I like to pay tribute to people who inspire me in any way, and tonight is no exception. While my email is overflowing with various pieces of advice and fantastic no-coupon-needed deals from very sincere-sounding people, I’m singling out three whose messages truly touched me.

I learn so many fascinating things from the lovely strangers who like to flood my email with information. Thank you so very much, Rashae’el Ingram, Dr. Lina Wilkins, and Moustafa Picou! Without you three, I would never have known how to lowr me morttgage, loose them swirly pounds, or get a nu lease on live with my new big dick.

I can’t help but notice, however, that my email self-help-file contains all kinds of information on how the men can get bigger, and the women can get smaller.

This seems rather one-sided to me.

Of course, I also believe that all men who fall for this stuff have little teeny tiny. . . well, you know. I’m a lady so even though I can quote “dicks” I can’t bring myself to say “dicks.” And all women who fall for this stuff should have stayed in high school.

What a bunch of dicks.

Whoops. Busted.

Oh well. To paraphrase Robin Williams as Leslie in Toys, “War – and spam – are the domain of the small penis.”

Oopsies. Did it again.

My dishwasher is making a funny noise. Also, the cats are in the garage and I hope they don’t poop on the comic books.

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly

I think there’s some kind of sports thing today. Either that, or over half the town called each other on the phone last night and made plans to wear the same colors.

Good thing we didn’t have any money to eat out; I hate sharing a restaurant with a thousand old people wearing college sweaters and baseball hats or berets * in their team’s colors, and it’s even worse when it’s pro: the fans of a bunch of semi-illiterate millionaires prancing around on a field, not really caring whether they win or lose as long as they get paid, lose all sense of propriety and any etiquette they might once have had, put on their colors and take over the town.

In a school, that would be gang stuff and they’d all be expelled.

I’m not speaking to the sane football fans who understand that it’s nothing but a game, like Candy Land is a game. I’m referring to people who think football, or any sport, is a lifestyle to be imitated and envied, and that those guys EARN their millions.

Um, yeah.

Hahahahahahahaha

Back in the middle school, the men used to run a gambling pool for the Superbowl and I almost always won. They asked me for my secret year after year and I’d never share because I LIKED to be the only winner and it gave me a lot of smiley satisfaction to take home a hundred bucks or so every year for a game I didn’t give two hoots in hell for. However, enough time has passed, so I’ll tell my secret now.

How I picked the winning Superbowl team year after year even though I don’t know beans about sports: I picked teams with pretty colors and players with sexy legs.

Yup, that’s it.

Hey, my strategy worked! How’s yours doing? Thanks for all that money over the years, guys.

The college doesn’t run “pools.” Too bad. I could use the money.

By the way, who’s playing? Did anybody get a look at their legs?

As for the commercials, I’ll look those up later this week on the “internets.” Also, I’d respect those businesses a lot more if they put that much effort into their ads all year, instead of just for the one occasion. It’s like, they’re only truly interested in wrinkly old people who wear “colors” out in public and talk really loudly in restaurants. Then again, those old people gots money, and businesses are all about people with money.

People like me. . . not so much.

*In France, “sweet.” Anywhere else, “old man.”

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly

Oh, how I dearly love the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain. . . .

I’ve told you so before, and I’m telling you again: whimsical, talented, brilliant, and classically funny.

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly