a deep sea
Of blankets
Take all your big plans
And break 'em
This is bound to be a while"

And just when it can't get any better, when it can't get any sweeter...when he's played my songs, he runs his fingers down the back of my neck and clicks play:


"Shut your fucking face uncle fucka
You're a cock sucking ass licking uncle fucka"



LoveBug, Your Body is a Wonderland, Indeed. Your mind I worry about.

Oh how I love that man of mine.

Like I'd FORGET HNT! Pft!

I'm half-nekkid AND I'm crushing your head.
Happy HNT!

I cursed my fate because I had no shoes...

...and then I ran into this bitch on the elevator wearing Blahniks, and now I'm really pissed off!



I've never been one of those "look at the bright side" kinds of people. For one thing, in order to look at the bright side, you need sunglasses. When I think of sunglasses, I think of the $300.00 pair of Versace sunglasses I just HAD TO FUCKING BUY SO I WOULD BE COOL LIKE PARIS HILTON -- the ones I scratched the shit out of just two weeks later. And how exactly, pray tell, is focusing on the suffering of others supposed to be a "bright" anything? "Oh Funky, don't feel bad because you have to drive an hour to get to work. Some people don't even HAVE a car!" Wha??? "There but for the Grace of God go I!" WHA??? Great -- something else to worry about.

When I'm down -- depressed, or stressed, or nervous, it does NOT help to "count my blessings." If I start out counting my blessings, it usually sounds something like this:

I've got a great daughter! She's smart, and witty, and ever since she got busted by the cops for skipping school, she's been so...oh shit, I forgot to pay her Truancy Fine! Oh fuck! Now I'm going to have to go to court and explain why she wasn't in school that day. Shit -- I work for The Court! Oh goddammit, I'm going to get fired...wait, count my blessings...okay, one more time... I LOVE my new car! I love the leather seats, and the way it's so dependable because it's brand new so the transmission doesn't growl and I don't have to top it off with oil every fifty miles...shit, when was my last oil change? Six months ago? Oh FUCK my husband is going to KILL me! I can't take care of shit...all he asks is that I take the car for regular service, and keep up with the laundry and feed the...fuck, I forgot to put his underwear in the dryer. He's leaving tomorrow for a business trip and his boxers have been in the washing machine for three days...

So if I'm occassionally sad, you'll know it's because I cursed my fate because I had no shoes, and that just really starts the ball rolling.

Oh, and yes I DO know for certain she was wearing Blahniks, because her suit was Chanel, her purse was Judith Leiber, and I'm pretty sure her necklace was vintage Harry Winston.










And I hate her -- I hate her shoes, and I hate wondering what SHE counts, when she's counting her stupid blessings and looking at the bright side through haute couture sunglasses withOUT scratched lenses.

And, I'll bet she can say "haute couture" without sounding stupid.

Did Someone Say, "Blogging Revolution"?

I just finished watching Bones and House. I'm sitting in our little office off the garage, staring at my computer screen, chuckling and shaking my head.

I wrote what may be the Preamble to my Blogging Manifesto yesterday, in a sense confessing my sins and casting off the idolatry that is comment counts.

I had 30 comments on that post.

What the fuck is wrong with you people? I guess in my travels for fresh fish, I picked up some fine Beluga Caviar. You kids are wonderful.

While we're on the subject of commets, do you have ANY idea how depressing it is to find out that the blogger named Antonio who posted on your blog, was really just a spammer, and not Mr. Banderas? Goddamn you, Antonio. Spam elsewhere, you vulture of estrogen.



One last thing before I head off to visit you guys -- I just want to give a big shout-out to Hillsborough County, Florida.

FUCK YOU, HILLSBOROUGH COUNTY, FLORIDA.



Those ASS MONKEYS, those BUTT PUPPETS, those SKIRTS, caved... caved I say.
*If you don't know what I'm talking about, here's the short of it: The Muslims asked for their Holy Holiday to be recognized. The Christians got pissed, so the school board scrapped ALL religious holidays, saying that if you wanted a day off for religious reasons, you could have it -- no strings attached, no questions asked, it was yours and it was excused. Where the "Christians" happy? Fuck NO they were not happy. They yelled at the television and blamed the Muslims for the persecution they were now experiencing. What persecution, you ask? Well, "Christmas Break" was now listed as "Winter Break". Yes, they only changed the names, but left the actual calendar just the way it was. So the Muslims (how's this for peaceful?) went to the school board and said, "Oh, you know what? Never mind. Put the calendar back the way it was. This hatred being thrown at us is not good for our community." What did Hillsborough do? After three hours of bible thumping, hardline speeches by the "christian" community, THEY CAVED, and they put the calendar BACK the way it was.

YOU ASS MONKEYS.

Sincerely,



The Liberal Asshole

What? No Theme? No Comedy? No Bitching?

I was trying to think of something to post, and even though I thought about it the better part of my drive home from class, I've come up with exactly nothing. I did promise you something interesting, or at the very least, something. Well, you're getting the very least, and I hope you'll at least give me cab fare before kicking me out of your bed.

Here's the first something: There's going to be a slight change in the timing of my posts. I usually type something up and post it as close to midnight as possible, dating it for the next day. I've begun to realize, as my body has begun to revolt, that I sort of need this strange thing you humans call "sleep". So for at least a while (until the insomnia strikes again) I'll be posting sometime around 10pm, maybe earlier if the benadryl I'm sneaking into my family's food kicks in quickly. I think I'll just come around as the day unwinds and post what I'm thinking or what happened that day. Let's hope it's the former and not the later -- my days are not terribly interesting.

Here's another something: I've been thinking about this blogging thing -- why I started it, what I wanted from it, what it morphed into, and what I want from here on out. I started blogging because I wanted to write stuff -- I just wanted to write. Yeah, I'm weird like that. I like the sound of my own voice, and I like giving my thoughts a voice. Then I discovered this wacky "traffic" thing, which naturally led to this wacky "comment" thing. The next "thing" I know, I'm a comment fisherman. Yep -- I fish for comments. I actually discovered a ratio of blogs visited:comments returned (it's about 3:1 if you want to know). So I'd come home, throw something edible at my children and proceed to work the tables, so to speak.

I'm sick of the comment pond. I actually thought about disabling the comment feature, but I've made some friends, and I like it when they steal my thunder (that's you, Scott aka Purpletwinkie) or tell me they totally GET this 'cause they're exactly the same way, or give me great advice on something that is perplexing as hell.

What I don't like is that I had turned my blog into a fishing pole.

Here's another something: I realized I stopped being me in the sense that I tailored most of my opinions to please as many as possible, while offending as few as possible. If blogging is an outlet or a manner of self-expression, then I've got to stop watering down my feelings and opinions. I just want you to know that if I say or do anything that offends you, feel free to ignore it, or me, or both...OR, feel free to call me a liberal-asshole. Just know that I will take that as a compliment, k? K.

Me-Me Monday #7

Welcome to another installment of, "Come ON -- tell me the WHOLE story!" otherwise known as "I love to talk about myself", and in a pinch can be called Me-Me Monday. The object of the game is to refer to your 101 Things About Me list, pick one of your "things" and tell the whole sordid tale.

I've had some requests for the image, and to make life easy for you, I've put it on my flickr page. Here's your sign ;)

Make sure you replace the parenthesis with < > .

(a href="http://funkybug.blogspot.com/")
(img src="http://static.flickr.com/29/43386062_d480de8e1d_o.jpg" border="0")(/a)

Remember... no "()", but "<>"

#7 I was raised in Indiana by my mother and step-father.

Gary, Indiana/Gary, Indiana...no, not there... but that song always precedes any thought of writing about my hometown. I was, in fact, raised here:



Bloomington, Indiana, home of the Indiana Hoosiers. My step-dad was career military; after retirement from active service, he took a position working for the ROTC Department at I.U. We all packed up and left Hawaii to "retire" in Indiana. This is a fact I think my mother never forgave him for. There's not much to say about being raised in Indiana. All my formal education happened there: Arlington Elementary, Dyer Middle, and Bloomington North.
I know I rag on Indiana all the time, but for today, I'll admit I have some fond memories of being raised in Indiana.

I love the transit system. From as early as I can remember, and for about 25 cents, I could walk to the end of my street, hop on a bus, and go anywhere.



I loved hanging out on Kirkwood with my best friend Dara. I loved sitting on a limestone sculpture in the middle of Peoples' Park, just people watching and learning how to smoke.



I loved Cascade's Park and it's hidden waterfall. Some of my earliest soul-searching was done sitting on the rocks beneath the ever-so-small trickle of water.

Bloomington, Indiana is a jewel -- a treasure, in fact. I was lucky that I was raised there, as opposed to any number of small (and small-minded) towns just 30 minutes north, south, east, OR west. I'm thankful I learned (though I didn't realize it then) that people are people, life-styles are personal, and diversity is golden.

AND THAT'S ABOUT ALL I CAN SAY (GOOD) ABOUT THAT!
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Now I just want to thank all of you for being patient and supportive during my bout with whatever the hell I had last week. I'm still a bit under the weather in that I seem to tire very easily, but I'm going to get back in the saddle and bring you some good stuff this week -- or at the very least, I will try.

I also want to let the following bloggers know that their Sims are now created. Please meet Scotty, Shiity, Andy, and Kristina Wormsley.

Your adventures will be going online very soon at Adventures in Cyberia. Those of you who requested Sims, but don't have them yet, please be patient. It's a loving work in progress.

Happy Monday, Kids!

HNT (or, Happy Nyquil Trip)

Thursday night, as I sat here in this very chair, I said to my husband, "I'm going to bed." He looked at me with large round eyes of disbelief and said, "But it's not even 10pm!" Sure enough, it wasn't, and this could only mean one thing; FunkyB was getting sick.

Friday I woke for work to the sound of my brain pounding out an African rythmn in my ears.
"Call in sick" said the Lazy Voice
"I can't call in sick, moron. I'm covering a felony today." said i.

I drug my ass and other assorted body parts to the courthouse, only to have my felony trial turn into a plea. Yeah, you can rejoice, you tax-dollar conscious citizens, you members of the jury with a day off of work that now belongs to you and you alone. Funky was forced to play Hearts while her co-workers furiously poisoned her work space with Lysol Disinfectant.

As the case may be, HNT was shaping up to look like this:



However, as Thursday approaches, I'm happy to say that for you, JUST for YOU, Osbasso, I dug back into the archives a bit and found this shot to share.



Honestly, I'm not that refreshed-looking right now, but this is an accurate depiction of what I'll be doing as soon as I hit "Publish Post".

Happy HNT, Darlings. Funky needs a Ambien-night-night now.

Robin Needs

Goddammit this being sick thing sucks ASS. I'm finally upright, though not feeling well enough yet to want to be horizontal. My vertical hours were spent at work (sigh) and then trying desperately to catch up on all my favorite blogs. I didn't do such a great job, but if I missed you today, I'll be by tomorrow.

I did take a vertical break to greet my boys...



...then back to the office for more "catching up" and such. That being the case, I didn't have the proper amount of time to come up with the interesting post you all deserve. Instead, I leave you a soul-less meme to hold you over until Funky gets rid of the Bug.

THE RULES: Go to Google, type "[your name] needs" and all your problems are solved.

The Results of "Robin Needs"

"A normal-sized adult robin needs about 40 calories a day..."
THAT explains so much.


"Ambushes are great for acquiring the money that Robin needs to pay the ransom
for King Richard's release."
Screw King Richard. How 'bout the money Robin needs to fly back to Italy for a few months?


"Robin needs to hook up with the Ravers."
Hell YEAH! Bring on those Ravers!


"But sometimes, even Robin needs help."
Aw... that's actually sweet. It also explains so much. (I think this picture will be the inspiration for my new blog template. )