Thursday, August 30, 2012

I'll Taser You in the Nuts

Let's talk about stupid people, because that's what is at the heart of this blog. Sometimes we all need to vent and rage. And since there are stupid people everywhere, I have plenty to vent and rage about.



I wish.


1. The lady at Kroger who wrote a god damn check and almost made me late to pick up my kid since, once she spent some leisurely time filling it out, it took the clerk added minutes to get approved and write down all license info. Get a fucking check card.

2. The self entitled bitch who was too good to wait in the carpool line and skipped around everyone and squeezed in at the very front of the line, cutting off another car plus all of us who had already been waiting. We are all in a hurry to do shit. Wait your turn please. I'm watching you lady.

3. The asshole home repair service people who take smoke breaks and throw their butts in the street and yards of my neighborhood. That's not where they go. I don't throw my bloody tampon in your yard just because it's biodegradable, do I? Have some fucking manners.

4. The pregnant lady at the store with two kids that she just let stand in the middle of the aisles while her head was up her ass and I had to say excuse me five times. Watch your demon spawn and stop being a rude lady-douche.

And the clincher:

5. The boys in my neighborhood who have been ringing door bells at 2-3AM wearing masks and holding unidentified objects. You are the stupidest of all. Are you not aware that we live in Texas where concealed weapons are the norm and gun ownership is not simply practiced, but it is gospel? Ring my bloody doorbell at 2AM and I'll taser you in the fucking nuts. 

And so you know I'm not kidding, here are some images from the security footage of a targeted home. Yep, I went there. Criminal trespass is a crime, so if you don't want your image splashed all over the internet, then don't behave like a degenerate thug.



Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Conversation With Wiener

Wiener storms in the bathroom where I'm peeing, of course, and says:

"You have to start watching your mouth around Devil Baby!!!"

Me: I didn't say anything to her. I'm in the bathroom.

W: Well, I just walked by her and she's playing that cat game on the iPad and she's keeps saying "you fucking cat!"

Me: I didn't say anything like that to her. In fact, I haven't said 'fucking cat' all day.

W: We have to tell her she can't say those things and make her stop.

Me: I agree. I'll have a talk with her and see if she understands that she can't say that.

W: Yes, please do. It's really bad.

Me: Okay.

W: But first I'm going to force her to say it a few more times so I can record her and watch it later when I want to have a laugh.

Me: Jesus

Monday, August 27, 2012

Reasons Devil Baby Will Become A Serial Killer

Devil Baby turns three today. Sadly, she's afflicted with the second child syndrome. In other words, we've been there, done that as parents and don't have the same energy as we did the first time around, so the balance of equality is slightly skewed

I googled baby serial killer images and there was nothing good.
So I googled babies with hatchets and machetes. Again, nothing.
 So I googled babies with knives. This will have to do.


In her honor I've compiled a list of why she may not turn out quite right:

1. There are no printed pictures of Devil Baby. When Fifi was born, I had professional pictures taken of her every 3 months to document her cuteness and growth. There are boxes full of these pictures and other candid snapshots we took. I took Devil Baby for studio pictures once and never went back. Other than that, the only prints of her are on Christmas photo cards and class photos taken at her pre-school.
   
2. She has never had a big birthday party. Fifi's first few birthday parties were lavish events complete with petting zoos, ponies, bounce houses, magicians, pricey bakery cakes and lengthy guest lists. When Devil Baby turned one, we had a few close friends over and I made homemade cupcakes. (Despite rumors, I did not simply toss a capri-sun and a cupcake into her crib.) My new motto is it's about quality not quantity, so a simple family event with cake is sufficient. But boy will she be pissed when she sees pictures of her sister's soirees.

3. Birthday presents are typically re-gifted items from around the house, such as leftover school supplies and old toys re-wrapped. Everything old is new again. She's only three, so she probably won't realize items aren't brand new for another year or two. 

4. Her babyhood nicknames include 'Devil Baby' and 'fucking baby.' In my defense, we do not call her fucking baby directly. It was mostly used as an exasperated expression when she was a newborn and would wake us all up for a 3 am bottle or when she writes on the wall with markers and I loudly sigh and exclaim fucking baby!

5. Sometimes, when she's playing with our cats or approaching strange animals, I tell her to be careful because they will eat her face.

6. When Fifi was a baby, I took her to the play area at the mall regularly and enrolled her in ballet and dance as a toddler. Devil Baby is lucky to get a trip to the park once in a blue moon. 

7. She sometimes hisses "I'll kill you" in a terrifying guttural voice. Granted I sometimes sarcastically yell "I'll kill you!" at Wiener when he does something maddening, but it's usually in a high pitched voice followed by laughter and not in the demonic growl of a psychopath.

8. There's an iPad app called Talking Ginger where you talk to a sweet kitty and it repeats what you say. She argues with it fervently and is driven mad by it repeating her words in what she perceives is a high pitched taunting manner, so she starts stomping on the iPad and frothing at the mouth.

9. Unlike her sister, she wasn't breastfed. My explanation to others is that I didn't breastfeed her because I never seemed to produce enough milk the first time around, so I didn't want her to be deprived. But we all know the real reason is that I'm just too lazy and that shit hurts like hell.

10. She likes to take off her princess dress and say "It's naked party time!" That may lend itself more to a profession as a stripper rather than a serial killer, but it is still troublesome. Although, she could become a serial killer stripper. She'd lure her victims with promises of stripping, then kill them. I may have gone too far. But hey, if stripping pays for college, so be it. I must protect my vodka money by any means necessary.

Impish grin or maniacal mastermind?
You decide.


Happy 3rd birthday, my wonderfully weird Devil Baby. The world is your oyster. (Please don't become a serial killer.)

Sunday, August 26, 2012

I Do Not Have PMS, Just Rage

This post was originally entitled I Hate Everyone and was a rant spawned from my last few days of PMS driven wrath. Rather than rambling on about things I cannot change, I thought I would portray things in a different light.



It all started when I spiraled into a rage early in the week after realizing I had been de-friended by a 'friend' on facebook. Stupid, right? This person was also a business 'friend' and we have done things together as real friends, or so I thought. I understand people can use facebook however they want and maybe this person just wanted to scale down to close family and friends only- and I totally get that. But I always enjoyed seeing pictures of their sweet daughter and enjoyed their posts, so I was insulted and hurt by the de-friend. Childish I know, but it stung nonetheless.

Basically from there the next few days was a comedy of errors. Here are the highlights:

I have felt like shit all week. At the beginning of the week, I thought I was going to die. I had an excruciating stabbing pain in my back. I was convinced it was a pulmonary embolism and I would drop dead any moment. I called the doctor and after 20 minutes of explaining my concerns and symptoms, rife with fever and being at death's door, the appointment lady said "I have an appointment on Thursday at 11am." It was Monday. bitch

Whatever. I'm still alive, no thanks to her. Raquel and Lola think I'm a hypochondriac. What do they know? Plus, now I'm pretty sure it's West Nile

School starts on Monday. Hallelujah. We had meet the teacher night on Thursday and all went well, except I was fucked up the ass by the PTA.

You heard me.

I always pre-order school supplies for the next year so I'm not scrambling around five office supply stores like a rabid pit-bull looking for a bone in search of different colored folders and specific sized scissors and various width ruled paper that some masochistic tenured teacher created on a whim.*

When we got to Fifi's new classroom, the supplies I pre-ordered last year weren't there. We were sent to talk to the PTA, where we found a growing line of 20 parents anxiously waiting to rip someone a new asshole. Little did they know it was our assholes that were going to get ripped.

I was told we weren't on the list of those who pre-ordered, as were the other parents standing there. We were informed unceremoniously that we had to "prove" we pre-ordered our supplies. Prove?  I would like to prove that my checkbook will fit up your ass. (That's a lie. I don't have a checkbook, persay. Perhaps a debit card would work.)

Obviously someone didn't turn in a whole bunch of orders and checks. Shame on me for not noticing the check was never cashed. I know, tiny violins for my First World Problem.

No amount of arguing mattered, so I kept calm and carried on to the store knowing I had to get supplies irregardless of who was at fault. And I was on a Starbucks fueled rampage to get it done; vaguely resembling a cracked-out lunatic scavenging through the piles of goods looking for the right brands, sizes and colors. An orange folder with pockets and brads, a yellow folder with pockets only, and they must be vinyl, an 11x7 vinyl pencil case with grommets for fuck's sake!  What's with all the vinyl?

To top it off- that night devil baby (who does great at school and always uses the potty) comes home, takes a bath, runs around naked and brings me a small sparkly make-up box and says "pee pee."

She totally pissed in the box. 

Piss box. You're welcome.

So that's the highlight reel of my week. With any luck, next week devil baby will be perfectly potty trained and Fifi will graduate college so I can drink my vodka in peace and not worry about school supplies or finding piss in random boxes. A girl can dream.


*I'm sure they have a pool on who can drive the most moms bat shit crazy with their evil and fucked up school supply lists. They'll be sorry when I stroke out. Unless that's their plan. Well played masochistic teachers, well played.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Texts From Wiener- 3



Look at the times- well the first one is hard to see, but it says 7:07 PM. Talk about a delayed response.

Also, maybe honesty is not always the best policy. Some things are definitely TMI.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Though You Will Be Tempted, Please Do Not Call CPS

Do you ever want to just punch your kids in the face? Like, for real?

I'm not a violent person. I've had my share of people who annoy or piss me off, but I have never been prone to actual physical violence. Ok, so technically I have thrown a remote control at Wiener's head a couple of times and have threatened to kill a few people, but my bark is worse than my bite.

But no one has ever incited rage in me quite like my evil minions. They really are good kids for the most part, but there are still a lot of days I want to literally throttle them.

Now before you get all pc and call CPS, just relax. I have never throttled them or punched them in the face. Like everyone else, we have our good days and our bad. This was a bad day.

The novelty of summer is wearing quite thin around our house. Devil baby actually still goes to pre-school three days a week, but Fifi is here most days. So being bored as usual, Fifi begged Wiener to play a game or do some science or magic tricks with her. He obliged and she had a snit fit the entire time because she wanted to do each part herself and, unfortunately, one trick involved lighting a candle and allowing her to play with fire was a non-starter.

After the scientific experiments were over, both girls whined and begged for more. Fifi was pouting and saying she didn't get to do anything (even though she did) and the situation just went to hell in a hand basket. I went into a frenzy calling them ungrateful little shits that were never happy or satisfied with anything.

Then I did what all other moms do when at whit's end- shut down and drifted off to Fantasyland. You know what Fantasyland is; the special place in your head where you're convinced other kids are perfect and wonder how you ended up with the demon spawn. Then you start comparing yours to these fictitious perfect children and imagine delightful family scenarios you're sure are taking place right this very second in all homes worldwide.

Admittedly, Fantasyland is mostly a product of Disney movies and Facebook posts by braggart parents, but I daydreamed nonetheless:

I was imagining life in the late 1800's. Two rosy cheeked young nymphs were gathered at their father's knee watching in amazement as he performed mysterious feats like producing a doubloon (maybe they were a pirate family) from their ears.

They squealed with sheer joy and their eyes were as round as saucers. "Oh papa, that is a wonderful parlor trick. Thank you so very kindly for spending time with us, sir. It was very fine indeed, pip pip Cheerio." (Maybe they're British. British kids can't misbehave with those accents, can they?)

Disturbed by more whining, I paused for a moment to tell devil baby to shut her baby hole or go to time out. Fifi then said she would pour water on me and watch me melt because I'm a witch. Touché.

I know what you're thinking. I'm just a big fat meanie and why did I have kids in the first place if I wasn't going to adore their every waking breath and delight in their impish ways? Especially since so many want kids and cannot have them, I should be more appreciative of them and never think thoughts of harm or punishment, right?

Whatever, you liars. You know deep down you'd pop the little shits if you could. You're just jealous I have the balls to admit it.


Devil Baby


*No minions were throttled, punched or popped in the making of this post. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Mom of the Year- Blood Type Edition


Fifi: Hey mom, what's my blood type?

Me: I don't know.

F: Tell me.

Me:  I don't know. Why? Were they talking about a blood shortage on tv of a certain blood-type and you're panicking?*

F: No, but tell me!

Me: Don't worry, I don't mine either.

F: I want to know. Please tell me mom.

Me: I don't know!

F: PLEASE

Me: Look. I don't even know who your sister's father is.

F: (Glares angrily) There is a lesser percentage of getting a certain disease depending on your blood type, so tell me what it is.

M: You are not at risk for whatever shit they are talking about. Go turn the freaking news off now


I am an awesome parent. That is all.

*Fifi has an issue with irrational fears, so I saw this coming.

Bad moms in blood-type related lineup. 


Of course it is. When it's not wine.



Wednesday, August 15, 2012

I Like the Vodka Too

This afternoon I was telling Raquel about a blog I'm currently in love with called Like the Vodka. 

I was explaining the premise- An American wife and Russian husband; she calls him The Russian and posts about their conversations and funny scenarios due to language and cultural differences.

I was saying how it was impossible to read it without herring* his dialogue in a Russian accent whenever she wrote the husband's words.

So I read an excerpt of a post aloud:


Wife: Where's Ivan gonna get a bear?

TR: He already has, in the freezer.

W: Ivan has the bear in the freezer?

TR: Ecktually, just the hand...

W: What exactly is a bear hand?

TR:  You know, in the front. The bear uses to operate.

W: The bear is a surgeon?


My Russian accent was an epic fail but we were laughing hysterically.


Raquel: We have to get us a Russian.

Me: I just peed myself a little.

R: Remember that hotel where I worked and my boss was Indian and always messing up phrases like instead of 'mountain out of a mole hill' he'd say 'mountain out of a speck' or something?

Me: Yes, bahaahha!


So basically we want a foreigner to hang out with so we can make fun of their accent and misinterpretation of sayings for our personal amusement. Naturally. #morereasonswearegoingtohell

I don't know if this foreigner would follow us around, come over at set appointment times or be a part of our group. It would seem unfair taking them out with us and ridiculing everything they say. But it does sound entertaining, so I'm game.

So when Raquel says 'We need a Russian.'

I say Egg-zectly!


(*hearing... Apropos typo, so it stays)

More fitting than you know.
image via



Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Quelle Horreur

I'm going to let you in on a secret that might have me ostracized world wide. 

I really don't care about the Olympics. collective gasp

Don't care to watch. Don't care who wins.

I don't think that makes me un- American. Or even un-Chinese, un-Russian, un-Greek and un-every-other-country-in-the-world. And not even un-Olympic.

It's not as if I don't think they are worthwhile and important. It's just that I have no interest in watching them. I don't bother watching other sports, so why should I start now?

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for flexing our country's athletic prowess and some healthy competition, but I don't want to spend hours watching each event. Just listening to the commentators is torture in its own right.

The last few weeks have been an Olympics overload on the senses. The television figuratively vomiting the subject from every orifice. I'm sure my Toshiba would do it literally if it could. 

At dinner one night in Tulsa, our table was flanked by giant televisions replaying momentous Olympic achievemenets like Keri Strug's historic vault. It was also discussed at dinner that Olympian Shannon Miller was from a small Oklahoma town nearby. In the hotel room, Lola and Raquel watched events and marveled over Oscar Pistorius. (I couldn't remember his name so I literally had to google 'who was the no legged Olympian in the 2012 Olympics' #goingtohell)

The news reported on who won which events regularly. Networks aired triumphs and tragedies of Olympics past. Facebook was a flutter with posts about the opening ceremonies and dismay with the time delay.

It has been one giant voyeuristic Olympic orgy.

When it's over just let me know the number of gold medals we won so I can start wagering on how many will be revoked for scandals like steroid use, intelligibility due to sexual re-assignment surgery or inappropriate texting of wing wang photos aka behavior unbecoming of an Olympian.

Now, if they added some events like wine tasting, name that tune and power shoe shopping before your demonic toddler throws a tantrum in the store, I may be down to watch. Or enter.

Or how about an event where participants must make an edible and appealing dinner using the sparse ingredients of a semi-empty fridge and pantry in 30 minutes ala Chopped. While hurdling small children and pets. And refereeing sibling smack-downs. And yelling at a husband to turn down the volume on the god damned television.

I would totally watch that shit.


Even the Queen is bored.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Texts from Wiener: Part Deux

This was a very special Mother's Day conversation:


Can you feel the love?

In other news, I'm an awesome mom! 

Friday, August 10, 2012

Shit People Say

Things said out loud to me while sober: 
(Well, at least I was sober. Not sure about them)


Aesthetician while giving me an eyebrow wax before my 20th high school reunion: You know, you should get a Brazilian before your reunion. I could do it now.
Me: What the hell do you think I'll be doing at my reunion that requires a Brazilian?!


Clerk at target: I like your nipple. 
Me: *???* (She may have said I like your necklace, but she had an accent and I still can't figure out how nipple could sound like necklace. Also, my nipples weren't showing. That time.)


Nurse after childbirth while looking at my hoo ha as the doctor stitched me up: *making a frowny face* You're really swollen.
Me: *Ya think?* #awkward


Car salesman: Where did you go to high school?
Me: The 'local now known as wealthy part of town high school.'  
Car salesman: That explains the bleach blonde hair.
Me: Um, okay?? *WTF?? Guess who's not buying a car from you?*


Young European guys at a resort in the Bahamas: Do you want to go to the disco?

This was directed at Raquel and I while vacationing there years ago. I'm pretty sure the A Night at the Roxbury characters were based on them. 

We did not go to the disco. But we did go on the booze cruise. 






Thursday, August 9, 2012

Texts from Wiener

Today I will begin posting a series of screenshots of texts I have received from my husband, Wiener.

This way y'all have a better idea of what I'm dealing with here.




In case you're not iPhone proficient, my texts will always be in blue or green and his will always be white. Some I will explain and others need no explanation.

In this one, I texted him in response to an e-mail he sent to a client (A CLIENT!!!) where he used "your welcome."

I am somewhat of a grammar Nazi, although I know I'm not perfect. So this is why he got chastised.

Enjoy.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Don Johnson and the Highway to Hell

What better way to start a road trip headed to a 40th birthday bash for a pal in Tulsa, which was expecting 113 degree temps, than with a case of walking pneumonia?


Not actually seen on our trip.
Although there were rampant wildfires
in Oklahoma that weekend.

But vodka will kill the germs and the hotel has AC, right?

What the fuck, Tulsa- why so hot?

So we're locked and loaded and ready to hit the road for the five hour drive beginning at 10am. 

Just us four girls- me, Raquel, Lola, Baby D and our friend J-Dawg, also known as our personal man-butler. Baby D and J-Dawg are not famous gangsta rappers, they just play them on this blog.

J-Dawg riding dirty.

We packed four bottles of whipped vodka, Malibu rum and some mixers. 

Also in our bag of tricks: Hydrocodone-check. Z-pack-check. Pepto-check. Antacid-check. Imodium-check. Ibuprofen-check. It was almost like packing for nursing home patients on a day trip to the craft store.

This trip almost didn't happen. The preliminary stages were fraught with karmic turbulence.

The car we planned on taking needed some last minute emergency steering column repairs. Baby D had a family crisis and her childcare arrangements weren't finalized until the night before. Lola had childcare issues too, as her soon to be ex-husband was giving her shit.

Lola and I both had walking pneumonia. Well, technically I was diagnosed with severe bronchitis that could turn into walking pneumonia, but I won't be out done. So for dramatic effect, I'm going with pneumonia.

Raquel had no karmic setbacks, but she mentioned she might be prone to explosive diarrhea, so if anything was going to happen, it would go down in the car. 

There were a few other minor issues but in the end we said fuck it, we ride!

The drive there was fun and uneventful. We played games, jammed to some tunes and saw the tree where J-Dawg once took a shart on a previous road trip where he was forced to use his skivvies as toilet paper and left them there glistening in all their mustard-color stained glory.

We made a pit stop at a drive thru animal park where we saw llamas, rhinos, ostrich, goats, zebra ass and some very well hung donkeys.


Zebra ass.

We were almost ass raped by a camel who stole my cup of feed, but we made it out alive. Mostly it was hotter than the inner bowels of hell, so basically the animals would rather die of starvation than leave the shaded trees to come near our car.


You sure do have a pretty mouth.

At the hotel / casino we freshened up, had dinner and played some slots. Later we met up with the birthday girl and her posse and hit the club.

I was never much of a dancer until recent years. I guess when you're staring death in the face at 39 all your previous hang ups go out the window and you say what the hell.

Also, you should know I went from no dancing to freakazoid. That's kind of like going from demure makeup to full on whore face. You only live once and I have years of no dancing to make up for, so someone's getting humped.


My lovely lady lump.
Humping crotch. (too far?)

We had fun busting a move on the floor with the birthday girl- dirty dancing, shaking our asses and such. 

Her brother, Scooter took lots of pics and videos that we still have yet to see, but I have a vague recollection of some of the poses and fear we might have pulled off something straight out of the credits for The Hangover. 

I also got a sweet lap dance from hunky Scooter and I didn't even have to pay for it. All in all, not a bad night!

Anyone have some singles?

Day two was spent hung-over at the pool frying in the heat and drinking piña colada's.


I'm wearing a push up bra under my suit.
True story.

That evening was a night one re-boot. Dinner, then the club. 

Word at pool from the locals was Saturday night the club was "the place to be in Tulsa" so the line to get in could be over an hour wait if you didn't get there early. So like old people at a buffet, we got there when they opened at 8:30 in order to get a good spot.

We enjoyed the early bird entertainment of old drunk redneck dancing with old bouffant haired lady. They had some smooth disco moves until he squatted like he was going to drop a deuce on the floor and was obviously too drunk to go on.

All the members of our group arrived and the DJ was spinning some mad tunes. We were getting our drink on and after one Cosmo and a beer Lola and I felt like we had been roofied. Either that or the bartender whose freakishly long goatee she was stroking all night doubled up on the strength of our cocktails.

Towards night's end everyone was summarily wasted, laughing their asses off and shaking what our mamas gave us.

And that's when we saw him.

A dude dressed head to toe in a white leisure suit, white t-shirt, gold chains and red Nikes.

It was motherfucking Don Johnson.


How you doin?
Circa Miami Vice.

Lola pulled him into our girl on girl dance fest where he informed her that he was Pittbull's cousin. "You know who Pittbull is, don't you?" he asked.  Lola said "no" but she was thinking yes. 

We wouldn't want Don Johnson to think he was impressing anyone with his bullshit story.


One of these things...
Is not like the other.

At some point Don got too close to the birthday girl and her husband was uncomfortable and told him "OK, time to move on, Don Johnson" to which he replied "fuck you!" And that was met with a swift grab to the throat.

So long story short, we got kicked out of the club because Don Johnson is an asshole and a high school principal has an aversion to being told "fuck off" and will throat grab a motherfucker.

Later, there was much speculation as to if Don Johnson was foreign and thought his fashion was the "in" style. Or if he was wearing the over-sized white leisure suit as a joke. Or if he thought he looked like the bomb.

I thought of asking him the next morning when I ran into him in the elevator when I headed down to get some Starbucks. But I was so caught off guard and in disbelief that I ran into him at 10am the next day and he was still in the same clothes that I was rendered utterly speechless.

There is much more I could share but will keep to myself, like the in-room hijinks...


Whatever you do, don't fall asleep.
Or pass out.

And ghostly apparitions...


Ghost hand- see it?

Mostly because some things are better left unsaid and the innocent should be protected. Also, if I tell you, I'd have to kill you because I couldn't use it for blackmail later.

I'm not sure how we made it home. It's all pretty much a blur of flying down the highway at warp granny speed and fast food drive thru's. But we made it home safely and I shall live to tell another tale.

Surprisingly, no one had explosive diarrhea after the ungodly combination of Taco Bueno, Sonic, McDonald's, Cracker Barrel and gas station snacks we ate.

Although one of us did hurl.

A lot.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Why I'm Not Going to Chick-fil-A Today

So at first I wasn't all on board with the Chick-fil-A boycott. I'm not sure if I'm ready to say I'm formally boycotting them. That sounds so official and I am pretty lazy and participating in anything official freaks me out.

And I'm not sure how long I can hold out on going- especially with all the God damned Chick-fil-A articles, ads and posters all over the internet and Facebook. Everywhere you look they're talking about Chick-fil-A.

Derogatory or not, reading them makes me want chicken sandwiches.

But, I certainly won't participate in a Support Chick-fil-A Day just because everyone else is doing it.

Who cares what Dan Cathy said about them believing in family values and the traditional marriage arrangement. They are entitled as humans to have their own opinion as is everyone else.

A little background in case you haven't heard: During an interview with the Baptist Press, Chick-fil-A President Dan Cathy addresses what the publication describes as his franchise's "support of the traditional family."

"We are very much supportive of the family- the biblical definition of the family unit. We are a family-owned business, a family-led business, and we are married to our first wives. We give God thanks for that- we know that it might not be popular with everyone, but thank the Lord, we live in a country where we can share our values and operate on biblical principles." Dan Cathy read the entire interview here

I may not agree or see things the same way, but it's his opinion, so whatever.

They don't refuse to serve same sex couples, unwed mothers, single moms or dads. I'm willing to bet they even employ same sex couples, unwed mothers and single moms and dads. All non "traditional" and certainly not biblical.

So I could easily overlook his personal views and the views of others in the company and go to town on the business end of a chicken sandwich with extra pickles.

But what stopped me is Chick-fil-A's affiliation to anti-gay groups and their endorsement of them by donations. read about it here

Fine. Maybe some of those groups have other redeeming qualities and deserve support. But the negative qualities and anti-gay propaganda they do particiape in, in my opinion, outweighs the good and makes me pause to think about supporting them or not.

Imagine if Major Corporation X donated to a White Supremacist Organization. 

Maybe this White Supremacist Organization also did good things in the community like planted trees, built homes for homeless white people and renovated white churches- but they also sometimes spread just a little hate and intolerance about non white people and how if you're not white you should have no rights or be dead...I'm sure that would be fine.



OK- so maybe I'm being overly dramatic in my analogy. But when true equality is at stake, I like to pull out all the stops.

I know what you're thinking- corporations can donate their money where they see fit. That may be true...

Just as I'm free to spend my money where I see fit.

And that's why I won't be going to Chick-fil-A on Support Chick-fil-A Day. 

Also, I won't be going until Brad and Angelina tell me it's OK because they are the supreme authority on all things controversial and where I get all of my political advice. read this Plus, they prefer McDonald's see