Now That’s Funny

Georgia Tech celebrates the high-point of its lackluster season by giving out “Super Bowl” style rings for finally beating UGA. (h/t PeachPundit) What’s the incentive for next season? A matching set of pearls?

Castro is still dead.

LSU looks outside the SEC for a defensive coordinator.

That’s my girl. Figures the only one in the party with a pair is THE GIRL.

And now she’s a grandma! Bristol Palin has a bouncing baby boy. Full term, no less (Andrew Sullivan, you can shut up now). Find out here what name you’d get if you were a Palin baby, too (h/t Fausta).

Here’s your 2009 horoscope, if you believe in such things.

2009 in the Sights

I went shooting today with the boys. It had been a very long time since I’d held any type of firearm in my hands. It was a different way to spend a winter’s afternoon, to say the least.

Like most everyone else, I’ve been sick with a nasty cold/bronchitis hybrid that just refuses to move on. Today was the first time in a few weeks that fresh air didn’t send me into a coughing spell. Maybe it was the smell of gunpowder – that would be an interesting question to pose to Grissom.

One thing that would rouse me from my sickbed is another stellar chapter in Cynthia McKinney’s self-perpetuating autobiography, “Stupid Is As Stupid Does.”

Ahem. Erick says

It’d be even better if the boat were stranded and no one helped so she couldn’t get back to the U.S.

Ahem. Michelle says

Move over, Hanoi Jane Fonda. Jihad Cindy McKinney is sailing to Gaza to deliver medical supplies to Hamas.

Is it a one-way ticket? We can only hope.

Ahem. Gateway Pundit has video.

After announcing for President as a candidate from the Green Party, she was immediately eclipsed by the blinding quasar of Obama and his glistening abs. So right on cue, post-election, she acts out to grab some attention from the fickle MSM. Cynthia reminds me of that old commercial with the elderly woman calling out, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Except in her case, it’s “I’m talking and I can’t shut up.” Stay in the Middle East, honey. You’ll look just mahvelous in that burqua.

Being ill and over-whelmed by the end of yet another year, I’ll leave you with the lyrics of this song.

Get Over It
by The Eagles

I turn on the tube and what do I see
A whole lotta people cryin’ “Don’t blame me”
They point their crooked little fingers ar everybody else
Spend all their time feelin’ sorry for themselves
Victim of this, victim of that
Your momma’s too thin; your daddy’s too fat

Get over it
Get over it
All this whinin’ and cryin’ and pitchin’ a fit
Get over it, get over it

You say you haven’t been the same since you had your little crash
But you might feel better if I gave you some cash
The more I think about it, Old Billy was right
Let’s kill all the lawyers, kill ’em tonight
You don’t want to work, you want to live like a king
But the big, bad world doesn’t owe you a thing

Get over it
Get over it
If you don’t want to play, then you might as well split
Get over it, Get over it

It’s like going to confession every time I hear you speak
You’re makin’ the most of your losin’ streak
Some call it sick, but I call it weak

You drag it around like a ball and chain
You wallow in the guilt; you wallow in the pain
You wave it like a flag, you wear it like a crown
Got your mind in the gutter, bringin’ everybody down
Complain about the present and blame it on the past
I’d like to find your inner child and kick its little ass

Get over it
Get over it
All this bitchin’ and moanin’ and pitchin’ a fit
Get over it, get over it

Get over it
Get over it
It’s gotta stop sometime, so why don’t you quit
Get over it, get over it

After all, why rehash the many,many disappointments of 2008? Time to move on.

Christmas Eve Gift

The Carnival of Christmas is up over at CatHouse Chat. Rejoice!


Sick Again

Clawing my way back from a case of bronchitis (thanks to the enforced boot-camp training the last few weeks), so blogging has been light.

Christmas will come whether I’m ready or not. The usual mountain of baking is not done, so I’m craving comfort food.

I really, really, really want to make these, if I can stop coughing long enough.

Season’s Greetings

From the mailbag:

To All My Democrat Friends:

Please accept with no obligation, implied or explicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low-stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasion and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all. I also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2009, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great. Not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country nor the only America in the Western Hemisphere. Also, this wish is made without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith or sexual preference of the wishee.

To My Republican Friends:

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Ok, now go read Yaacov’s annual Christmas wish.

The Christmas Memories, Part 9

Blame The Anchoress. She posted this yummy recipe, which in turn prompted this flashback.

Warning – middle school boy humor ahead.

This is a story without a real time-line, because I can’t remember exactly when this family “tradition” started. Of course, Obi is obstinately not forthcoming with details, citing fading memory but I highly suspect he’s trying to cover his Jedi backside.

My mom is an excellent cook…now. That wasn’t always the case.

I had gone off to college and Obi, back then, was just my little brother. We yet to learn of that galaxy far, far away. I came home for Christmas that first year and boy, did he get in trouble. Our mother had attempted to make a candy she’d had at one of her fancy lady get-togethers. Whether the recipe was wrong or she simply read it wrong, we’ll never know.

It was supposed to be a chocolate-covered bonbon, filled with a nutty, coconut fondant. The chocolate coating had ran; it was too thin. Without the hardening outer shell, the fondant wobbled around, because after all it was a filling. Out of desperation, she put them in the freezer, hoping they would seize up a bit.

They tasted heavenly. They looked like something out of a baby diaper.

Little brother, being his usual self, walked into the kitchen and demanded, “Who put these doo-doo balls on the table?” Hell hath no fury like a mother-learning-to-cook’s scorn. Not only did he get the blue-eyed daggers of death, he stayed in deep doo-doo (no pun intended) for quite a while.

Years passed. She continued to make them, making the same mistake every year. The next real memory I have is standing in her kitchen as my brother comes home from college, walking straight to the freezer, yanking open the door and yelling into the freezer, “Where are the doo-doo-balls?” I think she threw something at him.

She’d bring them to tailgate parties. We’d gross out anyone who wondered by when we pooped popped them in our mouth.

One year, the two of us found them and stood in front of the fridge and ate the whole bag. Again, more deep doo-doo.

To this day, she still makes them. The grandchildren cast a worried eye at them every year, wondering exactly what is in that bowl. And what’s in them that make their parents laugh so hard?

Gore Humbug

My mega-bandwidth-sucking training is almost over.

In the meantime, I couldn’t resist (h/t Newsbusters):

Twins, Separated at Birth?

So is it just me? Does anyone else feel a disturbance in The Force?

Rahm Emanuel bears an uncanny resemblance to one dark and evil dude, last known to command a massive clone army and supposedly vanquished by Obi-Wan himself.



Check his car trunk. If you see four light sabers, run for cover.

Vote for Pam for American Anti-Dhimmi of the Year!

Pam Gellar, the tireless author of Atlas Shrugs has been nominated for 2008 American Anti-Dhimmi of the Year! How’s that for recognition!?!? You go, girl!

Go here to vote for Pam.

Warm Fuzzie from the Mailbag

At the moment pleading with Obi to help me flesh out a very funny story from our childhood is falling on obstinate ears. Perhaps the weekend will help with his mental block. If that’s what you want to call it.

In the meantime, a heart-warming story from today’s mailbag (warning – mascara alert!):


It’s just a small white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas — oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it — the overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties, and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church.

These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without head gear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler’s ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.

Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And, as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids — all kids — and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball, and lacrosse.

That’s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition — one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope.

Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true Christmas spirit this year and always. God Bless! — pass this along to those friends and loved ones who you know are the givers who understand the true meaning of Thanksgiving and Christmas

Obama’s Opaque Transparency

In my many years, I used to think of “the Chicago Way” as a style of pizza that had recently migrated south. My first encounter was in Houston, Texas. Thick, high crusty sides, loaded with cheese and other yummy ingredients. One piece alone made a meal. A whole pie would feed a family of four plus the dozen of customers at the surrounding tables.

Lately, “the Chicago Way” has taken on a new meaning for me. A darker definition, especially since the beneficiary is about to be the President of the United States. What has happened to all of Obama’s campaign promises of “transparency”, the end of politics as usual, a bright, new beginning? The unicorns?

(Queue the chirping crickets)

As Ace says,

Obama did say he was going to hit the ground running. But who knew it was going to be in the style of Bill Clinton.

Clinton didn’t get in hot water because of diddling interns; he got in trouble because he LIED about it. Obama’s “rule” hasn’t even started and he’s already under a cloud of suspicion.

Vanderleun does some internet mining

Mark this as incident #56,967 of “It’s not the crime, it’s the coverup.”

My own experience tells me that:
1) When a story containing inconvenient facts is suddenly erased from a news site with no warning, that story probably contains the truth.
2) When the removal is followed up quickly by a purging of the Google cache of the story, that story contained a very sensitive truth.
3) When, finally, a lawyeresque non-disclaimer disclaimer appears on the news site to explain the erasures, the original story is a stick of dynamite with a short fuse and the reporter is either posting her resume on Monster, or hiring security, or both.

Conclusion: Neither of the two brief stories from KHQA were important at the time they were filed. Both were just brief notices that what would normally be happening after Obama’s win was happening. If you’re going to be President, you have to resign the Senate and the Gov. gets to appoint your replacement. As President-elect you are going to want to have a say in that. And you will, to a point, get it.

Both stories are just commenting on Obama’s calendar at the time. As such the source was most probably the campaign itself, or a person in the campaign close to local Chicago reporters. Just a couple of dull factoids that stated there was to be a meeting and yes there had been a meeting.

But yesterday, when the official Obama party line, issued by the campaign and spoken Obama himself, was that there was no meeting and discussion between Obama and the Blago., then these two unfortunate — preciously harmless — factoids became explosive. Explosive because they exposed the lie. And so they had to die.

Does it remind you of something? It reminds me of the people who used to disappear out of pictures with Stalin, because, well, they just did. If I can find the picture, before and after, I’ll post it.

Fausta is reserving judgment at the moment, but will we ever know the real truth? Dennis Miller is wondering how the “smartest guy on the planet” never noticed he was knee-deep in a cesspool of corruption. Was Obama “hermetically sealed”, like home-canned beans?

Rahm Emanuel (Obama’s chief of staff), the mouthpiece of the President-elect, is dodgy at best. A veteran of Chicago politics, this gig is the fruit of his many labors in the belly of the beast. Obama’s transition website is now constantly being scrubbed of questions/comments regarding Blagojevich – flagging them as “inappropriate” so the web software will automatically remove them. That’s change you can believe in.

Jesse Jackson, Jr, “Candidate #5”, seems to be suffering from the same affliction of bad date math combined with selective memory loss. Must be something in the water there in Chicago.

The Anchoress wonders if the press will someday regret sheltering Obama.

I can’t help but wonder, if this Obama/Rezko/Blago thing becomes big (and the press seemed yesterday to be trying to prevent that) will the press one day beat its breast for not “vetting” Obama and his associates as they did over “not asking enough questions” about Iraq?

Additionally, if Obama can’t (or won’t) persuade Blagojevich to resign his governor’s seat, will it be a perceived sign of weakness by our bomb-wearing friends? What then can we expect when he’s nose to nose with Putin? Ahmadinejad? Will he put daisies in the barrels of their nukes while they point them over the Atlantic?

Obama’s transparency looks pretty opaque from here.

Baby Erickson Arrives

Congrats to Erick and Christy Erickson on their new bundle of joy! A new baby makes the Christmas season even more magical.

Erick writes and runs things at Peach Pundit and RedState.

Sorry So Quiet

I’m attending a three week boot camp type of training and it zaps my energy everyday!

In the meantime, check out –

The Anchoress on President Bush’s faith,

Fausta on wise words from an atheist,

Gateway Pundit with several articles about the Illinois Governor’s investigation, arrest and subsequent hilarity,

Michelle calls it the Democratic boomerang of corruption (ouch),

Peach Pundit
on Hell Freezes Over in Georgia,

Speaking of cold places, they are still counting votes in Minnesota,

Atlas discussing the nominations for the annual Jihad Watch Awards,

and Santa’s voice mailbox is full, already.

Mike Kavanagh Passed Away Saturday

WSB Radio personality and Atlanta mainstay Mike Kavanagh passed away at his home Saturday.

The station’s website has a nice write-up on Mike’s place in Atlanta’s collective heart.

Mike’s mission was to convince consumers that investing is not difficult, that fear and greed will combine to be the worst enemies of your financial plan and the main goal of all financial planning is to create your own person “SWAN” plan — which stood for “Sleep Well at Night”.

In tribute to Mike Kavanagh Sunday, WSB rebroadcast the November 23rd show with Santa Claus. Mike’s message that day was a challenge to all of us to live with an “attitude of gratitude.”

I will miss listening to him every Sunday morning on the way to church. He had such a great voice – the kind where you can hear a person’s inner happiness.

UPDATE: From Lisa Campbell in the comments – a foundation has been started in memory of Mike.

The Christmas Memories, Part 8

Two years ago, I began a series on Christmas memories (See these if you missed them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5.1, 6 and 7.)

There are more, many more.

The year is 1993. The Oldest is in first grade and Wee Highlander is a big boy of 21 months.

A little background is in order here. All my grandparents were gone by my senior year of high school. When I married, I was lucky enough to get a new grandmother in the deal, since my new hubby’s maternal grandmother was still living. And she was a dear. Frail little thing but sharp as a tack, she lived with hubby’s mother and ruled the roost.

During the Christmas holidays, we got a call that she wanted to make the trip to our house because she’d made a special present for the kids. She lived with a life-long health issue, so traveling (even across town) was possible but arduous. They arrived one cold afternoon, and with great pomp and circumstance, she presented the Snowman Cake. I’m sure the Food Network snobs would turn up their noses at it because it wasn’t made with the latest spices from Africa or butter from free-range cows, but it was sweet and tasty and obviously a good deal of work for someone in their eighties. The snow was coconut, the pathways outlined with M&Ms and the snowmen’s faces and buttons were painted on food coloring. You see, she lived through the real Depression (not the pretend one the loony MSM wants us to believe we’re in now) and understood the meaning of handmade gifts filled with heartfelt love. It was fancy in the magical way a child would see.


Sweetness and light. We only had the pleasure of her company for a few years after this picture. She loved Christmas. I miss her most this time of year. I can still see the twinkle in her eye…

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