I think my redirect trumps ’em all.

Yesterday, through the wellspring of information that is Twitter, I learned that John McCain owned the web site http://www.voteforthemilf.com. If you Twitter, you probably saw it too. Up until late yestereday afternoon, the URL DID redirect to McCain’s site. And then people were saying he DIDN’T own it. And after all the press, it mysteriously came down. If you’re interested, read this. She explains it in detail.

And then my co-worker, QB, told me that Obama owned www.votefortheblackguy.com. Go ahead. Click it. Goes right to Obama’s site.

Maybe they own the URLs, maybe they don’t. Thinking about it makes my brain swell.

Sometimes, out of sheer boredom, my college boyfriend and I would hang out late nights, drink a few beers, and make up phone sex phone numbers. I’d tell him, “dial 866-hot-dude” or “866-hor-ndog” or something stupid. (Sorry, if I tell you the really nasty ones, I’ll get all kinds of freak show traffic. I’m betting you can use your imagination.) We’d giggle like schoolkids and crack up when a woman with a sexy voice ALWAYS answered. It was a recording, of course, so we were never charged. Which meant we could keep it up FOREVER.

Good, clean fun.

Inspired, I tried http://www.votefortheoldguy.com. No luck.

I tried http://www.voteforthebrotha.com. Nada.

And I was sorely disappointed when http://www.voteformommypie.com didn’t redirect to the McCain/Palin site.

Which would be schweet.

I wish I could promise this would be the last poo post, but clearly that would be a lie.

Remember Bobo’s colonoscopy last week? MP does. We arrived at gymnastics Friday and pulled into a parking spot next to Bobo, who was sitting, waiting for us in his truck. MP saw him and smiled.

“Heeeyy … I didn’t know POOP DUDE was gonna be here today …”

And now Bobo has a new name. The beautiful thing is she came up with it completely on her own.

So last night Bobo and my brother (Uncle Paulie) were over — Uncle Paulie’s visiting from Denver with my SIL and nephews — and the whole Poop Dude thing came up. And because Bobo is such an easy target, especially when my brother and I get together …

Uncle Paulie to MP: Why do you call Bobo Poop Dude?

MP: Because he had to have a tube put in his POOPHOLE!

UP: (laughing) Do you know WHY Bobo had to have a tube in his poophole?

MP: Ummm …

UP: (nodding, laughing) Because he LIKES it.

MP: (laughing) Noooo! The DOCTOR had to look around.

UP: Ooooh. There’s a special kind of doctor that puts a tube up your tush. Do you know what that doctor is called?

MP: (shakes head)

UP: That would be a DEN-TIST.

My brother. He sucks.

Medical procedures, bodily functions and other topics for mixed company.

My life is shit.

Not the woe as me, I have it so tough, blah buh bladdi blah blah kind of shit. I mean literal SHIT. And while not as bad as say, a steaming pig farm upwind on a summer day, Pie Town is a bodily function free-for-all, none the less. At least, lately.

So, rather than wallow in the shit alone, I figured I’d share it with ma Doogs. I’m thoughtful like that.

Case in point. Yesterday morning I drove Bobo to get a colonoscopy. As we pulled away from the surgical center, MP asked why Bobo had to go to the doctor. I explained that he had to have something called a colonoscopy.

What’s a colon-scopy?

It’s when the doctor puts a tube up Bobo’s tush.

WHY??

So he can look around and make sure everything is working okay.

EEWWWW. In his POOPHOLE?!?

Yep.

I do NOT like poopholes. Dis.GUS.ting. YOU don’t have to have a doctor look up YOUR tush, do you?

Oh, NO.

No, cause you’re not old, right?

I love this child.

When I picked him up on my lunch hour, Bobo, still drugged and giddy, waved to the RN as he weaved out the door, smiled and said, “Thanks Sweetheart – you were a lot of fun!”

I dunna wanna know. Do NOT want to know.

Then there’s the new dog. Who won’t stop eating her poo. And peeing on the carpet. How long before housebreaking is complete? Cause right now it’s more like Breakinghouse.

**Right here is where the turd smoker squats and literally pees on the carpet right in front of me. Not even kidding.**

So with all this going on, I read Beej’s guest post over at Immoral Matriarch. The one where she admits to peeing in the shower ONCE.

Once?!? I’m willing to wager she’s in the minority. Help me out here, people — I know *I* do it every single morning. Sorry. I also brush my teeth in the shower. (I like to think of it as multi-tasking.) Never at the same time, however. Because that would be wrong. Like eating on the toilet. Wrong.

I remember when some article came out years ago that reported Madonna herself admitted to peeing in the shower. She claimed it warded off Athlete’s Foot. Which, at the time, I clearly recall thinking, “Come ON, Madge. Let’s at least be HONEST.” Or think of a better reason. Like ‘too tired to make it to the toilet,’ saving water,’ ‘my legs get cold,’ whatever.

And speaking of peeing, here’s some FANTASTIC news. MP has gone THREE WHOLE NIGHTS without having an accident! This is HUGE cause for celebration. We’ve never even come close to making it through the night! I swear, she’s finally able to hold her water because I took her out of the Pull-Ups and put highly absorbent, cotton Gerber Training Underpants on her at night. (Wow. Did that sound like a total plug or WHAT? Hello, Gerber? MP wears size 3T. If you’re so inclined. I will love you forever. Kthxbai.) I’m betting that subconsciously, she knows she doesn’t have a fallback. She knew it was okay to pee in the Pull-Ups. That’s what they’re MADE for, right?

So there you have it. My most disgusting post to date. I’m so proud.

Told you it was shit.

But it kills 99.9% of bacteria in 15 seconds …

MP and I have been fighting off colds for a few days now. I am the color of cream of celery soup. MP is ASKING to go straight to bed after dinner. Somethin’ ain’t right, and I don’t understand it.

Especially in light of the fact we’ve been wiping our hands and faces with THESE bad boys.

Which, in my defense, look suspiciously similar to THESE.

But, to cut costs, I went the Tarzhay brand way, bought the generic, left them in the car, and have been using them on MP and myself every day for the past few weeks. Only after a few days of using them as Kleenex and blowing my NOSE into them, did I notice they left my membranes horribly dry. Drippy, but dry. And smelling like an institution.

Upon closer inspection …

Which I failed to notice. The only thing I saw was:

Kills the common flu virus!

Kills 99.9% of bacteria in 15 seconds!

Alcohol-free!

Bleach-free!

Crap. I guess this means disinfecting the dog’s poo-face is out of the question.

I’m goin’ to bed.

In some circles I’m considered an expert. Which is frightening.

Yesterday, my boss came into my office and started asking me about Social Media. Which he’s NEVER done. Convinced I’m totally busted, I’m waiting for “Mommypie” to trip off his tongue any second. He’s been known to snoop on employee’s computers and truth be told, I’m not always the stealthiest. Like the folder titled BLOG. Seriously, it’s just a matter of time.

I steadied myself while the Blog Hog in my head chanted Dooced! Dooced! Dooced! Dooced!

Thankfully, BH was wrong. Conservaboss actually wanted some insight for an upcoming conference, which, pretty much meant the kiss of death for me. Mention anything I’m passionate about and I literally cannot. Shut. Up.

I blabbed about blogging. I even suggested we add a President’s Blog to our web site. He could write it, and I’d set it up for him. I blabbed about Facebook and LinkedIn and Twitter. Dear God, I blabbed about Twitter. I even walked him through setting up an account. I showed him how he could follow his guy, McCain.

I momentarily lost my freakin’ mind.

The result of which was me agreeing to give an HOUR LONG PRESENTATION at aforementioned conference. In two weeks. Me. The one who loathes public speaking of any sort.

End result? Not only did I commit the cardinal sin of farking with the blog/work balance by introducing my BOSS to my sacred, secret realm … I must now educate a legion of internet-challenged businessmen and women about the awesomeness of my After 5 World. And yes, by After 5 World, I most certainly DID mean the tuxedo rental place, thanks.

This blows goats.

My only saving grace? I managed to actually keep my mouth shut about MY blog and MY Twitter account. Sometimes the Blog Hog comes through.

MP gets caught red-handed.

Saturday night MP and I went to an open house to welcome her BFF Gigi’s new baby brother. Lots of people, lots of kids, lots of food, lots of drink. MP spent the first hour, part of an crazed gang of kids, running through the house, screaming in the backyard, doing the whole boys against girls thing. By the third hour, MP, Gigi and Gigi’s friend Katie disappeared behind Gigi’s closed bedroom door.

As things began to wind down, I opened the door to give the 10 minute warning.

And saw this.

O.MA.GAH.

Holy freakin’ crime scene. No, someone did NOT go on a killing rampage. No, there were no animal sacrifices performed. The only thing murdered was the bedspread. And the wall. And the window. And the dresser.

I don’t know if it was the champagne and wine combo, but Gigi’s parents were awesome about it. They were all, “Well, what are ya gonna do? Oh well. We were going to paint anyway. La la la. Let’s take pictures!”

Okay, right there? Is why I love them. And when all the rubberneckers filed in to take photos of the bloody aftermath, the incident took on a decidedly festive tone. “Party in Gigi’s room! Woo hoo!”

I, on the other hand, am still speechless.

Doogs Weekend #8: Don’t you forget about me.

Since the Dead Swingers post a few days ago I’ve had a question in mind for Doogs Weekend.

What do you think people will say about you after you’re gone? How do you hope to be remembered?

And Sea Monkeys REALLY ARE monkeys.

Hi Tales from the Crypt Wrinkle Cream People.

I am SO buying your product. Because if you can resurrect that overcooked, dried up corpse from the dead and turn back the clock 40 years in 60 minutes, I’m in.

I’ll go into work Monday and everyone will be all, “who are you, and why are you blogging from Mommypie’s office? Wait. What’s a blog?” And then, after a few hours, I’ll be fired. Child labor laws, Kathi Lee Gifford, yadda yadda whatever. I’ll be so depressed I’ll stop at the liquor store for a bottle of wine. Or maybe Patron. Or both. But I’ll be carded and no one will believe my driver’s license is real. So I’ll drive myself home to wallow in a glass of juice. Only, on my way there, I’ll get pulled over. And busted for underage driving.

It’d totally be worth it.

Hello Dancing Mortgage People!

Helluu refinance, I’m SOLD! Because I can totally relate to your ads. I like rooftops! And carnivals and fireworks shows! Just thinking about my mortgage makes ME want to shake my groove thing, too!

However, you should know, I don’t condone exploitation of white people who can’t dance. Or Carnies.

But I can get over it. Because I TOTALLY trust you!

And it’d totally be worth it!

Gettin’ busy in the afterlife.

As part of my job, once a month (for nine months) I spend the day in a “leadership program.” Yesterday, the theme of the September session was “History Day.” Which meant we spent the day learning the history of our town. Way cool.

We took a walking tour of downtown and learned the history of the buildings. When I pointed out a former turn-of-the-century brewery that served as my college apartment and told the tour guide (apart from the group) it was most definitely haunted, she was so clearly not impressed. I’ll save the ghost story for another post.

We went to two museums and learned about pioneer life from a HIGHLY enthusiastic lady in period attire. Holy crap. There’s a reason people are never smiling in old photographs. Life was HARD. Just LIVING was a job.

We visited a famous turn-of-the-century mansion that, until just a few years ago served as a fraternity house. It’s safe to say I could’ve sat this one out. I toured it plenty in the late ’80s.

And best of all …

We went on a cemetery tour given by a quirky little man in a bow tie and top hat. He had just identified the headstone of an infamous madam when I happened to looked down.

What?!? Can I help it if the blog gods dropped this at my feet?

Oh yeah. THIS was directly behind these two.

It’s Swingtown. For dead people.

It’s all about the little things.

Five million things on my mind, and unable to place any of them into on coherent post, so I’m going with the piecemeal theme this morning.

First, I need to say I’ve been totally consumed with vampires, thanks to the combination of my new favorite show True Blood on HBO and the Tweeple’s suggestion I read the latest hot novel, Twilight. Finding it in the Young Readers section at the bookstore left me a leettle worried and wondering just WHO you people are. I almost passed. I was skeptical at first, but ultimately, I trust the Doogs, because I do know you’re a bunch of smart cookies, and gotta say … lovin’ it so far.

Now I want a vampire lover. (Methinks I smell a post brewin’ …)

And since I got nothin’, I’ll leave you with these little time capsule nuggets.

Notable Moments in Pie Town Last Week

Dropping MP off at preschool, she looks up at me, and holding her stomach says, “My tummy hurts.”

A four-year-old classmate, sitting nearby, looks up at me, and holding his crotch says, “My balls hurt.”

MP stripped nekkid and on her way to the bath, catches a glimpse of herself in the bathroom’s full-size mirror, stops, poses and says admiringly,

“Humina, humina, hhhumina.”

MP speeding down the front walk on her pink and purple HotWheel.

ME: (yelling from the front step) Be careful, crazy driver!

MP: (screeching to a halt in front of me) You don’t need a license to drrrive a sandwich.

Aw. My little Spongebob.