A personal note to Mr. Kile Wygle

By Zeichenpress

Hi Kile Wygle!!!

You made it!! Your silly name is plastered all over the internet!! Congratulations.

Charged with Driving While Intoxicated… On a bar stool.

You rascal! 

I thought it especially interesting that you revealed the potential top-speed of your bar stool to the arresting officer. 38 mph DOES kick ass, Kile Wygle! Where to from here, Kile Wygle? 28 years old and THIS under your belt. 20-somethings always have to show off! I’m sure you are googling yourself (now that you’re out of the drunk-tank) and have run across this blog post. And thank goodness, I have some advice for you:

Do not dismay. There is SO much more to do. Let this bar-stool-DUI be the impetus for a fresh series of Jack-Ass style accomplishments. I have some ideas – you don’t even have to give me credit:

1. Turn an ordinary life-raft into a an inflatable suit. Get drunk. Float down the Mississippi.

2. Dig a 6 foot pit in your neighbors yard. Get drunk. Climb inside and yell for help.

3. Go to the Minnesota State Fair. Get drunk. Offer $5 piggy-back rides to old women.

4. In the middle of the night – in a school parking lot, build a full-size cabin out of Lincoln Logs. Get drunk. Pass out in the doorway.

5. Gain 800 pounds. Pin a note to your bib demanding you be launched into space as the first human satellite. Get drunk. Attend upcoming NASA convention.


Do not disappoint us, Kile Wygle.

Published in: on March 31, 2009 at 9:38 pm  Comments (13)  

Is That Policy Current?

By Katie

I hit things sometimes. 

With my car. 

I’m not proud of it. 

I’m a bad driver, OK? I never took driver’s ed, true story. I just occasionally sat on the lap of the dirty old man who taught it in high school, and come report-card time, lookee that, I passed. I didn’t even bother to get my license until I was 19.

I do have a vague recollection of some sort of driver’s test, I mean orange cones and two-foot-high stop signs were involved…oh, wait. That was my bachelorette party, forget it. Um, my point is, I have a license now. How I got it shall remain a mystery.

I’ve never hurt anyone, nothing serious like that, my mishaps tend to be parking or backing-up related. I bonk into pylons or telephone poles, sideswipe the odd retaining wall. A few days ago, I backed into a Camry and took off its rear bumper (I left a note, he called). Because I know this about myself, I usually drive pretty slowly at all times. Yep, I’m one of those people. 

The other day I was driving very early in the morning, I mean it was probably around 8:30, which maybe isn’t all that early to actual contributing members of society but for a lay-a-bout like myself it is, and I was still quite logy with sleep. In the road ahead of me was a garbage collector standing next to his truck, and as my car got closer to him I thought to myself, very calmly mind you, “I’m going to hit that guy.” 

My car seemed drawn to him like a paper-clip to a magnet and the thought got louder: “I’M GOING TO HIT THAT GUY.”

I didn’t. I gained control of the situation, sparing him an early death and me an uncomfortable conversation with my husband, but I’m telling you, it was weird. For a moment there, I completely forgot I was in charge of the car. Jaysus. 

So what’s the moral of this story? I have no idea. I guess I should drive less or drink more coffee or maybe get a scooter instead.

Published in: on March 27, 2009 at 3:25 am  Comments (1)  

The Looooove Shack

By Wingnut

A friend of mine recently lent me her copy of the book “The Shack”.

“It’s wonderful!” she said.  “It’s about a guy who spends a weekend in a cabin with God.”

Sweet.  I like books about God.  Y’know, the bible and stuff?  Okay, I’ve never actually read the bible, but I’ve seen some of the movies and they rocked.  The Ten Commandments, Ben Hur, The Passion of the Christ.  I feeeeel like I’ve read the bible.  Heck after watching The Passion, I felt like I’d been beaten with it. (editor’s note: that’s what she said.)

Seriously though, some of my favorite books of all time are about God and people’s relationship with Him so The Shack seemed like a good bet for me.

I’ve read The Robe, by Lloyd C. Douglas, at least four times and I loved it every time. It’s my favorite depiction of Jesus in fiction and He’s not even in it.  What you get is a description of Him  from His friends and followers.  The portrait that emerges is one of a man of great charisma,  humor, compassion and wisdom.   By the end of the book you totally buy why His followers would follow Him through Hell to Heaven.

Heaven’s Own by David West is a book I’ve read more times than I can count, including aloud to my kids.  They love it, too.  It’s the story of six year old Danny, who has a bone to pick with God.  He gets a chance to visit Heaven, sneak into Hell, go nose to nose with the Devil and get some answers from God.  It’s a brilliant book that deals with loss, acceptance, what Heaven and Hell mean and how we, as individuals  see God and most of all, how God loves each of us.  It also ends with the best joke I’ve ever heard.  Unfortunately it seems to be out of print.

Illusions by Richard Bach is also apparently out of print.  I love this book.  It doesn’t claim to be about God, but it is.  The Master in the story is very philosophical and wise.  I don’t remember what happens in it and I seem to have lost my copy but I do remember a few of the things the Master said, like “fight for your limitations and sure enough; they’re yours.”

Finally there’s The Shadow on the Earth, by Owen Francis Dudley.  This is one of my favorite books of all and one of the three that most influenced my thinking.  This was written in 1926.  My parents had a copy that was forty years old when I read it for the first time, thirty years ago.  The Shadow on the Earth deals with human pain and suffering and is written as an argument against the prevailing cultural philosophies of the day.  The story is wonderful and the book is awe-inspiring.  Naturally it’s been out of print forever.

I was looking forward to The Shack.  I guess it’s a huge bestseller.

I should’ve remembered that the Jonas Brother’s are a huge best seller, too.  For an old Beatlemaniac like me, they’re not so great.

The Shack belongs on a shelf with the Jonas Brothers.

Too many words!  Young should read some Hemmingway to see how a story can be told with an economy of words to pack more power.  Charles Dickens could get away with using two paragraphs to describe a door but if you aren’t Dickens, you shouldn’t even try. (editor’s note: someone told me he got paid by the word. I don’t know if that’s true or not and I’m too lazy to google it.)

Not only that, but the story is irritating.  First, let’s tug on your heartstrings, really really hard.  Then, once you’re all lubed up with tears, we’ll shove your head really really high up your own back door where you’ll find a Holy Trinity who spouts one insipid inanity after another. 

Note to the author, William P. Young;  if you’re going to write a novel featuring a well known historical figure, such as, say…JESUS, it’s probably a good idea to acquaint yourself with the historic record.  Jesus’ teaching style isn’t exactly a secret.  For credibility’s sake you should stick to it.  But no, as with too many modern folk, Young rewrites God in his own flacid image. Well, I haven’t met Young, but I’m guessing. 

One of the stupid things Young’s God says is, the world would be a less violent place if women were in charge.

You know, I hear this a lot. 

I know a few women. 

I disagree.

I think I’ll write a ‘true story’ about Rosa Parks, the latino who sparked the women’s movement when he refused to give up his seat on the space shuttle.

Published in: on March 27, 2009 at 2:42 am  Leave a Comment  

You’ve Crossed the Line

By Katie

Zac Efron has bowed out of the Footloose remake. 

And I thought the Natasha Richardson story was bad news. 

Mmmmm…I’m watching Brian Denehy on Rules of Engagement and he’s eating brownies…delicious, chocolaty brownies…mmmmmmm…none for me, I gave up sweets for Lent… I’m sick of Lent! I don’t even understand it! I give stuff up for Jesus? What did Jesus ever do for me??

Um…scratch that. I’m sorry.

I want to dive head first into a vat of Hershey’s syrup. Sure, no sugar is probably making me “healthier”, but it’s also making me blaspheme. So you tell me who wins in this scenario. 

I’m sorry about the Natasha Richardson crack, too. Really sorry. She and Jesus are up there mainlining girl-scout cookies and I’m sitting here, hungry and bitter and watching C-grade television that’s not even in high-def.  I’m sorry in more ways than one. 

But I’ll not apologize  for saying this: ZAC EFRON, WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Wha? What’s that, Zac Efron? Too good for Footloose, is that it? Don’t want to be ‘typecast’, that’s what your press release said. I’ve got news for you, Zac Efron, YOU COULD DO WORSE.

You could do worse than starring in a re-make of one of the best pieces of cinematic horse-sh** of the last 30 years. You could do a whole hell of a lot worse than to step into Kevin Bacon’s dancin’ shoes, punk. YOU INSULT KEVIN BACON WITH YOUR IMPUDENCE. It’s not bad enough he had his fortune frittered away on prostitutes by Bernie Madoff, now he has to withstand your upturned nose at the role that launched his career? A career the likes of you would be lucky to have?


And I never will, sir. 

I never will.

Published in: on March 24, 2009 at 2:11 am  Comments (6)  

Guess Which One I Am

By Katie

I realize that I’m running the risk of being the contributor who only ever talks about girl parts and the myriad issues associated with said parts, but I can’t help it that most of the commercials that run while I run on the treadmill are about aforementioned parts. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. I shoulda been a lawyer.  

What I’m trying to say is, I love the new Yaz commercials. Apparently the old Yaz commercials weren’t clear enough, so the new commercials are trying to set the record straight. I’m not even really sure what Yaz is; some sort of pill that gives PMS-ing women a temporary lobotomy or something. Oh, wait…Yaz is not for women with PMS or moderate acne.  Yaz is for women with PMDD, which is like, really, really bad PMS, and extrememly horrible acne. If you are just a moderate zit-covered bitch for 3 days a month, then Yaz is not for you. If you are an absolute raging, boil-covered bitch 3 days a month, then by all means, ask your doctor to prescribe you some Yaz. If you’re not sure which one you are, ask your husband or boyfriend. But give him a good head start first. 

Published in: on March 24, 2009 at 1:40 am  Comments (3)  

Don’t Cry, Nerds

By Muzz

Battlestar Galactica is over, the series finale was tonight.  It’s been on every Friday night in my house, but I admit I only occasionally paid attention. So tonight, I read the new Maxim while my beloved said goodbye to some friends- Human and Cylon.  As the end credits rolled, he stared at the tv and uttered what has become an all to common (I’m talking to you, Sopranos!)  lament at the end of a television series: “I’m confused.”

Me: “What happened?”

He: “Its over.”

Me: “I know. What happened?”

He: “Well, this kid was kidnapped, so they decide to go get her. Then some shit happens, so then they fight the Cylons…”

Me: “The bad guy robots?”

He: “Yep, and there’s some code-song, and then they shoot into hyperspace and find a planet to live on that looks like Earth. And some of the robots- nice ones- stay with them on new Earth.”

Me: “Huh.”

It sounds to me like a couple of 9-year-olds wrote the show, but that’s cool I guess. So how are all the nerds gonna shake off the work week now that it’s over? (If you watch the show and are offended that I refer to you as a nerd then I say, C’mon, 9pm  Friday night? On the Sci-fi network? Let’s call a spade a spade.) Well, the Sarah Connor Chronicles are on at 7, (not my cup, but whatevs) and at 8 is Dollhouse, the new show from uberdork extraordinaire Joss Whedon, the genius behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer and one of my all-time favies, Firefly.

Dollhouse, starring Eliza Dushku, is about these goofs who live in a totally sweet underground lair and wander around  like retarded toddlers who swim and do tai chi all day, until they are rented by somebody and their brains are programmed for a day to be the perfect date or housewife or sex slave or camping buddy or what-have-you. Eliza Dushku doll (I forget her name; Echo maybe? Yeah, that sounds right) is always getting rented by baddies, like child molesters, and a crazy dude who boinks her in a tent and then tells her she’s got 5 minutes to start runnin’  before he starts  shootin’. Anyway, by the end of an episode she’s back at the lair having her brain cleared of all the nasties of the day, and ‘wakes up’ all “was I asleep? doyoyoy!”  It’s a fun show… I mean, I like it. So at least that’s one show that the geeks can latch onto if they’re having difficulty weening from Battlestar.

I just have to mention this one other thing: There were an inordinate amount of ads for Fantsy Gifts-type stores during Battlestar Galactica’s run. I just think that’s weird, thats all.

Published in: on March 21, 2009 at 7:43 pm  Comments (4)  

Read It and Weep

This is funny/ sad: http://theentropics.wordpress.com

Published in: on March 20, 2009 at 8:02 pm  Leave a Comment  

This Isn’t Your Personal Dumping Ground

By Katie
On March 9, 1959, an unknown ingénue made her societal debut at the New York Toy Show. She was a smashing success, and the Barbie doll has been seducing paying customers ever since.


Fifty years, people. Fifty years of spreading joy to little girls all over the world…sigh. I felt it was only appropriate, on this momentous occasion, to write her a thank you note, from my heart, for all the good times.


Dear Barbie,

Remember me? Little Katie McCollow? We played together every day from the time you showed up under my Christmas tree when I was seven until my thirteenth summer, when my little sister told the cute lifeguard at the pool I still played with dolls.  That was the day I went home and shoved you into a shoebox, where you sat, untouched, until I got married.  Sorry about that! We’re cool, right?


We were an odd couple back then, that’s for sure. You were so glamorous, so tall and slender with your huge chest, long legs and awesome wardrobe, me with my runny nose, greasy hair and hand-me-down baseball jersey. You didn’t care; you were far too classy to even notice. You played with me when no one else would, and I just want to say thank you for all the happiness you brought me.  You didn’t mind that at my house, you lived in a big stock-pot because I didn’t have the sweet camper or big pink dream house.


You didn’t care that I was constantly sending you down the wooden banister or swinging you from the dining room chandelier, you didn’t even complain the time I gave you a Mohawk because I had a girl-crush on the lead singer of Bow Wow Wow. Remember when my mother made you an entirely new wardrobe? Handmade Barbie outfits. They may not have been as flashy as the sparkly, store-bought outfits Tara Murphy’s Barbie had, but you knew the love that went into their creation and wore the hell out of them.


Let’s not pretend you weren’t rewarded generously for all your goodness, though…remember how I always let you date manly G.I. Joe and relegated twee Ken to the roll of travel agent? A couple of times I even hooked you up with Luke Skywalker. And I totally went along with that “Skipper’s just my sister” thing, when it was so obvious that…she looked a lot like G.I. Joe.  The Barenaked Ladies once sang, “her Barbies always did it on the first date.” That was so true at my house, wasn’t it? LOL!


You’ve taken a lot of lumps over the years; certain, rather vocal groups have had some pretty harsh words for you. Unrealistic, they’ve said. So what? Cabbage Patch dolls don’t look like real babies. Rescue Heroes don’t look like real fireman. I’ve never seen Elmo walking down the street, but I’ll bet he’s not really that red. And anyway, I’ve seen plenty of fifty-year old ladies who look a lot like you, including the bat-wing eye-makeup, on Bravo’s The Real Housewives of Orange County.


They’ve accused you of being sexist, a male fantasy of a woman. Going to give everyone an eating disorder, for heaven’s sake. (Newsflash, Barbie haters: if five brothers calling me “Tubby” couldn’t give me body dysmorphic disorder, what makes you think eleven inches of plastic could? )


Convenient, isn’t it, Barbie, your incarnations as a teacher, an astronaut, a doctor go largely ignored? Why just last summer the religious group Christian Voice called you “filthy”! Filthy? Have they seen Bratz dolls? Let’s talk about them for a minute, actually, let’s talk about how you smacked those tramps down in court. Now that’s what I’m talking about! You are one strong lady. 


Happy Birthday, Barbie, put on your tiara and celebrate your fifty years.  You don’t look a day over twenty-nine.


Published in: on March 18, 2009 at 2:11 pm  Comments (2)  

Erin Go Ugh

By Katie

She sits, staring at her television, trying to ignore the too-large helping of Chocolate Pudding Cake churning in her gut. Some new show is on; Kings. Ian McShane of Deadwood fame…but she doesn’t think of Deadwood when she sees him; no, the memory of him getting corn-holed but good in Sexy Beast pops into her head instead, and that combined with the Chocolate Pudding Cake lights the fuse of a gastric explosion. 

Too old.

Too old to be out past her bedtime two nights in a row. “St. Practice day”, they called last night. If that was the practice, she was benching herself for the big game.

So. Very. Tired.

She opens her laptop, but not even the msnbc headlines “Woman Mistaken for Monkey, Gets Shot” and “Cat Found Inside 27 Dollar Used Couch” can inspire her to do anything but stare. Too much work. She might just sleep on the couch. The stairs seem impossibly steep.

Chocolate Pudding Cake

2 tsp instant coffee

1.5 c water

2/3 c dutch cocoa

1/3 c brown sugar

1 c white sugar

6 tblsp butter

2 oz semi-sweet choc chops

3/4 flour

2 tsp baking powder

1 tblsp vanilla

1/3 c whole milk

1/4 tsp salt

1 egg yolk

Heat oven to 325. Spray 8″ pan.

Stir coffee into water; set aside

stir together 1/3 c cocoa, 1/3 c br sugar, 1/3 c white sugar in small bowl. Set aside.

melt butter-add 1/3 c cocoa and semi-sweet chocolate, set aside.

whisk remaining sugar, vanilla, milk and salt. Whisk in egg yolk. 

Whisk together flour, baking powder, choc and pour batter into pan. Sprinkle cocoa mixture over the batter. Pour coffee over everything. Bake 45 minutes til puffy and bubbly.

Enjoy. BUT be warned: If you have 

A) given up sweets for Lent, so by the time Sunday rolls around you would murder a child if it meant you could eat a smartie or

B) have spent the last two days ingesting briney meat-stuffs and pickled cabbage

use sparingly. If Ian McShane is anywhere near, make sure you have lots of Charmin on hand.

You’re welcome.

Published in: on March 16, 2009 at 2:27 am  Leave a Comment  

Just Think It

By Katie and partly Muzz ( headline courtesy zeichenpress)

I ran into an ex-boyfriend of mine at the grocery store the other day, a fellow I haven’t seen in years. Naturally I looked like a train-wreck, it’s Murphy’s Law, right? I hadn’t showered or brushed my hair, I was wearing my husband’s stained sweatpants and the t-shirt I’d slept in. I was holding a pack of toilet paper, the perfect touch.

Our eyes locked, he smiled and said hello and I blurted out, “I’m not really this fat.”

And a little voice inside my head said, “Oh, for crying out loud, I can’t believe I just said that.  SO I GUESS I’LL JUST KEEP TALKING.”

I continued: “What I meant was, I’m not fat in real life, I just gained a few extra elbs (I somehow thought saying “elbs” for “pounds” seemed clever) this winter…I’m going to work out right now. Actually I don’t have time. Maybe tomorrow. These aren’t my pants.”

Ugh! My neck got itchy, my pits got hot; I knew I was making an ass of myself, yet I felt helpless to turn off my stream of stupidity. I was having a full-tilt attack of the Boyfriend Babbles, that horrible affliction that turns me into a blithering idiot when I come face-to-face with an “ex”. 

“You look fine,” ex-boyfriend said politely, obviously wishing he hadn’t seen me. Or taken me to prom.

WHY? Why does this happen?

Why didn’t I just shut up? It’s like I had a little cartoon angel on one shoulder, screaming through a bullhorn “Abort! ABORT!” and on the other, a little devil whispering seductively to go ahead and point out to him the drop of snot that flew out my nose when I laughed.

Why has no one invented  a circuit-breaker I could install in my brain that will shut my voice-box off when I’m nervous?  My hair dryer has a re-set button, why not my mouth?  At least then I could come across as detached and above it all and not give all my old boyfriends (more) reasons to celebrate our break-ups.  I’ve tried to stop, actually, there have been a few times when I’ve made a conscious effort to keep quiet.  How did it go, you ask? Have you ever put a lid on a pot of boiling water?

My verbal diarrhea is not limited to old boyfriends, truthfully. Potential bosses, my kids’ teachers, “fancy” people*; I seem compelled to prove my inferiority to anyone I want to impress. 

Facebook’s bullying insistence we reconnect with people “we may know” makes us all vulnerable to what I call “Cyberrhea”, the online version of oral incontinence.

A girlfriend of mine recently told me how she “friended” an old beau. He shot her a quick greeting and she proceeded to tap out her life story and send it to him, a move she instantly regretted and tried to explain away…in two more lengthy missives. She hasn’t heard from him again.

Once I was at a bar with my older sister and a radio personality she really admired was there, with his wife. I encouraged her to go say hello to him, so she drained her drink, walked up to him and said, “If I weren’t married I’d make out with you.”

What? Where did that come from? He looked at her like she’d sprouted an extra head and his wife looked at her like she’d be happy to rip it off with her teeth. Ouch. 

Our younger sister Muzz seems to have a better handle on this affliction. The following is an excerpt from an email received from her this morning:

I spent today getting slimed with the snot and food of three different kids,  my uncombed hair yanked back in a brushing-my-teeth, washing-my-face style bun.  On the ride home from work I needed to stop to the beauty supply store; I also decided that it was time to shake my hair loose, not caring at all that I looked like a freshly used toilet brush.  After all, what are the odds of running into someone I haven’t seen in 10 or more years? Especially someone I was friends with during  my Don’t Leave the House Without Perfect Hair and Makeup phase?  Turns out, pretty great.  And although I did have all kinds of crazy running from brain to mouth (some things I almost said,  but didn’t: “As you can see, I still have some baby weight to lose”  “I was just about to make an appointment to have this mustache waxed off”   “I have boogers on my clothes”  “I know my highlights are a little orange”  and the most erudite of them  all, “You are my facebook friend” . My lips slammed shut before I could say any of it. Thank God.  

Reading this email reminded me of something my cousin Denis wrote in his Facebook “25 things about me” list: “I am a moron in a family of geniuses.” This isn’t true in his case, but I understood exactly what he meant. Whenever I read the hilarious things my siblings write I want to drink Drano and cry myself to sleep.

I forgot what we were talking about.

*fancy people: anyone who wears something nicer than a t-shirt with no words on it



Published in: on March 15, 2009 at 3:28 pm  Comments (4)