Objets D'art

Sumptuous! Scrumptious! Etcetera!

2012-02-12T17:41:00.000-05:00

Lambs! I'm so glad you're here. What? A grandchild? Set it over there. I've got something to tell you! Do you remember that tiresome Pompano Beach Weekly Shopper advertising newspaper that the winos used to bring around every Monday? You know...the one that blared "ground chuck $1.39!"? Well, Charity Duquette has taken it over, and it is now the Pomp Beach Arts Presager!

Pardon me, Lambs? Presager? Well, I think it's a spice. You can ask Judith, my personal chef, if she ever gets finished scraping the blackened outer layer off of Enrique, who made the mistake of passing out inside her oven last night. But, listen!

Here is this week's main feature, all about artist Febrizio Airwick-Credenza, the noted neo-gibberist painter. What's that, Lambs? You say there's nothing but a paper clip and a dog turd on a white background? Nonsense! Just read Charity's article! She says that the work represents a breakthrough in post-dadaist primitive something something. Just read it, it's very impressive!

Besides that, there are simply pages and pages of what Charity is doing! Look here. This is what she's reading! Proust, Voltaire, Hawking...just the covers, I'm sure! One glance at her Kindle and she's done!

And here...the movies she's seen! Mostly very arty experimental Albanian noir allegories with artist-rendered subtitles which are themselves part of the experience! And here's the music she's listening to, and the plays she's attended and the events and galas around town. So wonderful!

There's even a crossword puzzle, all in quaint French phrases! Really, Darlings, I'm trying to show you this. Why do you keep trying to interrupt? What is so important?

"Chef Boy-R-Dee products, 89 cents a can"?

Darlings, sometimes I despair of you.

Air hugs,

A very disappointed Babs

At Last!

2012-02-09T13:41:00.000-05:00

Lambs, look! My gardener Enrique has set up a trap and is about to catch that penniless eurotrash viscount that Charity Duquette left here after my last soiree! I told her to mark him "refused" and mail him back to his parents, but she got all involved with practicing her withering left-handed compliments, and forgot.

I wonder if Enrique will have the viscount stuffed, or if he will just take him and dump him near the freeway entrance, like he did with the Eagles? Let's watch and see!

_______

Guest Speaker!

2012-01-30T09:11:00.000-05:00

Lambs, I'm simply exhausted from berating the help this morning. You'll forgive me if I hand Objets D'Art over to a guest speaker today, won't you? Remember, I can make one little call to my attorney and change my will. Oh Darlings, I knew you'd understand!

Today's guest speaker is a wonderful woman who belongs to my Club, and who hosts the annual bake-off. May I introduce to you the extremely elegant Mrs. Anita Bachmann-Phelps!

Hello! I'm Anita Bachmann-Phelps, and I would like to talk to you today about a growing threat to our American way of life and the values we all hold dear. I am talking, of course, about Lithuanians!

One hears a lot about Lithuanians these days. When I was growing up, one never heard of Lithuanians! If one of their sordid little Lithuanian clubs were discovered in the shadows at the edge of town, the police would raid it and close it down, and the people inside who were practicing their ungodly Lithuanian lifestyle were arrested, dismissed from their jobs, and sent to the electric chair as God intended.

But now, things are different. Lithuanians even want the right to marry. This is a slippery slope, my dears. What would be next? People would want to marry Estonians! Even Croats! We must defend the institution of marriage as being a sacred union between one American and another American. If we don't stand strong on this, who will?

Don't be fooled. The Lithuanian lifestyle is a choice. These swarthy, unpleasant people wake up in the morning and make a decision to be Lithuanian, and to practice their sinful ways which fly in the face of everything American and good! Are we going sit idly by, while this great country of ours is handed over to them? Are our children going to arrive at school, only to be told they must now learn Lithuanian? Will good Americans be told that they must take down Old Glory from their front porches because it might offend Lithuanians? We cannot let this happen!

I am a Christian woman. I certainly do not hate Lithuanians, though I would never become Lithuanian myself! I actually want to help these poor lost souls. There are churches and organizations who can help these people! Three weeks of prayer and apple pie at my husband's ranch, and they can accept George Washington into their hearts as their personal president! They can be American simply by embracing what is right, and letting go of their old, Lithuanian ways! Even if you believe that they are born Lithuanian--and I don't--they can still live productive American lives by NOT ACTING on their Lithuanianness!

Lithuanians want to enlist our children into their bizarre Lithuanian lifestyle, my friends. More and more, Lithuanians are popping up in television shows and movies, all over popular culture, which is controlled and produced by godless extremists.

I am not ashamed to admit that I am an American! I do not choose to be a Lithuanian myself, and I cannot condone the Lithuanian lifestyle, which the bible clearly tells us is wrong. In the second book of Confabulations, chapter five, it says: "And yea, the unclean ones did come from the middle place, near the water/ spake they in the unclear manner, and practiced they the things which are abomination unto the Lord/ and, um, don't eat pork, and stone adulteresses, and whatever else. Thanks!" I really don't see how this passage could be any clearer!

God bless America, my friends!

Air hugs,

Anita Bachmann-Phelps

I Knew Daphne Would Understand!

2012-01-21T09:16:00.000-05:00

Lambs! It's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me! Well, all right then, besides that. Daphne has answered my letter in her column! It's right here in this morning's Pompano Beach Inquirer.

You remember when I wrote to her, don't you, Darlings? Yes, that's true, Phoebe and I came to an understanding with the postman, in order to save a stamp. And see? You were wrong, he did take care of it. There you were, going on tiresomely about how the whiskey and the private jet cost far more than a stamp would have. Have I taught you nothing, Cherubs? Style points are not some frilly extra. Style points are the point!

Anyway, I have been having that terrible problem with Valerie Bertinelli hanging around the grounds and even having her revolting freeze-dried doll-sized "meals" delivered here. "Look! I can have a chocolate brownie!" she crowed from the drainage ditch one morning as I was having tea on the veranda. Lambs, I'm telling you, she held up what appeared to be a llama turd made of hay and coal dust, and then fell upon it like a rabid badger. She even ate the packaging, and the fender off of the delivery driver's truck. I've had enough! And so I turned to Daphne for advice. I can't wait any longer, Lambs! Let's see what she says!

Dear Babs,

It breaks my heart when I hear of a tragic story like this. When women of a certain age and weight sign lucrative contracts with Pound Skimmers or some such company, they are under enormous pressure to look twenty years old again. There is often a lot of sucking it in involved. In extreme cases, a woman can simply forget how to inhale at all! The brain damage is severe and irreversible. It's very sad.

Don't worry, though. I'm sure Betty White will show up soon to retrieve her.

Best Wishes,

Daphne

Lambs, tell me...how do people in primitive parts of the world, where Daphne's column does not run, get along in life? In what can they believe? To whom can they turn? Oh, thank you Phoebe, I almost forgot. We don't care! But never mind all that. I see Betty White and the entire cast of "Hot In Cleveland" trooping across the south lawn. They've got one of those dog catcher's loops around Valerie Bertinelli's neck. Is that some sort of diet aid? Look at her struggle! Oh, I can't look...I can't look because I want to read my letter in Daphne's column again! See, Darlings? I told you. Daphne is always right. Just like me!

Air kisses,

Babs
_____
"Dear Daphne" answers are written by M. Zen, senior staff writer at Baby Puppy Productions. Ms. Zen recently received a Golden Globe for her portrayal of Edna St. Vincent Millay in "Zombie Chicks Of The Roller Derby." An accomplished author, her books include "Dog Ate My Subaru", "Frenzy: The Shocking Secret Life Of Katie Couric", and the craft classic "Make A Rick Perry Doll Out Of Nail Strengthener And Stryrofoam". In addition, Ms. Zen will be appearing regularly as a judge on the upcoming season of "Celebrity Gulag." She urges everyone to save receipts and to signal before turning.

Help Me, Daphne!

2012-01-20T09:09:00.000-05:00

Lambs, there's no other way! Give me a pen, quick! No, wait. Send in one of the staff, with a pen.

What's that you say? It's the staff's day off??? Today is February 30th? Because that's their designated day off, you know, Darlings. Well, no matter. Here's Phoebe.

Phoebe, be an angel and take a letter! Here's a pen and paper. Don't get chocolate from those bon bons on the paper, dear! All right. Yes, just hop right onto the arm of this priceless antique chair. Between us, we don't weigh as much as Lionel Richie, and it held him just fine when we had him tied to it. Oh I know it, darling, someone had to stop him from singing "Superfreak". Yes, I know that it turned out we had the wrong singer, but I think he enjoyed his time with us all the same.

But never mind! This is pressing business! Take this down:

Dear Daphne,

I am a long time reader, first time writer. (That sounds mental, doesn't it, Phoebs? Let me start again...) I own most of the newspapers in which your column appears, and I adore every word you write! I know you won't let me down in my hour of need.

I am a wreck lately, Daphne, and the reason why is that Valerie Bertinelli has infested the grounds of my stately home. Yes! First, she moved into the old burrow that Nicole Kidman left behind when Enrique sold her to the zoo. He had left it stuffed with poison pellets, but she just munches them like candy to no apparent ill effect! It must be all those years she spent married to that rock star fellow, what was his name? David Lee Roth? Roth IRA? Someone like that. No matter.

The point is, I get no sleep at all, because the woman goes skittering up into the trees at night, to gnaw on the bark. The poor thing is starving! She camps on a branch right outside my window, crying and moaning piteously. I tried to ~~throw~~ give her a baked potato that Judith had sent up, but she just shrieked, "Carbs!" and dropped it like a...well, you get the idea.

One morning, I went out onto the lawn to try to talk to her. Woman to woman, you know, even though I wouldn't normally be caught dead with trash. I thought we could talk about her movies, or her children, or people we both know, like Whoopi Goldberg, who got her start when I hired her to mop the sun room floor. But no. Valerie Bertinelli just looked up at me from her crouch, with a mouthful of lawn, and babbled something about how much weight she has lost. SO tiresome.

Daphne, should I have Enrique, my gardener, set out one of those humane traps, so that we can feed the poor thing with an eye dropper? Or should I just give Mel Gibson the temp job he's been begging me for, and let him chase her around the grounds with a bazooka until the problem is solved? Please let me know. This whole thing has my chi so off-center, it may never get back where it should be.

Air kisses and thanks in advance,

Babs In Pompano Beach

If Fabio Were Captain, This Would Never Have Happened!

2012-01-15T14:35:00.000-05:00

Lambs, is it my fault that the crew loaded all of my luggage on one side of the ship?
_____

Recycle!

2012-01-08T13:05:00.001-05:00

Lambs, I feel so saintly! You know me, Darlings, I don't believe in ever wasting anything. That's why, when I married my late husband, I made a plank bridge out of all my rejected suitors! Face down in the mud like that, no one had to be bothered with hearing their unmanly sniffling!

And so, with the arrival of 2012, I didn't see why 2011 should just be discarded. Lambs, sometimes I am so brilliant that it amazes even me... I decided to have the staff continue to use 2011! Why waste a brand new year on the help, I ask you? I'm completely committed to green living and eco-causes! That's why I am having RRRRamon rev up the RRRolls so that we can take my sainted late husband's little paints from his model ships down to the disposal site...in Rio! I love a good rhumba, especially when it benefits the earth!

Air hugs,

Babs

Strange Visitor From Another Planet!

2011-12-25T09:51:00.001-05:00

Lambs, the oddest thing has happened! Well, no, I wasn't visited by three ghosts on Christmas Eve. Only two. My sainted late husband...~sniff~...oh, Lambs, give me a moment...and the spirit of Bitsy Henderson's old yappy lap dog Schlitz. My husband just stood there mumbling something unintelligible about golf, and Schlitz just barked for ten minutes non-stop and then did his ghostly business on the Persian carpet. I never liked that dog. One day it wandered over here and I think Nicole Kidman must have caught it in her jaws, because I never saw him again. I told Bitsy that he had joined the Peace Corps, but I don't think she believed me.

But I digress.

These are not the odd thing that happened! The odd thing that happened was that a large gay man fell down the chimney in the billiard room last night. What's that, Darlings? How do I know he was gay? No, I did not "throw myself at him, like always." The mouth on you, Cherubs...I'm mystified where you got it. At any rate, I know he was gay because he was wearing a bright red suit. Only pimps and gay men wear bright red suits. Phoebe Bates ran in from the guest room when she heard all the clatter, to see what was the matter, and she declared with firm certainty that he was not a pimp. What? Well, she just knows, Darlings. And so, that leaves gay!

Phoebe sprang at him like a leopard and snatched the bag he was carrying...not even designer!...and found it stuffed with toys. You see, it's just like Joel Osteen told us, these people are out to recruit our children into their twisted and unnatural lifestyle. Ah well, whatever keeps them busy!

Naturally, I had Judith, my personal chef, send up some brie and white wine, and we all sat down and discussed the previous night's performance of "Wicked." It was delightful! But at last I felt obliged to call in my new security team, who confiscated his bag, gave him bus fare, and sent him on his way. Then I dismissed the new security team for letting him get in in the first place! I took away their blazers, gave them bus fare, and sent them out to the stop in front of Bitsy's house to wait with Santa (He must have been Hispanic, though he didn't look swarthy), where the ghost of Schlitz nipped at their heels for half an hour while they waited for the crosstown.

Merry Christmas, Lambs! Happy Hanuka! Oh...that reminds me...there is something I need to tell you about your father, that is, if I am remembering correctly which player he was. The '72 Packers all kind of blend together for me now! Happy Kwanzaa. Anything I forgot?

Air kisses,

Babs

The Holidays!

2011-12-18T13:57:00.000-05:00

Lambs, I just love the holidays! Why, just think...if those vagrants in the garage hadn't had the baby Jesus, we wouldn't have all the good sales numbers we have today!

Darlings, will you forgive me if I skip our usual Sunday ~~argument~~ visit? I'm so busy! My Christmas party is coming up, and I have to get down to business and decide who to snub! I knew you 'd understand. Ta, Darlings!

Air kisses,

Babs

Keep My Stock Dividends Rolling In

2011-12-12T12:03:00.000-05:00

Shop, damn you!

___

Industry!

2011-12-11T12:01:00.000-05:00

Lambs, this nation is built upon industry! The willingness to work hard, make sacrifices, and do what's necessary to achieve a goal!

Then again, one must not appear to be too eager. It isn't elegant!
____

Figgy What? Ask Daphne!

2011-12-04T22:03:00.001-05:00

Lambs, yesterday we read the letter from Hates Figgy Pudding, who wrote to Dear Daphne about her yuletide party problem. I can't wait to see what Daphne's answer will be! Let's open up the Pompano Beach Inquirer and see...

Dear Hates Figgy Pudding,

For the sake of peace and harmony, I generally avoid discussing politics in this column. However, when I read a letter such as yours, I am moved to speak. The time has come for the 1% to take a stand. We will not be bullied by the rabble. We will not be caroled at in our own homes by the 99%. And, we will not give up our fucking figgy pudding without a fight.

Pepper spray them, darling. Pepper spray them all.

Best Wishes and Merry Christmas,

Daphne

Oh Darlings, isn't Daphne wonderful? She's like the Shell Answer Man, except she doesn't reek of Super Unleaded and she looks much better in a little black dress!
______
"Dear Daphne" answers are written by M. Zen, senior staff writer at Baby Puppy Productions. Ms. Zen's column appears daily in more than a hundred publications world-wide, including Paintball Golf Weekly and Penthouse Forum Recipe Newsletter. Ms. Zen is also the author of several books, including "Your Cat's Aura" and "The Complete Encyclopedia Of Expired Store Coupons." And meet Ms. Zen in person any weekday at Walmart!

Dear Daphne Saves Christmas!

2011-12-04T15:34:00.000-05:00

Lambs, the Pompano Beach Inquirer just landed on the doorstep. Let's see what's in the "Dear Daphne" column today!

Dear Daphne,

It's Christmas time again, and it is causing some problems at my house. My husband's relatives are all standing in my living room as I write this, demanding "figgy pudding", and refusing to leave until they've got some. Daphne, what in the living fuck is "figgy pudding"? Is there a mix? Why do my husband's relations want it so badly? I feel like I am being blackmailed, but my husband says it's no big deal, and that he can use any leftovers to caulk the bathroom. Please help!

(signed)

Hates Figgy Pudding

Stay tuned for Daphne's answer, next time!

Proper Comportment!

2011-12-02T16:06:00.000-05:00

Lambs, I hate to point it out, but when we have our little heart to hearts and you snort and guffaw the way you do, it isn't elegant! Proper decorum is something I value highly here at Objets D'art. So please remember that. Thank you, Darlings!

The Rubaiyat Of Bitsy Henderson

2011-11-27T08:12:00.001-05:00

In pondering moments, I say how now,
Bitsy Henderson is such a cow!
Crashing her LeSabre into the pond,
But lacking the grace to politely drown.

Do lunch at Bitsy's, on Spam you'll sup,
With a spritzer served in a Pocahontas cup
While admiring her lawn with the old truck tires
Painted white and buried half way up.

Wilted geraniums beneath them droop,
Trying to thrive on old dog poop.
Bitsy goes on in an Oxycontin fog,
Hopelessly, permanently out of the loop.

Go ahead Lambs, step up and knock!
Bitsy will answer in her K Mart smock,
Elegant as always, lit to the gills,
Cheerfully waving her husband's Glock!

________

for Real Toads Sunday mini-challenge, Darlings!

Turkeys and Indians and Pilgrims, Oh My!

2011-11-23T08:44:00.000-05:00

Lambs, it's Thanksgiving time again! As the days grow shorter and the light lessens...oh wait...*titter*...that's just because Mabel Van Deusen's horrid Teutonic husband has shot one of the parade floats with his elephant gun, and it is losing altitude, blocking out the noonday sun! Look out, below!

It's such an exciting holiday, isn't it? Why, only this morning, my personal chef Judith was chasing Bitsy Henderson around the topiary garden with a carving knife. I had told her to kill a turkey, and she...well, you can guess the rest! Poor Bitsy. She absolutely ruined her favorite pair of crocs, running away. Of course, I immediately grabbed Mabel's husband's elephant gun and shot them. Lambs, the keening! You should have heard her!

Anyway, at this time of year, I like to reflect upon the meaning of the holiday! Did you know that, at the first Thanksgiving back in 1962, there were bloodthirsty savages? Yes! Half naked, gibberish-spouting, tomahawk-wielding primitives! Some perfectly respectable ladies were making a pilgrimage to Somerset Mall, and were set upon by them. It was only through the judicious firing of globs of green bean casserole that they were able to save themselves. How hair-raising! The salons must have been simply overrun.

I'm glad we had another of our little talks, Darlings. Have some stuffing! I made Judith put arugula in it this year. And, I don't know, some leftovers and small wildlife. And what was left of Nicole Kidman's career. Try some! No? You always were a picky eater. What's Christine fixing this year? Pemmican? *titter*

Air kisses,

Babs

History!

2011-11-16T19:47:00.003-05:00

Lambs, learning is elegant! Let's try some history, shall we? No, not the tragic history of Bitsy Henderson's wardrobe. I'm talking about the Third Wreck!

Why Yes, I AM The Center Of The Universe!

2011-11-13T09:25:00.000-05:00

Lambs, it's too wonderful. Readers always ask me, "Babs, how do you stay so elegant?" I tell them, it's a combination of moisturizers and a strict regimen designed to center my chi!

Right now, Darlings, I've popped over to Tibet, where I am immersing myself in the local culture! I simply handed RRRRRamon, my driver, the keys to the jet, and in hours we were here! I think it took longer for the help to unload my things than it did to get here!

Anyway, we met this lovely couple who were here backpacking! Their names are Palomino Peace Poppy and Palomino Horse Dropping! They are from California! I got to know them, haggled with a vendor for a few minutes, then purchased them at significantly below the going rate. When we get home, I plan to have Enrique, my gardener, wheel out my sainted late husband's Culloden cannon, and shoot them both out of it toward Bitsy Henderson's tiresome gazebo. Fore!

Happy Sunday, Darlings!

Babs

The Reason For The Season!

2011-11-11T09:32:00.000-05:00

Lambs! I've just received my first Christmas card of the year! I refuse to say "holiday card." I will NOT be part of the war on Christmas! Anyway, I ~~flogged~~ encouraged one of the help to go check my mailbox, which is a solid gold representation of Isis being worshiped by underlings (the mail goes into a slot at the foot of her altar!), and she came back with this card! It's from that lovely leftist pinko hippie who lives on the other side of the golf course. You know, Darlings, the one with the dog the size of a Brontosaur. Well, I wouldn't be caught dead with her, of course, but how nice that she remembers her betters! I suppose she must admire me from afar for being a pillar of my church! (They wouldn't have a pillar or a post or a pot to piss in without my annual gift!)

There's just one thing, though, Lambs...I still have not received my Redbook magazine. In fact, I thought I saw some hussy driving a Tahoe pull up and rifle through my mail before driving away again. Next time, I'll have Enrique put some bullets in her Bridgestones and we'll see who she is, then!

Air Kisses,

Babs

Excitement!

2011-11-04T22:10:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too lovely! I mean, awful! Bitsy Henderson has crashed her LeSabre into Mabel Van Deusen's koi pond again! I saw her fishtailing around the turn on East Cuckold Way, and I said to myself, she's been into the oxy's again. Sure enough, after that boat hit the water, there were enough pills dissolving to keep those goldfish stoned for a month!

Why, you should have seen it, Darlings. It was like a scene out of "Titanic" with the LeSabre's back end sticking up in the air, and Bitsy jumping for the lifeboats and going straight into the drink instead. And then came Mabel, looking like a mad Hottentot, sprinting across the lawn with her hair half blow dried, ready to kill poor dim Bitsy. Mabel is very attached to those goldfish, you know. I see her out walking them all the time. Of course, Darlings, she has to get new ones afterwards, because she forgets they are fish. Meanwhile that yappy Pomeranian of hers madly paddles for dear life in the koi pond, waiting for large sized American sedans to spring from the Hendersons' driveway directly into the fray! I'm telling you, Lambs, it's too good!

Well anyway, we fished Bitsy out of the pond. It's a marvel that we were able to save her the second time, after Mabel belted her with her serve hand, and Bitsy went ass over teakettle right back into the water lilies. All the while, Maxie stood at the edge of the pond, doing her nails and shouting "Shark! Shark! Somebody do something! Shaaark!!!"

Here, Darlings, wear one of these life jackets, won't you? You know how I worry. Well yes, we're on the stone patio now, but there could be a tidal wave or something! And besides, they're the only genuine Russian sable life jackets I could find on short notice! I'm not about to let them rot away inside the boathouse. I took the innards out of mine so it wouldn't make me look fat. But you wear yours! Look, Darlings...I bought what was left of Christopher Cross and had him stuffed and mounted. See? He can still sing "Sailing" quite nicely! Although, in view of Bitsy's little mishap, maybe I ought to have him change it to "Sinking". So many decisions. I just don't know! *face palm*

Babs

Shock, Horror!

2011-10-30T21:48:00.000-04:00

Lambs, as you know, everything here at Objets D'art is about elegance! So I'm sure that you can appreciate how deeply shocked and offended I was when the above signage appeared in my mailbox yesterday. Yes! Can you imagine? I sent one of the staff out to fetch the mail, hoping my Redbook would be there, and she came back with this! Well, I dismissed her immediately, of course. The only saving grace is that she doesn't read a word of English.

Anyway, what does someone mean, leaving me a placard that says I am someone's reason to masturbate? What can they possibly have been thinking? Cherubs, you know how I hate it when someone belabors the obvious. I mean, who else? Bitsy Henderson? *titter*

Success! No...MORE Success!!!!

2011-10-21T09:49:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too wonderful! Remember my day care that I started, out of the pure kindness of my heart? Darlings, did you swallow the little umbrella from your drink? Let me call one of the staff to pound you on the back...they should be here in less than twenty minutes! My goodness, I haven't heard coughing like that since my sainted late husband gasped his last. Oh, Lambs....*sniff*...give me a minute...

Well anyway, if you've finished with your conniption fit, I have wonderful news! Because of my philanthropy and generosity, and all sorts of other marvelous words ending in "y", I've been given yet another Nobel Peace Prize! Well yes, "hussy" does end in "y", and so does "biddy", but I don't see why you're being irrelevant, Darlings. Check out the hardware they gave me! Why, I can't even lift it, I have to have Enrique, my gardener, push it around behind me in a wheelbarrow. I would be willing to wager that even Tiger Woods doesn't have as many knick knacks as I do! By the way, Lambs, I caught him again, trying to use the courtesy phone at the club to call his cheap tramps. I'm telling you, I snatched that phone right out of his hand, and when I said "Hello?" I got the biggest surprise. There was that trashy Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm on the other end, saying the most shocking things.

But I digress!

Forget about the shiny objects. Enrique, please go put that in the tool shed with the others. I plan to hire some godawful modern artist who can turn all of them into some hideous sort of sculpture, which I will place on permanent display on the Van Deusen's side of the property! I'm telling you, Cherubs, waste not want not! Now, what was I telling you? Oh yes! The Nobel Prize involves a monetary award as well! No more scrimping and cutting back. No more clipping coupons and dismissing staff. What's that, Lambs of mine? You say I was never doing any of that anyway? You're right! Except for the dismissing of staff. I refuse to give up my hobbies!

Well, listen to me ramble! Lambs, sit. I'm not finished.
In addition to the bowling trophy and the chump change, there was one really meaningful prize that I got for my efforts! You should have seen the undisguised look of bitter resentment I got from Bitsy Henderson! Could life be any sweeter? What's that, Angels? You say it could be, for the children in my day care? Well, I don't see how. How many ten year olds have iphones? True, they don't have them for very long, before they are boxed and shipped, but still!

Lambs, I was so happy after I saw Bitsy's destroyed and joyless face, that I had RRRRRRamon give me a celebratory ride, until we watched the sun come up through ~~my bedroom windows~~ through the smoked glass of the RRRRRolls! Well, I know, having a smoked windshield isn't strictly safe, but it's elegant. We never care where we are going, anyway! As soon as RRRRamon opens my door and I set my dainty little foot any place, that place becomes elegant by definition!

Oh, look! Bitsy has crashed her LeSabre into my 100 year oak again! I simply must go ~~rub it in~~ see if I can help! Excuse me, Darlings? You say you don't remember any 100 year oak? That's because I only had Enrique put it in last Tuesday. Oh, don't look at me that way. It wasn't doing anybody any good by wasting away in that dreary State Forest.

Ta, Darlings!

Babs

Magnanimity!

2011-10-13T15:48:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I've decided you're right. I need to take some of the burden off of my staff! And so, I have opened Babs St. Argent's Upscale Day Care and Shoe Factory! Darlings, I feel so very saintly, except without the ecclesiastical trials and tiresome executions!

What's that, Lambs? Oh, leave it to you and Christine to find fault, no matter what I do. And how did she get back? I had everything so nicely arranged. Anyway, the children have a play area,

they stay busy, doing useful things,

and they even have a petting zoo!

See, I really am magnanimous and wonderful! Where is my award? Where is recognition? Who is going to pay for all this junk??? I mean, um, virtue is its own reward! *titter*

Yours For Finer Footwear,

Babs

Return To Sender!

2011-10-08T19:24:00.003-04:00

(from today's Pompano Beach Inquirer)

Dear Daphne,

I'm in love with a really fantastic woman who shares my interest in vegetarian feminist causes, and who brought this really cool used couch into the relationship, as well! Everything is perfect except for one thing. Her mother is a total bitch! From day one, this materialistic, self-centered, pushy gold digger has tried to drive a wedge between her daughter and me. But now she's had me kidnapped right out of the vegan co-op, and shipped in a wooden crate to Venezagua! Right now, I am waiting to use the one working pay phone here in San Creola, the capital city. I'm trying to call my girlfriend, but the lines keep going dead, so I am writing to you.

Don't you think my girlfriend's mother has gone too far? What should I do?

(signed)

Christine In San Creola

Dear Christine,

No matter how many times I am confronted with the ugly facts, I never fail to be shocked by your generation's complete lack of grace and gratitude. You have a lovely, generous woman treating you to an exotic vacation in a foreign land. She took care of every detail; you didn't even have to pack. She even threw in a nice pair of wedges! But what do you do? You complain! Frankly, I am appalled. I insist that you sit down right this minute and compose a proper thank you note. And, in the future, I suggest that you not be so quick to look a gift crate in the mouth.

Best wishes,

Daphne

Oh Lambs! Isn't Daphne amazing? I adore her! She's like Solomon, except she looks much better in a Bill Blass creation!

"Dear Daphne" answers are written by M.Zen, senior staff writer at Baby Puppy Productions. "Dear Daphne" appears in hundreds of newspapers and publications worldwide, including The Christian Bondage Newsletter and Heavy Industry Weekly. Ms. Zen is also the author of several books, including "Crate Your Tot!", "Groupie: How I Worked My Way Through Mott The Hoople" and "Jello Salads In The Ancient World." You can also ask her your questions every Tuesday at 9, on KDZU radio, along with host Maury "The Rogue Elephant" Finestein.

Catastrophe!

2011-10-07T18:32:00.001-04:00

Lambs, now is simply not a good time! I'm having a crisis! What's that, Darlings? Noooo, I didn't miss "Real Housewives Of Pompano Beach." It's something even worse!

All the landscaping has been turning brown and the leaves are falling off all the trees! I told Enrique to either paint them gloss green and tape them all back on, or to run down to the Garden Center and buy new trees altogether. Well, he told me it was something about "fall." I said, "You're going to fall on hard times if this isn't put right by this afternoon when Mabel Van Deusen comes over for mah jong!" The look he gave me, Lambs. I wanted to dismiss him then and there, but you know me. All heart! I decided to give him until Christmas Eve to shape up. If he doesn't, I'll let him go then. I must be getting sentimental and soft, Darlings!

By the way, I had that horrible Christine of yours crated and shipped to Venezagua. You'll thank me later!

Air kisses,

Babs

Just The Multi-Billionairess Next Door!

2011-10-02T19:52:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I've decided to do it! Excuse me? What do you mean, "don't you think you've done it enough" ? Such disrespect. Why, when I was a girl, back in the wolf den, if I had sassed like that, I'd have lost an eye. I would never do that to you, Darlings. Wild horses couldn't make me. But I can revoke your trust fund! Take the eye? You're the very soul of wit, Cupcakes!

Anyway, never mind squabbling. I've decided to throw my hat into the ring! And considering how much my hats cost, I expect Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachmann to fight to the death over it. But really, Cherubs, why not? I plan to present myself as an average American, someone in touch with the American people and their ~~stupid crap~~ concerns. Imagine! Babs St. Argent, populist Republican, takes Washington by storm! Or, I could just buy the White House and move in! Better yet, let the mountain come to Mohammed...I could simply have the seat of national government transferred here to Pompano Beach!

Darlings, there is only one thing missing. I need one of those catchy campaign songs! Something filled with jingoism and cheap sentimentality. How's this?

I knew you'd love it! I'm off to work on my proposal to eliminate income tax for the very rich! What's that, Lambs? It's already been done? Well, forget the whole thing, then. I'll just go over to Bitsy's and get smashed on hard lemonade.

Air hugs,

Babs

Slumming In The Arts!

2011-09-25T07:46:00.000-04:00

Lambs, as you know, elegance is everything here at Objets D'art! I would lay my broken body down and gasp my last, all to preserve beauty, refinement, and that je ne sais qoui that makes the soul shine with...oh hell, Darlings, let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? That tiresome Fireblossom scribbles down a rhyme or two and one would think Jessica Hilton-Christ had just landed in a spaceship, for the fuss people make.

What's that, Lambs? Jealous? Not at all. I don't know what could make you say such a thing. Well, yes, I did buy up every 29 cent pen in every chain drug store in Michigan, but that's totally unrelated! She could always scratch her little poems out in blood, if she were really determined. Which I am, by the way.

To prove it, I have written a poem! Well, all right, I dictated it to one of the staff, and they had it embossed, laminated in gold, and mounted on a pedestal in front of the fountains. But I wrote it! Would you like to see it? Right now? Wonderful! Here it is:

When Goddess saw the mess on the seventh day,
She knew she needed someone to carry it away...
She hired staff!

When Noah needed beasties two by two,
To build his silly floating zoo,
He hired staff!

Hire them, fire them,
But always require them
To do for you!

You really needn't pay them much--
Those drivers, domestics, gardeners and such...
Hire some staff!

And when the Reaper shows his face,
Just send a hireling to Hell in your place...
A girl needs staff!

Well, Darlings, what do you think? Could Keats have done any better? I think not. I think that next time, I'll produce a play, and have the staff perform it, then replace them. I'm excited already!

Air hugs,

Babs

(for dverse poetics, hosted by Fireblossom's equally plebeian friend, Joy Ann Jones.)

I Will Survive!

2011-09-10T09:36:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too awful. Bitsy Henderson's bundt cake won the blue ribbon at the Labor Day Festival. Mine...well, the one I had my personal chef Judith "help" me with...came in 33rd. Judith is now at a re-education camp in Siberia for ten weeks, entirely free of charge! She'll be working exclusively on desserts!

Meanwhile, Darlings, you know me. I will survive!

Show What You Know!

2011-09-09T17:33:00.001-04:00

Lambs, today is Friday, which means that Dear Daphne isn't in the Pompano Beach Inquirer. *sniff* They have that stupid teen advice communist instead. Omg, like, stfu! Cover your ears, Darlings. You know how Mommy gets, sometimes. Especially when her favorite advice maven isn't there.

But take heart! I found this fun quiz! Take it and see how you do! (I scored 100.) *preen*

President Barack Obama is...
a) the chief executive
b) a Muslim
c) Mexican, or Chinese, or something
d) a Nazi

Gay marriage threatens what institution?
a) the institution of marriage
b) the Institution of the United States
c) institutional cuisine
d) prostitution

Patrick Henry is famous for saying...
a) give me liberty or give me death
b) freedom! America! yeah!
c) fool me once, shame on....um...
d) look! twizzlers!

Gun control is wrong because...
a) the right to bear arms is guaranteed in the United States Institution
b) I might need it to fend off wild savages
c) I might want to pick off some wetbacks
d) The United Nations, led by wild savages and illegal immigrants, might try to take away my double wide

If Jesus came back today, he would...
a) join the Republican party
b) have a "support the troops" ribbon on his SUV
c) shave, cut his hair, buy a suit, and at least pretend to have a girlfriend
d) pick off some queers, wetbacks and teachers

There now, wasn't that fun?!

Air kisses,

Babs

Daphne, Light Of The World!

2011-08-29T20:52:00.000-04:00

Lambs, yesterday we read the heartrending letter to Dear Daphne from Not Sure In Pennsylvania who had a question about tipping the help. Today, Daphne graces us with her answer!

Dear Not Sure,

Let me be sure that I understand. You, a married woman, tipped with your own money? After years of pretending to listen to your husband's tales of his latest triumphs at the office, after years of pretending to stay awake during your wifely duties, after years of pretending that the children you've borne are actually his, you, a married woman, put your manicured hand into your Chanel bag and used your own money to tip staff?

I think I need to lie down.

Yes, darling, you should have waited and let your husband handle the gratuities as usual. And, for the sake of all women everywhere, I urge you to do so in the future.

Daphne

Isn't she magnificent, Lambs? People can have their tiresome handyman columns and computer how-to's. Daphne is the last word in elegance!

____

"Dear Daphne" answers are written by M. Zen, senior staff writer for Baby Puppy Productions. Ms. Zen's column appears Tuesdays and Fridays in the Pompano Beach Inquirer, as well as the Daily Worker and Fur Fetish Digest. Ms. Zen is also the author of several books, including "The Dog Ate It" and "99 Fun Craft Ideas For Your Husband's Head."

Unexpected Guests!

2011-08-28T20:40:00.002-04:00

Lambs, there's nothing like unexpected guests! Why, only this morning, Mother dropped by just long enough to sigh heavily and make a remark about serpent's teeth before I had RRRRamon ~~throw her bodily~~ help her into the RRRRolls for a nice ride home.

And so, it's no surprise to find a reader writing in to my favorite advice columnist, Dear Daphne, on just this subject! Let's read!

Dear Daphne,

I've just moved into a nice neighborhood and was unpacking some things when a man walked in the front door. He was wearing a ski mask and so I thought he had come by to recruit my husband and I for the Aspen trip I had heard that the neighbors take together.

Imagine my shock when he shouted, "Where the money, bitch?" Daphne, I don't know how they do things here, but in our old neighborhood, these things weren't done so far in advance. It's only August, for pity sake! Besides, people normally don't start calling me "bitch" until after I join the neighborhood association.

I told him I was of half a mind to write to you about his rudeness, when he pointed knife at me. Then I understood...he was my chef's new assistant! I asked him if he had remembered to bring the arugula. He yelled, "Lady, you be trippin'!" So, were we back on Aspen again?

"Gimme you fuckin' jewelry," he requested, and so, thinking he meant to polish it before starting his kitchen duties, I commended him on his initiative, and even gave him a twenty-five cent tip! Well, Daphne, that's when he picked me up and deposited me head first in the kitchen trash basket and started rummaging through the house. So my question is this: do you think I should have waited and let Larry, my husband, handle the gratuities as I usually do?

Not Sure In Pennsylvania

Come back next time, Lambs, for Daphne's answer!
____

Mutants!

2011-08-18T06:33:00.001-04:00

Lambs, something terrible has happened! *titter* Bitsy Henderson's hamster got loose and hit the highway, evidently thinking that anything would be better than being locked in a cage and forced to watch "Wheel Of Fortune" with Bitsy every night. You know me, Lambs, I always say that desperate times call for desperate actions! Well, yes, perhaps I did say something like that the time I was supposed to bake cupcakes for your 3rd grade class. What could I do, Darlings? My personal chef, Judith, was out sick with whooping cough, and I was left to my own devises. I thought it was quite clever of me to sleep my way onto the school board and shove through an emergency resolution banning cupcakes from school grounds! Darlings, admit it...you liked the Goldfish just as well.

But I digress.

It seems that Bitsy was so lonely without Hank Williams (the hamster), that she ran right out to Bluto's Discount Pet Emporium, out by the old warehouses, and bought Justin Bieber, who she discovered being mercilessly taunted by Bluto. Her maternal instincts were awakened, and so she paid cash for his loathsome little self, stuffed him in a neon pink gym bag, and lugged him home. Now he is crammed inside Hank Williams's old cage, which is set on a tv tray by the plastic flowers in Bitsy's living room. She feeds him Triscuits and had his ears cropped in order to adhere to show standards. Oh the howling!

Cherubs, I have to admit, I'm not one for those overly cute faces like his. Why, even to use him as a lawn jockey, one would have to paint a fu manchu on his mug with hot tar just in order to make him semi-presentable. He just isn't manly, Darlings. But I do like the aroma of the cedar chips Bitsy has spread beneath his exercise wheel!

Air hugs,

Babs

Yes, Master!

2011-08-14T14:09:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I have just finished conducting my straw poll! It was so easy, and informative as well. First, I ~~held up people~~ required a voting fee, then turned them loose, but safely away from media in case anything went ~~differently than I would prefer~~ wrong.

Well, Darlings, it's a good thing I did, because Michele Bachmann won the straw poll, and I simply couldn't let it stand. That whole submission thing is just too alternative lifestyle for me, Cherubs.

What's that? What alternative lifestyle? Well, she said that she is submissive to her husband (*titter*) and then tried to backtrack by saying that what she meant was that she "respects" him. Apparently, I'm going to have to send one of the help out to buy her a dictionary...one of the big fat ones he smacks her with when she hasn't obeyed his instructions and prayed away the coffee stains on his shirts quickly enough!

Last time she didn't "respect" him enough, she was eating dog food from her knees for a week! Hardly the image we want our chief executive to bring before the world, is it?

Air kisses,

Babs

The Help

2011-08-11T06:16:00.000-04:00

Lambs, today Mabel Van Deusen told me the strangest thing while we were idly abusing the wait staff at Armando's. She told me that someone has made a movie about "The Help".

I can't imagine for a moment why anyone would do this. I mean, really Darlings, once they've stolen a little unattended jewelry and been deported, what would one do with the remaining hour and ten minutes of movie?

Well anyway, I can't be bothered thinking about it. I've got to arrange my own help around the circular drive. It's like a cattle auction, except in several exotic foreign languages! What's that, Lambs? Why am I doing it? Simple! I'm using them as traffic cones so that my driver, RRRRRRRRamon, can get some practice in with the new RRRRRRolls! I know I indulge him. What can I say? It's the driving gloves, Darlings. The minute I see them, I find that I can suddenly speak fluid--and enthusiastic--Venezaguan! Multi-cultural to the end, that's me, Dears!

Air kisses,

Babs

Flatten It!

2011-08-06T17:31:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I have always wondered what lies between Pompano Beach and Malibu. Just not very much or very often! But now it has come to my attention that there are places called "Nebraska" and "Oklahoma" and "Kansas" and "Wherethefuckisthis?" That last is an old Indian name, as is Oklahoma, which means, literally, "Honky stole my land."

Isn't it nice to learn things, even if we'll never use them? It's like memorizing the twelve commandments! What's that, Darlings? Ten? There are only ten? Well how disappointing! Which ones don't count?

Never mind, we'll come back to that some other time. Right now, I am thinking about Corntucky, or whatever all those middle-type states are called when you ball them all up together. Are they good for anything? *cricket...cricket...* Apparently not! So, I think they should simply be bulldozed and turned into parking for better states like Florida and California! What's that you say, Lambs? They've already been bulldozed, from the look of it? How convenient! I'll arrange to get the franchise, hire an attendant to charge enormous hourly parking fees, and then sit back and watch the profits roll in!

Now if there were only something that could be done about Detroit....
______
lithograph by Currier & Ives

Life In The Dumb Lane

2011-07-25T18:01:00.000-04:00

Lambs, some truths are self-evident, such as Bitsy Henderson's atrocious taste in evening wear. Hint: glitter bead unicorns are out this year.

Another obvious truth is that men cannot write advice columns. Well, they can write them, given a keyboard a large stick to beat at it with, but the advice will be sadly lacking. To wit:

Clearly, Dear Daphne is in no danger. She would have told this woman to get the car fixed, then threaten to run over what he loves best. Yes, his golf clubs. When Neighbor Tramp sees where she really falls in the order of things, she will kill him herself.

Take pictures with your phone. Wear black for a weekend. Bulldoze his man cave and remodel it as an in-home spa. Appear in court and point to her. Weeping and helpless laughter are almost identical sometimes. Problem solved!

Air hugs,

Babs

____

Happy 4th!

2011-07-04T08:28:00.000-04:00

Lambs! Happy 4th of July! I think it would be nice today if we stopped and gave thanks for all of the simple joys we have because we are American. I'm talking about tax shelters, private yacht clubs and corporate dividend checks!

What's that, Lambs? Wish my readers a happy 4th, too? But...what if they're foreigners? My Goddess, Lambs, what if they're English? I understand that they've already sent that tiresome newlywed couple to Canada, to establish an army so that they can sweep south and occupy the Catskills and Martha's Vineyard. Think of it, Lambs! Do you really think a few milquetoast catamaran owners wearing polo shirts and sipping daiquiris are going to be able to defend this country from them? I say we drop The Bomb on Canada now. After all, I advocated nuclear retaliation just for that wedding gown that hideous girl bought from Sears and got married in.

Well, fine. You and Christine go ahead and have your vegan cook-out with your pale, listless friends. When we all wake up tomorrow under the union jack, don't say I didn't warn you!

______

Julia Roberts!

2011-07-01T18:42:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's happened. Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts have made a movie together. It's called "Larry Crowne" or something. They go off to community college together! What sort of community college can this possibly be? One with shuffleboard and buffet dinner at four in the afternoon?

At first, I thought it must be one of those dreadful Pixar movies. It isn't, but it has the same sense of the real being rendered unreal and plastic, like Bitsy Henderson's dining room set. The plot is approximately this: Hanks buys a scooter and romances Roberts, whose insanely plentiful chompers terrify normal men, but not Hanks, who can mainline Drano and still act so normal you want to smack him repeatedly with a frying pan.

Hey Tom and Julia, the 80s called and...oh for God's sake. Here's the straight poop: no one wants to see Tom Hanks sit in front of Wheel Of Fortune with the volume cranked to 10, while Julia mindlessly devours the couch, the lamps, and part of the front porch. It's sad, really. No stars.

This is Babs St. Argent reviewing. See you at the movies! (But not THIS movie).
_______

Close This!

2011-06-25T06:18:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too awful! For weeks, the city of Pompano Beach has been under siege from an entity almost too hideous to speak of! No, not Katie Couric first thing in the morning...I'm talking about the deformed and twisted creature who has been prowling about, terrifying everyone with her ruined face, dishwater hair, and nightmare-inducing beak...

Yes, Darlings. Kyra Sedgewick has been on the loose here, smacking her alien-like lips at schoolchildren and hurtling them headlong into years of therapy! Thankfully, Enrique, my gardener, was able to shoot her dead. He discovered her nesting in some poison ivy, and ran to fetch my late husband's elephant gun.

You should have seen her, stomping around in her death throes, wearing the wrong dresses and faking an accent as she shrieked inhumanly.

But now she's gone. Let's celebrate!

_____

Mother? Is that you???

2011-06-17T09:16:00.000-04:00

...or is it Gladys, our wonderful Republican Party chairwoman? Hard to tell...they both have their hair done at Home Depot!

Celebri-pets!

2011-06-13T20:15:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I just love that Herman Turnip. He's so elegant that just watching him walk by was enough to leave Mabel Van Deusen slack-jawed and quivering by the clay courts!

He solved my code violation problem! Feng shui, Darlings! That's the thing! I've removed Nicole Kidman from her enclosure near Enrique's tool shed, and set her to fixing the riding lawn mower with nothing but her dangerous talons and her extensive vocabulary of Finnish curse words. She started spouting them immediately after I had Enrique paint her white and erect her near the freeway interchange.

But Darlings, it looked so bare after that, by the shed, and Enrique did nothing all day but deport earthworms he found in the garden. So, I have had RRRRRamon, my driver, help me extricate Keira Knightley out from under the stairs where she has been living on scraps thrown at her by my personal chef Judith, and we have moved her into her very own, brand new, celebri-pet habitat!

The only thing is, she's different from those sea monkeys you had as a child, and needs tofu in order to survive. Oh, certainly, she COULD eke out bare existence on dinner rolls and cabbage, but the girl wants tofu and so I have it dropped in by helicopter. She toys with it, nibbling now and then. In fact, I think she might be dead, but it's hard to tell. I'll have Bitsy Henderson go inside and see! I'll just tell Bitsy that Keira wants her eggs Florentine recipe, and in she'll go, like her hair was on fire.

Lambs, you really ought to consider getting a celebri-pet! I understand that Todd Bridges is available, and that Paula Abdul, if she survives hunting season, will be, too!

No? What about Bono? I can get Bitsy to swap you him for Christine!

Well don't go into a sulk. It was just an idea. You're so sensitive.

I know...Susan Powter! She comes with chia pet stuff implanted in her head. You just water her with the fire hose and...

Lambs?

Picture This!

2011-06-12T13:42:00.002-04:00

Lambs, the postal person brings the strangest things! Today I received a letter from the Pompano Beach code inspector. It's such a remarkable letter! Did you know that our code enforcement officer was once an esteemed member of the United States Congress? It's true! Anyway, Darlings, have a look at this notice I received. It's so odd!

Dear Babs St. Argent,

The purpose of this letter is to inform you of certain code violations which must be corrected in order to avoid fines, and to show you these pictures of my penis. It is prohibited, within city limits, to keep celebrities, animals, or "real housewives" in cages on the front lawn. It has come to my attention that I have not sent you these photographs of my sausage and that you are presently keeping Nicole Kidman in an enclosure by the tool shed. So here are some scans of my tool.

Please correct these violations on or before next week, or face fines. This is the only warning you will receive, though I will be happy to send you a zip file of images of my pecker.

Sincerely,

J. Weiner, code enforcement officer

Is this kind of letter standard, do you think, Lambs? Well, you know me, too kind-hearted for my own good. So, I emailed him back, and attached a jpg of the thing I am most proud of about myself. The thing I imagine to be most thrillingly titillating. Yes, Lambs, you guessed it...I sent him a copy of my bank statement!

Air hugs,

Babs

Shut Up And Fete Me!

2011-06-05T18:29:00.000-04:00

Lambs, the most wonderful thing has happened! No, Patrick Duffy hasn't established a strange underground colony beneath my rose bushes...it's even better than that!

Darlings, the almost preternaturally elegant Herman Turnip has feted me with the Overlord Award. Unlike that crappy statuette Joel Osteen got for his role in "The Ten Reasons God Wants You To Be Rich", this award gives me unlimited superpowers over everyone and everything! In other words, it's the same as owning a bank, but more visually stunning!

Herman has asked me, while plying me with blue chip investments, to list three things I would change if I could. Isn't that adorable? "If I could". *titter*

1. First, Donald Trump's hair would get caught in a harvester, miles from help, and be torn out at the roots, shrink-wrapped, and sold at market as a new designer vegetable! After all, Cherubs, only Bitsy Henderson still thinks arugula is trendy. Then, forced to wear unflattering hats, Donald would descend into a hellish nightmare world of embarrassment, ego, and secret overindulgence in pork rinds! What's that, Lambs? He already has? See? My wish is being granted as we speak!

2. Anyone caught throwing an Amway party would be lifted up on a hoist, and their innards would be painfully overinflated with an industrial pump. Diabolical? Yes. Necessary? Of course! Then they would be cast adrift on a sea of budget salad dressing and guided by natives brandishing sticks so that they would pitch off the edge of a massive waterfall, to certain death on the rocks below. Oh my, I haven't had this much fun since we exhumed Jim Croce's body as a high school prank. We set him behind the wheel of a Pinto and repeatedly ran into the back of it with a bread truck. Youth! I'm so glad I can buy more!

3. My final wish is for Pope Benedict to be forced to participate in a charity stunt at the State Fair, allowing himself to be dunked repeatedly in a vat of water, in full papal regalia, whenever contestants hit a target with a ball. The target would be gargantuan in scale, rivaling Oprah Winfrey's T-spot shine. The Fair would go on for weeks before finally closing with a gala ceremony involving steers and the papal ring. What fun!

Now, I am supposed to pass this award on to ten bloggers who deserve powers of world domination. Lambs, I can't think of any, can you? Even Ron Paul falls short, somehow. I think I'll just keep using it myself!

Air hugs,

Babs

Sexual Deviance!

2011-05-26T21:25:00.000-04:00

Lambs, you know that I try to shield you from the ugly things in life, like Bitsy Henderson's living room furniture. I've tried to protect you from the shocking and the inelegant. But today, Darlings, I have heard about something that has probably scarred my tender psyche forever, and I simply can't bear it alone!

What's that, Lambs? No, I have NOT been watching Lifetime movies again. They gave me nightmares the last time, and I learned a valuable lesson...never watch anything with Joe Penny in it. Or Linda Purl. It simply is never worth the suffering!

But I digress. The thing that shocked me so badly was seeing in the Pompano Beach Inquirer about a couple who have been married for fifty years! Can you imagine? At first, I thought they must mean five. But no! They actually meant fifty! YEARS. With the same person. Lambs, I would set myself on fire and dance a jig before I would spend half a century with anyone. People are not banks. We are not meant to stand there looking stately for decades on end, as we slowly sink into the earth inch by inch. No. It isn't right.

Clearly, what those two are doing is not natural! Now, don't misunderstand me, Cherubs. You know me, I'm all about live and let live! I wouldn't mind, if they wanted to be together for that long in some kind of institution, far from the view of normal people! But no. They had a party. Lambs, they weren't content to ply their bizarre and upsetting ways in private. They had to rub everyone's nose in their sickening ways!

Well, Darlings, I'm exhausted. Righteous indignation is necessary but so tiring! I think I'll relax by accepting a weekend invitation from this lovely new man I've met. He offered to take me with him the next time he goes hunting. He shoots at liberals from a helicopter! They scurry down the street, ducking between the vegan grocery store and the women's clinic, but in the end, he always gets them. How I admire him!

What's that, Lambs? Oh, I'll dump him like a hot rock before Monday ever gets here. What do you think I am? Some kind of pervert, like those two old fogies? I don't think so!

Sometimes you surprise me with the things you ask, Darlings.

Air hugs,

Babs

An Ounce Of Prevention Is Worth A Pound Of...Well, You Know!

2011-05-25T09:31:00.000-04:00

Lambs, you know me. I can't bear a cover-up. Why, would I have ~~gotten my hooks into~~ had my wonderful seven months with my sainted late husband if I had covered up? I think not! And so, I am here to debunk some common myths!

Let's start with Jim Croce. I know a LOT of girls who did! The myth is, that he died in a plane crash. Girl, please. He is very much alive, but has to be kept in a pen at a private zoo to prevent him from singing to, and mating with, ladies from the 70s! Oh, they're still out there. Why, Bitsy Henderson still has a Bay City Rollers poster on her bedroom wall, although her husband has defaced it. I think they look good with those arrows through their heads, and those enormous erections. What's that, Lambs? Why was I in Bitsy Henderson's bedroom? I'm shocked at you, Darlings. I wasn't. I saw the poster while I was in her master bathroom, having a peek at the contents of her medicine chest. It's like a Parke-Davis product inventory!

But I digress.

Jim Croce had to be stopped. I mean, who writes entire songs about conversations with utility company employees? And if he had been allowed to sing about bad bad Leroy Brown one more time, I would have had to shoot him myself! What's that Lambs? Well no, you're right, of course I wasn't born yet. I meant...now see what you've done? I'm getting all confused from your nitpicking! Stop it, Darlings, it isn't elegant!

Myth #2: Nicole Kidman has escaped from the Home For Faded Actresses and not only married a professional wrestler, but has appeared in a new smash hit movie. False. Well, partly false. She did marry Andre the Giant, who, unlike Jim Croce, really is dead, but she propped him up and married him anyway, because he was the only remotely famous man who could tolerate being near Nicole without recoiling in horror from her razor-sharp beak. However, her new movie, "Mucus Men From Mars" can hardly be termed a smash, although Phoebe Bates tells me that even she did a few straight-to-videos.

I'm so glad we had this little talk, my dears! I hope I have made the world a simpler place for you, though Goddess knows how it could get any simpler than your affair with Christine. Can't you see she only wants you for your lawn chairs? Honey, why not come with me for a makeover...we'll find you a nice male investment banker to ~~fleece~~ love in no time! Where are you going? What, no air hug?

Sharper than a serpent's tooth, as they say.

Babs

_____

The Story Of Fireblossom

2011-05-22T17:37:00.000-04:00

Lambs, have you noticed that the world did not come to an end? You have me to thank. I called in a favor from Joel Osteen, who has been performing yeoman duty as a lawn jockey here in Pompano Beach, but still has God's ear. He said, "Jay, Babs doesn't want the world to end yet....she has mah jong!" And so the Rapture was reserved once again, as it should be, for the discovery of fabulous new shoes!

But now I'm bored. So I think, in observance of Fireblossom's birthday, I will tell you her story!

THE FIREBLOSSOM STORY by Babs St. Argent

As a tiny infant, Fireblossom was discovered carefully tucked into a basket and floating in Bitsy Henderson's bird bath. Bitsy flew into a panic and called Critter Control. And so, Fireblossom was denied her true heritage, which would have been to grow up at Bitsy's house and learn the finer points of sitting on a bench seat from an old Ford, and sewing goose clothes with Bitsy.

Imagine! There, in the shadow of the half-buried tires with the geraniums planted beneath them, she could have watched American Idol and dyed her hair to within an inch of its life, then married Rollo from the Sunoco station.

But nooOOoooo.

Instead, the Critter Control people left her in the basement of the public library, where they had been dispatched to capture Gary Busey, who had become lost down there while searching for pictures of Donald Trump to tack onto his living room wall. Left to her own devises, Fireblossom grew there in the shadows, surrounded by volumes that didn't sell at the public sale. I'm talking about giants of literature, like "Valley Of The Dolls", and forgettable nonsense like "Immortal Poems Of The English Language."

Eventually, she was discovered by spinster librarian Twila Cardigan, who took her home and taught her to sit with her elbows on the table, smoking a cigar and firing off passionate love letters to female celebrities, such as Suzi Quatro and RuPaul. *titter* Sadly, the only replies that ever came back were restraining orders, and Fireblossom became restless.

She finally broke out of the library and, at fifteen, took over a small central Asian country no one cared about, and converted the entire population to Jettism, that is, the mindless worship of rock star Joan Jett.

Then she got a job and did nothing interesting at all for the next twenty years.

Now, withered with age, and bitter with her failure to ever win a single set of tennis against Mabel Van Deusen, or even Anya, the Monkey Girl of Tibet, she began a blog three years ago. It is called ....well, something. There, she spouts her incomprehensible poetry and languishes, a living testament to the dangers of reading, and of using cheap moisturizer for years on end.

Don't let this happen to you! Be sensible! ~~Sink your fangs into~~ find a nice man and ~~shake him out like a blanket full of deer ticks~~ cherish him. Don't become an invert and a scribbler like Fireblossom!

THE END

Lambs, do you think it's too much of a puff piece? Be honest, now. *snort*

Air kisses,

Babs

_____

Saintliness And Seafood!

2011-05-15T09:01:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I've done something so saintly, so unassailably good, that I feel like God owes me a dinner party!

What's that, Cherubs? You say I ruin people on a whim, that I'm materialistic and care nothing for the poor suffering have-nots of the world? And...???? Honestly, Lambs, sometimes you mystify me completely!

I'm going to reveal something to you now that may just change your entire idea of me. Well no, Darlings, not those. That only works on men. I'm talking about Inner Beauty, the kind of....oh look, a private diamond sale. Now, what was I saying? I lost my thread!

Oh yes, Inner Riches and such. Pfffft, just try to buy a villa in the south of France with Inner Riches. *titter* Nonetheless, I have done something extra-saintly, even for me.

What did you say, Lambs? Patience, Darlings. And, I am NOT moving it along at a "glacial pace" as you so delicately put it! Bitsy Henderson understanding that her idiot husband is having an affair with a 7-11 check-out girl occurs at a "glacial pace", not my stories!

All right. I'm talking about the NALC Food Drive. Each year, the postal service collects food for people who are so lackluster and lazy that they don't even own their own corporations! I've hardly felt called upon to strew filet mignon in their path until now. I mean, MY letter carrier left me a Willow Ridge catalog the other day! Willow Ridge?!? Really? I had half a mind to get Mabel Van Deusen to nag that Teutonic man of hers into firing his field artillery at the mail truck! But instead, I had my personal chef Judith leave some fresh lobster tails in the mail box. I feel so saintly, I think I'm going to need to lie down!

Excuse me, Darlings? Well, yes, I had her do it right after the mail arrived yesterday. What? Oh. Oh dear, you're....ri...reiiiiiii...guh-ighhhhhh....well, you're less mistaken than usual! True, it may be just a little stinky after sitting in the closed mailbox in the sun until Monday, but I am NOT undoing such a magnificent deed.

After all, it's the thought that counts!

Air kisses,

Babs

Advice Communist

2011-05-07T11:58:00.002-04:00

Lambs, I'm glad we can agree that "Dear Daphne" is the world's wisest and most elegant advice columnist! Why, the Pompano Beach Inquirer would quickly devolve into one of those awful, free, sell-your-car rags if she ever retired!

Just look at the pale imitations that are out there. Look at this one, from the torpid Tampa Tribune, called The Advice Communist:

Dear Advice Communist,

My husband and I have agreed that it is time to buy a new car. He wants an electric car, but I feel better in an SUV. This disagreement has started to affect our comfortable suburban ennui. Can you help us make the right decision?

Needs Wheels In St. Pete

Dear Needs Wheels,

It is time for you both to stop thinking only of yourselves. Use your old car to form a barricade to block the Royal carriage as it passes down the avenue. It is an abhorrent symbol of the old and oppressive. If you place a small incendiary device in your old car, the czar can be assassinated and the revolution can begin. Then, as you've wisely spoken of, buy that SUV and have it melted down at the new collective metalworks, where they can transform it into bullets or hammers. Good luck, comrade. Oh, and...if your husband still disagrees, turn him in to the secret police. He can spend his time in the gulag to reflect on how wrong he was. He may apologise one day, but don't hold dinner.

All honor to the glorious workers!

The Advice Communist

Really, darlings, what is that? Or this?

Dear Shabby,

My husband and I have agreed that it is time to buy a new car. He wants an foreign-made sports car, but I feel better in an SUV. This disagreement has started to affect our trendy upscale relationship. Can you help us make the "right" decision?

Carefully Casual In Coke Harbor

Dear Casual,

My ex-husband's son (by that bitch Jo Ann) just started doing a nickel in the state pen for bungling a liquor store robbery. He won't need his 1992 Daytona anymore, so I bet he would let you have it if you could just smuggle some reefer into the slammer for him. You can tie that tail pipe right up with a twisted coat hanger, and the rust is the same on both doors so what the hell. And you can have the nicotine gum he left in the glove box. See? Problem solved. Now pass me that "Us" magazine, the one under the quarter pounder box. Thanks! You can have the rest of the sandwich, cos you're my guest and shit.

Shabby

Lambs, this is the sort of thing that makes me worry for the future! But not that much. Because my show is on! A bientot, my loves!

Air kisses,

Babs

_____

Daphne Hands Down The Golden Wisdom!

2011-05-01T07:28:00.001-04:00

Lambs, even though you know very well that I lie awake nights wringing my hands and trying to think of new ways to sacrifice so that your lives can be better, I know that you pay no attention whatever to the things that matter to me.

"Interest-free loan."

There! Now that I have your attention again, let's go back to the Pompano Beach Inquirer and "Dear Daphne", my favorite advice columnist! Last time, we read a letter from a delightful young lady who wisely purchased shoes with the charity money she was entrusted with (such a smart girl!) and who needed to know how much postage to use to send a shoebox full of her little sister's troll dolls to the hungry! Let's huddle together like waifs and read Daphne's answer!

Dear Not Selfish,

What a marvelous gift! Troll dolls are so adorable and trendy retro. A big box of Trolls is just what starving children need to take their minds off those uncomfortable hunger pangs. I applaud your philanthropy. You are the kind of young person that gives me hope for the next generation. Bravo!

But, darling, there is one small thing. I do hope that you'll rethink including Christmas cd's in the package. As the great philosopher Boy George asked: "Do They Know it's Christmas Time at All?" Probably not. Err on the side of cultural sensitivity and just send the Trolls.

As for shipping, I wouldn't trust such a precious package to the United States Post Office. They can't even deliver my Redbook in a timely manner! Go with UPS, darling.

Best Wishes,

Daphne

Isn't Daphne wonderful, Lambs? She is so right about the post office. Why, my mail carrier just sits, drunk, slumped sideways in the seat of her crashed mail truck out by the gazebo, for hours at a time! My gardener Enrique has to gather up the scattered Better Homes & Gardens magazines and distribute them, willy-nilly, throughout the neighborhood, just as the carrier would have done, were she not passed out.

Oh dear, have I shocked you? Well, here's another shock, and I hope it doesn't send you into a tailspin: I gave all your old Troll dolls to those radioactive people in Japan. Maybe that will stop them from starting world wars and filling the world with that awful anime. Now I feel saintly! "I was hungry and ye gave me Trolls"! And I've insured world peace!

Air hugs,

Babs

______

"Dear Daphne" answers are written by M. Zen, senior staff writer at Baby Puppy Productions. Ms. Zen is the author of many books, including "50 Industrial Applications For Mashed Potatoes" and "Teach Your Goldfish Ballet!" She has also recently appeared on stage in the role of Judge Sevier in an off-Broadway production of "Who's Next? The Lives & Times of C.C. Avalon and Phoebe Bates".

_______

Dear Daphne: Trolls For The Hungry!

2011-04-28T19:14:00.001-04:00

Lambs, the Pompano Beach Inquirer just arrived. Let's read "Dear Daphne"!!!

Dear Daphne,

I am a middle school student living in Troy, Michigan. Our teacher thought we were all a bunch of stupid spoiled brats, so he cooked up this plan for us to feed a bunch of orphans so we would learn to care about others, or whatever.

He said that, if we each contributed just fifteen cents a day for a month, we could feed like this entire village of starving orphans for the rest of their lives or something. The orphans live in...oh, I forget, but it's far away, where brown people live in huts and speak gibberish and don't have any cool bands or hot boys or anything.

I had to be treasurer, so there I was carrying like fifty tons of nickels and dimes around, just dragging my bag by the strap through Somerset Mall, when I saw these really cool shoes! So I bought them! But then I didn't have anything to send to the starving orphans, so I used the empty shoe box and filled it with my little sister's trolls and a couple of our parents' lame Christmas cd's. (Cd's??!? Really??!?) So, I need to send it off to Brown People Land, but what I need to know is, how many stamps do I use? I need an answer as soon as possible, cos I still have to get the money out of my mom's purse and go to the post office.

Thanks for your help!

Not Selfish In Troy

(Daphne's answer next time!)

_______

Look! A New Doorstopper!

2011-04-08T21:52:00.000-04:00

Lambs, look! I've got a new book! Oh, I didn't write it. But books are a wonderful thing. They can enrich your life, and are useful for pummeling the help with! Watch...

See how fast Ingrid stopped filing her nails after I conked her between the eyes with this thing? Marvelous!

What's that, Darlings? What is the book about? Well, let's see. There's a blurb on the back cover! Let's read it together, shall we? (That means I read, and you gaze at me fawningly and listen, filled with a radiant admiration!)

TESTOSTERONA ON 50 DOLLARS A DAY

At last, the definitive travel guide to exotic Testosterona is here! It's chock full of information about the city's 34,559 sports venues and 373,409 Taco Bell restaurants! You'll find easy to read maps directing you to all of Testosterona's famous bill cap factories, and you won't want to miss the Testosterona Theatre Group's legendary productions, such as "Yo, Dude!" and "I'm Sooo Fucked Up!"

Learn handy tidbits like this: Testosteronese hotels have no closets...just throw everything on the floor! Take part in the city's fabulous Forget Your Girlfriend's Birthday Carnival! It's all here, in one incomparable guide. In no time at all, you'll be taking up an entire couch all by yourself, just like a native!"

______

for book blurb friday #6

Walking Your Dog The Objets D'art Way!

2011-04-03T09:48:00.000-04:00

Lambs, as you know, I lie awake nights trying to think of ways to make your lives easier. What's that, Darlings? Well, RRRRRamon just slips into my room to stop me from worrying about the RRRRolls. He lets me know that all routine maintenance has been kept up to date, and that the pistons are moving thrillingly!

But I digress.

I've decided that it's time we had a talk. Yes, that talk. About how to properly walk that canine you insist on owning. No, Lambs, not the last boyfriend. I mean the one who gulps unidentified mush out of a bowl on the floor. NO, NOT the ex-boyfriend! And then throws it up on the Persian carpet I worked minutes on end to buy for you. Darling, really, listen...NOT the ex-boyfriend. I mean the one you allow to sleep with you who wants to be let out in the morning, not let in. Are we clear now? Good!

The first thing I want to teach you, is how to take your ~~filthy thankless creature~~ precious doggy for a walk! First, attach its leash. No, Darlings, don't wrap it around its leg that way...attach it to its collar! The way you've seen me do with bank managers a thousand times before! Yes, that's it!

Now, you and your ~~great hulking beast~~ friend are ready for some healthy fresh air. But where to go??? Never fret, my pets, I've already solved that for you, the same way I solved your getting accepted at Bryn Mawr. By planning ahead! You should have seen the film and photographs I had all ready to mail to CNN. Why, the dean of admissions became so accommodating so quickly once I had mentioned them! In passing, Dears, only in passing!

Anyway, you should proceed directly to Bitsy Henderson's lushly landscaped front yard, and encourage Fido to relieve himself, enormously if possible, right there next to the little jockey statue. Wonderful!

Now then. Section Two, "If There Be Ducks"! If your ~~flea-ridden cur~~ little darling is a hunting breed, ~~thank Goddess my sainted late husband never knew about it~~ there is a special instruction I must give you. Should a low-rent sort of mallard be, for example, nursing an unfortunate case of birdy psoriasis underneath Bitsy's hydrangeas, and your dog should suddenly spot it, let go of the leash. Otherwise, you may find yourself airborne faster than some cheap Eurotrash jetsetter. Darlings, really, there isn't enough concealer in the United States and Canada combined to cover up the road rash you'll get if you insist on hanging on (the way you hold on to that dreadful "special friend" Christine...we'll discuss her --and perhaps changes to my will--next time). Although I am not entirely sure they even have cosmetics in Canada. I think maybe they use beaver grease. But no matter! Just remember, let go of the leash, as if it were a two-hour old Big Mac. As always, Cherubs, if you follow my advice to the letter, you'll be fine! If not, well...don't expect me to keep bailing you out, no matter how much I dote on you!

Ta for now, Darlings!

Air kisses,

Babs

Book Blurb Friday!

2011-03-25T09:36:00.002-04:00

Lambs, what are you doing? Excuse me?!? Packing relief supplies for Japan? Pfffft. Never mind that. I've got something really important for you to do!

I got to thinking. Oh, stop rolling your eyes, it isn't elegant. People write books and get paid enormous sums for them! Oh, not for the books themselves. Who reads? I mean when movie producers buy the rights! Look at James Patterson. He writes what they call thrillers. Now, personally, I find a man carrying a weapon dreary and predictable, but a man carrying an outrageously expensive diamond necklace in a black jeweler's box, that's thrilling! Leave it on the table, darling! I've got to run!

But I digress.

James Patterson, when he tires of cranking out these thrillers, kidnaps some woman or other from a writer's group at the local community college, and forces her to "help" him write a gooey, implausible love story. When it comes out, it looks like this:

GUINIVERE'S SECRET GAZEBO

by James Patterson

with Jane Smith

See, Lambs? Easy! So, I have sent RRRRRamon out in the RRRolls to kidnap James Patterson and bring him here. Oh, don't give me that look. Anyway, it's already done. The man is down in my sainted late husband's smoking room right now, whining to be let off his chain. I may let him go, too, because the book is finished!

HOTEL HADES

by Babs St. Argent

with James Patterson

Read the blurb, Darlings!

Rathbone Henderson had chosen the wrong wine just before choking to death on a salmon croquette. As his dim, benighted, simple, fashion-challenged daughter Bitsy looked on in horror, his spirit floated out like second-rate perfume from an atomizer, straight to the wrist of the Devil!

"Burgundy with seafood!" sneered Old Scratch to the newly demised Rathbone. "Would you wear Big K sneakers to a benefit ball?" Soon, the unlucky, unhappy, unwise man found himself thrown in with the (deceased) dregs of society...women who call Mah Jong "Chinese Tiles", and men who wear black business socks with sandals while "puttering" in their yards on Saturday.

Rathbone Henderson, realizing his fate, twisted and howled like a man whose wife has just said, "I donated your titanium clubs to the church raffle". His life at Hotel Hades just beginning, could anything save his soul from eternal torment? Read and find out, in this gripping page-turner from the brilliant mind of the one and only Babs St. Argent!

There! Do you know what, though, Cherubs? My editor wanted me to trim 19 words from the blurb! He said, in this horridly nasal voice, that 169 words was just too many. So I bought his publishing company and had him transferred to the maintenance department. He looks so cute with his broom and khaki uniform! I mean, imagine....just throwing away 19 words from my immortal pen! Oh all right, from James Patterson's drug store Sharpie. Don't quibble, Darlings! It's beneath you!

for Book Blurb Friday

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2011-03-17T11:08:00.000-04:00

Kiss them, they're Irish!

*titter*

So is a setter, but the setter is smarter. Hey, isn't Fireblossom Irish?

_____

Westward, Ho!

2011-02-13T09:48:00.000-05:00

Lambs, I'm sure you've heard that expression, "Westward, ho." While I don't really see why they needed to be vulgar about it, those cowboys were onto something! Probably loco weed, but still.

So, today I want to tell you all about the Old West. No, not Adam West, though he certainly is older than God. In fact, he made me so nervous tottering around the topiary garden, that I had him stuffed and mounted and placed in my late husband's study, next to the gazelle. That damned gazelle probably wasn't any faster when it was alive than it is now, or my sainted late hubby could never have set down his martini and picked up his elephant gun quickly enough to blast its brains out. Oh, Darlings, don't get that look on your faces. The way it was explained to me, the herd has to be culled, or they die anyway. That's why I dismissed half the domestic staff this morning. Oh, you should have heard the pleading and cursing in several foreign languages! I had to chase them out the door at sabre-point.

But I digress.

As you know, Lambs, everything I do is for you, no matter how costly or painful. Well, all right, no matter how painful, then. And I think you should know about the old west, so let me put on my teacher's robes and begin! Oh wait...this is Phoebe Bates's lounging attire. How embarrassing! *titter*

When pioneers arrived on the Great Plains, there wasn't even a Bloomie's. The place was full of wild Indians, who evidently knew a great tanning place or spent all season on the Mediterranean, and who also had the most TDF native jewelry you've ever seen! So, all the pioneer women told their husbands they were going to play a couple of sets at the club, but what they really did was slip off and have torrid but meaningless affairs with these poolboys without a pool. I call that charity, Lambs! Otherwise, there they would have been, getting run over by bison or something, or listening to that godawful native flute music.

So, there the settlers were, with their wagons filled with Waterford crystal and designer gowns, but without so much as a gated community to move into! Oh Darlings, have I shocked you? I do try to shelter you from life's worst horrors, like public schools and packaged dinners. Are you all right? Perhaps we should leave off here for today.

There's really nothing in the west anyway, except a bunch of states whose three electoral votes we need in order to keep the lefties out of the White House.

No mas, Darlings. What's that? It's "namaste", with an "ay" on the end? Oh dear, I've been exposed to the help for too long. Come, help me to my fainting couch!

Air hugs,

Babs

________

for One Shoot Sunday

Gloria In Excelsis Rodeo

2011-02-10T11:07:00.000-05:00

Lambs, I've just purchased the Roman Catholic church! No, Darlings, not just one. The whole kit and kaboodle. What's that, Lambs? Well, I heard Bitsy Henderson say it and I guess it stuck in my head, like when you hear "It's A Small World After All" and start singing it in your head, even though you'd rather be waterboarded by Glenn Beck than think of it at all. So, kit and kaboodle.

Anyway, there I was, having the Vatican redecorated--so many gay ex priests available...it's going to look fabulous!--when we found a group of geriatric Nazis huddled in a store room, babbling in Spanish. I'm afraid we could only save two of them. We had them bronzed and placed on either side of the service entrance.

But the Pope! What a delightful man! I took one look and decided to finance a spaghetti western with him playing the part of The Arizona Kid. He already had the perfect hat, and of course, Phoebe Bates will direct. After the success of that one 3-D movie, we may paint him blue and have him fly.

So, the Vatican is all taken care of, and I'm turning the individual churches into outlet stores. Think of all the employees I can dismiss at random! And I can stalk through the displays, saying, "Not this, no, it's all wrong, send it back!" Lambs, I can't wait.

Air kisses,

Babs

Tell Him To Hold

2011-02-07T14:34:00.000-05:00

Lambs, the most interesting thing just happened. Hosni Mubarek just called me on the telephone. He's hiding inside an empty industrial drum of date-flavored Jolly Ranchers, hoping things will cool down.

Now, Darlings, you might imagine that he would want to talk about the political situation, in which case I would have handed the phone to Keith Olberman, who, after being found homeless and living in my shrubbery by Enrique the gardener, has been given the work of sorting through all of my late husband's fishing lures.

But no. All Hosni wanted to talk about was his wild-eyed scheme to force the Kardashian sisters to bear him an army of devil babies, who would then rule Egypt for a hundred years. He also expressed an urgent desire to have Egyptian doctors transplant Jennifer Aniston's brain into the head of a chicken, but I talked him out of it. I said, Hosni honey, why not inject Dan Rather with dangerous quantities of Ducolax instead, and then marry him off to a petri dish filled with Ronald Reagan's brain cells? "I'll do it!" he said, and hung up.

Just wait until Dan starts to find Nancy Reagan hot, even though he can't remember why, and fights a pitched internal battle with himself not to act on it. *titter* What's the frequency, Dan?

Air kisses,

Babs

We Are The Camp-ions!

2011-02-05T13:09:00.000-05:00

Lambs, it's me, Babs. My driver RRRRRamon tells me it is Stupor Bowl time again and I'm half tempted to have him hitch up the sled dogs and take us through the driving blizzard to ice-bound Dallas for the game!

What's that, Darklings? I mean, Darlings? Why do I want to go to the Super Bore? Well, because! Let me tell you a story, Lambs. And stop rolling your eyes, it isn't elegant. I used to have an uncle, Uncle Rathbone, who was what we used to call light in his loafers. Well, he would have loved this football business!

It's nothing but camp! No, not training camp, Darlings. Think about it. Large, muscular men in tight outfits, grabbing each other, tossing each other down in fits of passion! Still don't see? Listen carefully, Dears. Hear that? The stadium rock? "Another One Bites The Dust" and "We Will Rock You" and, inevitably, as one team wins and their brawny, wildly homophobic fans jump out of their skins and the players pile on top of each other (wink!), "We Are The Champions", all sung by a flamingly gay man my Uncle Rathbone would have swooned for!

I find it all just too ironic and delicious, Darlings. Especially when one team is actually called the Packers. Lambs, where are you going? Oh dear, somehow I've offended again. *titter*

_______

The Objets D'art Help Desk!

2010-11-28T16:48:00.000-05:00

Dear Daphne, Holiday Edition!

2010-11-20T22:37:00.001-05:00

Lambs, the Pompano Beach Inquirer just arrived. Let's read Dear Daphne!

Dear Daphne,

With the holidays upon us once again, I am worried about how to smooth over an awkward situation with my mother. Recently, my parents arrived for dinner at my house, with my husband Herbert and I. I should tell you that when I met Herbert, I knew he was the love of my life...but my parents never approved.

We were all sitting at the table when, in the middle of his telling a story about something funny that happened at work, my mother suddenly picked up the gravy boat and clocked my beloved Herbert with it. Herbert slumped into his baby asparagus and couldn't be revived, even when I brought out my famous roast of lamb. Complaining that it might be a toll call, my father phoned 911. The paramedics came, and off we all went to the hospital. Herbert never recovered, leaving me peeved with my parents.

You see, Daphne, my precious gravy boat was ruined. I feel that mom should replace it, but whenever I try to tactfully bring it up, she just changes the subject or claims not to remember. How can I make her see that she owes me a new gravy boat?

Miffed In Mississippi

Daphne's answer can be found HERE.

Alphabetized Elegance!

2010-11-13T13:12:00.001-05:00

Lambs, I want to try something a little different today, all right? Shhhh, the "all right?" was strictly ceremonial. What I want to do--and who's going to stop me? *titter*--is to list, by letters of the alphabet, things and ideas which are important to me. Oh no no no, sit! Don't pretend that there is anything in your tiresome little workaday world that is more important. Now then, let's begin!

A is for Armageddon, which is what will have to occur before I ever give up majority control of my late husband's company. Or wear orange. Or visit Branson, Missouri.

B is for blank, as in the type of check I prefer to be given. Don't clip my wings, Darlings!

C is for churlish, which is what anyone who disagrees with me is. It simply isn't done.

D is for dead, as in my dead body, over which is the only way you are ever going to see me out with the mob on Black Friday. I prefer to simply purchase the stores I like best, and shop undisturbed, with the doors locked, at mid-afternoon! Is that Madonna I see, with her face pressed up against the glass, begging to be let in? When I'm done, perhaps, Dear. You can have my leavings.

E is for elegance, of course! If I do it or endorse it, it is automatically elegant! Try to keep up, Darlings, won't you please?

F is for fatuous, which is what my detractors are. May they all be diagnosed with flesh-eating gingivitis. What was that you said? What? WHAT? Don't mumble, Darlings. *titter*

G is for G.O.P. I vote a straight ticket every election, as you know, Lambs. Or, actually, I have John Boehner run my ballot up to my local precinct for me, and then fetch Chinese on the way back. I never touch the stuff. I just like to make him do it.

I is for idiots and imbeciles. Lambs, I'm talking about the idiots and imbeciles who run the Pompano Beach Inquirer, and replaced the "Dear Daphne" advice column with some absurd handyman. Now the handyman can use his knowledge to build a resort condo for one on the deserted island I had him removed to. So nice to see Daphne's column back where it belonged, the very next day!

J is for Jewish people, without whom my community would be a ghost town.

K is for karma, which people are always mentioning to me as they raise their eyebrows significantly. How dull. Who knew there were so many Hare Karmas in Pompano Beach? I thought they were all still at the airport. Of course, I haven't set foot on a commercial flight since they stopped stocking first class with gourmet chefs. What's that, Lambs? You say it's Hare Krishna, not Karma? Don't quibble, Darlings, it isn't elegant.

L is for lesbians. Oh you know, Cherubs, those awful women with men's haircuts and jackets, smoking pipes and dancing with each other, to everyone's horror, at wedding receptions. Why, I once offered a tube of my best lipstick to one of them, and the woman just looked at it like she'd never seen one before and then asked if it was some new kind of spark plug. I wash my hands of them, honestly.

M is for men. Use all you want, Darlings. They'll always make more!

N is for neutron bombs. They kill all the help but leave the topiary garden undisturbed.

O is for orgasms. My late husband was firmly convinced he had given me several. *titter* Phoebe Bates says I should have gone into movies!

P is for Phoebe Bates, my close friend and well-known ~~porn star~~ movie actress. The only person I would ever take a bus trip with, as we did this past summer. Why, just this week, another foreign prince proposed to her by courier. She is pretending to give his offer "serious consideration", while, in fact, we have set in motion a coup to depose him, just because we can. Then we'll get facials. I'm exhausted beforehand!

Q is for quagmire, which is what the grounds are after Enrique, my gardener, went overboard with the new sprinkler system. Now he just stands on the roof of the tool shed all day long with his hand in his shirt and a commodore's hat on his head. I can't deal with him right now. I'll leave it to the Coast Guard to remove him.

R is for reality shows. I swear by "The Real Housewives Of Pompano Beach." I called in some favors and had "Masterpiece Theater" removed from the air to make room. No one watched that anyway. They just claimed that they did, to impress vacuous ingenues who didn't watch it either.

S is for shabby. I'm going to have to have one of the staff look it up, because I don't know the meaning of the word!

T is for titillation. Just the other day, at the Club, I saw Mabel Van Deusen standing with the new tennis pro. He was holding a new custom-made raquet, and I could tell she was simply tearing herself to shreds wondering which one to wrap her talons around first. Decisions, decisions, Mabel!

U is for ursury. I knew nothing about it. I hire people to run my banks for me. I would never have allowed it to go on if I---oh hahahahahahaahahaahahaha. Ahem. I apologize. I just remembered a really amusing joke the Pope once whispered in my ear. Now I've lost my train of thought. No matter. On to the next letter!

V is for Victoria's Secret. Did you know, Lambs, that Bitsy Henderson's house is built on land reclaimed from the ocean by filling it with nothing but VS catalogs? Just the ones from that subdivision? That week? They have that famous model Alessandra, or something like that. Oh, you know, the one with the eyebrows that give her a perpetually quizzical look, as if she were constantly trying to remember which boyfriend/manager has the best cocaine. I understand she hasn't eaten anything but packets of Splenda in weeks.

W is for whips. Well, how did you think Phoebe and I kept the help motivated? Subliminal cassette tapes?

X is for xenophobia. See "G".

Y is for yawning, because when I start to do that, it's your cue to leave. Yes, that includes you, Prime Minister.

Z is for zinfandel. I never drink it, but will do if there's nothing else for a christening. Oh, ship or baby, either, Darlings. One you let slip away into the water, and the other you send to boarding school. I can never remember which is which though. And now, I must be going! I am the keynote speaker at a humanitarian fund-raiser tonight! "Mankind is my business!" *titter*

Air kisses,

Babs
______

Frightening Developments!

2010-10-31T12:25:00.000-04:00

Lambs, this is the time of year for frightening things. The most frightening thing of all, of course, is that there is a black man in the White House who is not carrying a tea tray or stirring oatmeal in the kitchen. Now, you know me, Lambs. Not a prejudiced bone in my body. I have staff of all races and shades, and I throw dinnerware at them all, equally. But really.

I understand that beggars are expected to come to the door tonight, demanding free candy. I plan to line the circular drive with IRS accountants, who will require certain paperwork to be filled out before a single Snickers bar leaves my hand. Well, I meant figuratively. I'll have Concepcion, the new downstairs maid, do it. Or I send her back to Arizona.

I am, as you know, all about God and American values. Stock prices mostly. But I did attend a bible study the other day with Phoebe Bates. All the other women wore long dresses straight out of Little House On The Prairie, that show where the little blind girl accidentally chops off Michael Landon's curls with an axe, and then blames her sister, who goes on to star in Lifetime movies about psycho boyfriends who cheat on their girlfriends who have fatal diseases but who are nonetheless bravely fighting for some cause.

But I digress.

When they got to the part about the weaker vessel, and obedience and so forth, Phoebe threw back her head and made a joyful noise. Well, darlings, all of that stuff is meant as comedy, surely. As for God, well, I'm sure I he's on one my boards of directors or something. If not, I'll find some sort of figurehead position for him, as long as he doesn't start calling me "honey", grabbing my ass and telling me what to do. Then he's out.

All right, Cherubs, I must run. I need a costume. I think I'll go as a nun! Domini fomini, tic tac toe. I've got it all down! Real nuns probably don't wear leather bustiers and carry whips, but they don't set their sugar donuts on hundred dollar bills every morning like I do, either. What's that, Lambs? Oh, I have the staff throw them away afterwards. Give them to you instead? Darlings, I couldn't do that. You must learn to stand on your own two feet before you can learn to stand on the prone bodies of the less fortunate, and rise to the heights! I'm always looking out for you, my Darlings, never doubt it.

All right, ta ta. Wait, what was that you just muttered? "Rich"? That's the spirit!

________

Suffering Beyond Endurance!!!

2010-10-27T18:01:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too awful! Come closer...put your ear to my pale, trembling lips. That's right. Listen to what's happened. Gasp as you hear of my inhuman suffering.

No. I can't even talk about it! Darlings, you know how I've always tried to shelter you from life's harsher realities. Bargain shoes. Driving one's self. Even such horrors as honest judges and earnest poets. (Fireblossom, you tiresome little mouse, are you listening, or are you scribbling away in your horrid lightless garret again?)

But this, my Dears, it is simply too much to bear. You know me, Lambs...a smile for everyone and not a whisper of anything I may be going through myself as I strive to cheer the sick and the downtrodden by having them all painted a cheerful pastel yellow and placed in rows in front of Bitsy Henderson's awful Dutch Colonial. Now, not even a ghastly injury to Mabel Van Deusen's right arm could cheer me or stir me from my bed, where I have lain down, never to rise again. Oh all right. If Mabel injured her arm severely enough to compromise her serve, I might rise just long enough to beat her in straight sets before returning here to waste away.

And to think, Cherubs of mine, that today began like any other day, with Enrique poisoning himself accidentally with bug spray, and stumbling into the grand salon like a zombie before crashing face first into the eggs benedict that my personal chef Judith had only just placed before me. He looked so tragic, I had to put my hand to my face so he wouldn't see me snicker. I am nothing if not solicitous of the feelings of my staff. And the handsome young doctor who was summoned was so skilled! What's that, Lambs? Skilled at what? Why, at examining my molars with his tongue, of course. I knew that Enrique would hang on long enough for me to enjoy myself just a little bit.

All pleasure and enjoyment are in the past, now, though. I survived being abandoned in the woods by my mother, to be raised by wolves. I survived finishing school. I survived my debut. I even survived the untimely death of my sainted late husband...*sniff*...oh, Darlings, give me a minute...

What, what, you'll ask, can have laid me so low? Don't be vulgar darlings. It's too late for sex to cheer me. Here is what has happened. This morning, after Enrique was cured by that ridiculous quack, er, I meant, that dear and glorious physician, I was trying to read the Soaps capsules in the Pompano Beach Inquirer, with a view to moving on to the fabulous "Dear Daphne" advice column, when in breezes the new downstairs maid, Jennifer. It's terrifying enough that every baby girl born during the entire decade of the 1980s was named Jennifer. It is even more terrifying that I am still having debilitating flashbacks about being shown her vacation pictures from Branson, Missouri. (*snort!*) All two thousand of them. But today, after last night's inevitable karaoke frenzy, or whatever unholy thing she was up far too late doing, she must have taken about fifty Benzedrine tablets right before coming to work. (Remind me to count mine, if I don't die.) The woman started talking. And talking. And talking. I tried, very pointedly, to read the capsule for "One Life To Live", but the words only danced meaninglessly before my eyes, as my mind groaned under the lunacy of her opinions and her newsy tidbits and her family updates and the state of her cat's digestion. I began to seize. I foamed at the mouth and fell to the Persian carpet, but still she plunged on, heedless. Thank Goddess that Phoebe Bates wandered in and saved me. She still had the .22 I had loaned her as a negotiating tool with her studio, and she silenced Jennifer just in time to bring me back from the verge of drooling idiocy. But now, life is ruined because of my unbearable suffering. I'll just drift off now...a little twitch, a rattling sigh, and...

But wait! I don't want to miss my programs! It's Halloween week, and they're showing a terrifying movie tonight about prenuptial agreements! I've got to see it. You know how those always go, don't you Lambs? The actress always sits there with a pen in her hand, poised above that wicked document, believing that the "B" actor she is engaged to will always cherish her. *titter* Even as the audience screams at her, "don't do it!", she does. I can't miss it! So save my life and go fetch me a gin and tonic and my cashmere Snuggie, won't you? You're such dears! Oh, and, on your way out, would you check and see that Enrique has buried Jennifer in the south garden, like I told him to? It's good for the bougainvillea.

________

Return of The Native

2010-10-11T08:31:00.005-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too wonderful! I'm hoooooooome! Yes, I'm back at Chez Babs in Pompano Beach! What's that, Darlings? Why, RRRRRRamon drove us, of course. I had him flown in to some godforsaken airstrip in Nevada, after our driver, Acid Alice, who couldn't leave the jimson weed alone...how shall I put this delicately?....cracked up and had to "stay with friends" for a while, in order to center her chi. She sent me the nicest little basket! It was here waiting for me when I arrived!

But, and I hesitate to even bring it up, there was a nasty surprise waiting for us, also. Well, "us" is Phoebe Bates and I, naturally. Phoebe has moved in. I need help abusing the domestics, and she has experience! You should see the dominatrix costume she's got. I am green with envy!

Anyway, when we arrived, there was this man sitting in my living room, watching "Wheel Of Fortune" and eating Doritos. I boxed his ears, um, I meant, cleared my throat and he yelped, or rather, turned around, and I asked what he was doing in my house. He mumbled some double talk about having bought the property and waved some silly title deed. Lambs, I have mentioned that I own the bank, have I not? It seems his note was called in within the hour, and, unable to fetch 400 thousand from his piggy bank, he found himself, his billiard table and his beer can collection on the street in record time.

Soon, Cherubs of mine, my new staff of domestics was carrying in all my worldly possessions on their backs in the broiling sun. For just a moment, I considered having them build pyramids in the east garden, just to vex Bitsy Henderson, but you know me, Lambs....all heart, even when I shouldn't be.

And guess what? Enrique, my gardener was still here, as was Judith, my personal chef! They were both hiding out, in the tool shed and the walk-in pantry respectively, like a couple of WWII Japanese soldiers who don't know the war is over. Well now it's on again! I'm having Mabel for lunch. Um, of course I intended to say "having Mabel over for lunch." We're having Spaldings avec fromage, or at least Mabel is. *titter* You watch, she'll eat them just to be polite. You know how those Teutonic types are. Rigidly correct, even when chewing on tennis balls in cheese sauce. What fun!

The RRRRolls was another matter. It had been auctioned off after RRRRRamon abandoned it in the Everglades. Long story. What matters is, the shop at which I found it languishing, wanted to charge me far too much to get it back. I'm so glad I carry a .22 in my clutch. That mechanic will be squeezing a rubber ball in a back ward for the foreseeable future, but his hair will certainly grow back, and that's what matters. What's that, Lambs? Offensive? Darlings, I thought I explained to you....I'm off the leash now. No more worrying myself half to death over whether to say "who" or "whom." I'm free, like that whale in that movie, except, you know, slender and stunning.

Well, I've got to go dismiss some staff. I'm so out of practice! And Phoebe wants to screen some of her old films. She seems keen to see the one with C.C. Avalon in it again. I don't think RRRRRRRamon likes Phoebe very much. Just because he had to sleep on rubber mats on the carriage house floor last night. Poor dear. I'll make it up to him. I'll give him that now-vacant auto repair shop. He can run it on his day off....February 30th. *titter* I know I know, I'm the very soul of kindness, and it will be my undoing some day, but I can't help myself! Now give me back my toaster, so I can center my chi. Thank you.

_________

Not So Pure And Demure Anymore!

2010-09-26T09:30:00.003-04:00

Lambs, I'm so full of Good News today, I feel like one of those little bibles, except better bound. It's this new skin treatment I've been trying. I threw away that abominable stuff that Bitsy Henderson gave me, that billed itself as a "defoliant." I'm telling you, Lambs, I would sooner take a bath in gravel and twisted steel from an urban demolition site. No wonder the woman always looks as though she's just gone bouncing through a Sahara sandstorm on her face. Well, Darlings, I'm just saying. And it's only Bitsy. *titter*

Now then, my Good News! After more than a year of watching every word I say, and being the very model of restraint and tiresome political correctness, I am finally unfettered! Unmuzzled! Free to be me! Wait...that sounds tacky. But still! Lambs, please get the wax out of your ears, I said "unfettered", not "feted", though I certainly should be both.

I'm afraid that I have spent entirely too long a time casting my pearls before swine, and being terribly misunderstood because of it. People are so touchy! Why, just last month I attended a state function where I was to make the keynote speech about the world economy, though I ended up talking about advances in sex toys instead, but that's neither here nor there. The point is, that when I asked the English Prime Minister to kindly get down on his hands and knees so that I could step up on his back and, from there, onto the raised dais, he had one of his undersecretaries do it instead, and was quite unpleasant about it, as if I had made some terrible and unthinkable demand. Why, he acted the very same way my first husband used to, when I suggested that he ought to remember our anniversary. They both gave me that look, you know the one, as if I had just flown in from Mars. It's a shame what happened to my first dear spouse, having that terrible accident in one of the water hazards at the Country Club. I can still see him, stepping off the stern of his golf cart as it went down, like some poor desperate soul departing the Titanic into the frigid and unforgiving waters of the north Atlantic. I tried to save him. I did. As he floundered in the shallows, I placed my boot across his neck, so that water would not rush into his lungs. I was practically Betsy Ross! What's that, Lambs? She made the flag? Well, Florence Nightingale, then. What difference does it make? I was heroic beyond all measure, that's the point I'm trying to make!

But was I feted for my bravery? Was a collection taken up to replace my boots? No. Misunderstood to the end, I was arrested and put through that dreary trial. I hate to think of the miscarriage of justice that might have occurred, had I not been able to help that one juror avoid foreclosure. A teensy favor! After all, I own the bank! Of course, I naturally do not concern myself with the day to day operations, and if his note was found again after the verdict had come in, how is that my fault? Oh Lambs...something being MY fault....so absurd! *titter*

Well, I'm exhausted now. Let's talk later, shall we?

Air hugs,

Babs

_____

Tagged!

2010-09-07T17:49:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too wonderful. I've been tagged. Well, actually Fireblossom got tagged, but she left it sitting out where anyone might pick it up, and so...I did. *titter* Oh, don't look at me that way. She's far too busy trying to pick out just the right (completely awful) mannish tweed jacket to wear out tonight when she attends the premier of "Gone With The U-Haul", a terrible adaptation of "Hamlet" with an all-woman cast. Talk about dry. I'd rather volunteer in a soup kitchen. That was a joke, Darlings.

So anyway, this Eric person did the tagging. Never mind, he's no one. He doesn't even own a Fortune 500 company. I can't be bothered. But still! The meme! It has "me" in it twice! How can I resist?

1. Why did you start blogging? Why did the chicken cross the road, Darlings? Well, it wasn't to lay eggs. It was to get to the other side! You see, when I had my Sylvia Plath ouija board, one night a presence made itself known, and told me that my fate was to start a blog and to call it Objets D'art! Later, the presence took up residence inside my toaster. I'm talking, of course, about the spirit of Bill Cosby. Just saying that magical name, I can feel my chi centering like a platinum no-limit credit card sliding through a slot! So there you have it. Yawn. What's next?

2. If you could travel anywhere in the world without restriction of cost, where would it be and why? Darlings, I can travel anywhere in the world without regard to cost, and I can buy most of those places outright and staff them as I choose. Is this some kind of a trick question?

3. Did you have a teacher who had a great effect on your life? If so, what? I did. It was Mister Geeman. I found I could lead him around by his...well, by his base desires, and in time, precocious student that I was, I learned how to ~~blackmail~~ go to him about certain financial arrangements in my favor. Of course, I told his wife and had him sent to jail anyway, but I only did it for the practice!

4. If you could spend the day with a famous person, who would it be and what would you do? What is with this quiz, anyway? I am a famous person. I'm with me all the time, and whatever I am doing, well, that's what I would be doing. Phoebe, did one of your old script writers come up with this shit? Oh dear, I cursed. *titter*

5. Toilet paper. Over or under? I don't use common toilet paper at all. I'm currently using the Magna Charta, and when that's gone, I'll start in on some of the lesser DaVinci sketches. Wellllll...no one was using them!

6. Tell about your pets, if any. The only pet I had was Joel Osteen, and when he used the ouija board just before we left, he was sucked down into the vortex of hell. Oh well, maybe he'll find his way back. I hope he has sense enough to stop at the groomer first.

7. Do you live in a large town or a small town? (you don't have to name the town.) Until recently, I lived in Pompano Beach, Florida, but now I live in a ~~stolen~~ borrowed National Trailways bus with ~~porn star~~ acclaimed actress Phoebe Bates and ~~motorcycle burnout~~ our driver Acid Alice. We're just arriving in Las Vegas, which means I have better things to do than this meme!

Ta, Darlings. Air hugs.

Babs

_____

My Sky

2010-09-02T06:49:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I've decided to participate in one of those themed blog posts! It won't do to be aloof, and so I've plunged in with the common unwashed (with Phoebe and Alice at the ready to snatch me back if it all becomes too much) and posted this picture of "My Sky."

I don't know where we were when I took it. We've gotten so far off the main road! But still...aren't the birdies lovely? They remind me of bond traders I used to ~~scam~~ know.

Nonetheless, I had better be careful. If I keep on with this silly populist nonsense, before you know it I'll start writing snoozy poetry like that poor wretched thing Fireblossom. Believe me, Darlings, I'll stop before that happens!

Air kisses,

Babs

_____

Post card

2010-08-29T20:45:00.001-04:00

Lambs! I'm sending you this postcard from some place outside of Chicago, where we ended up when a bird got inside our borrowed National Trailways bus and frightened our driver, Acid Alice, so much that she floored it all the way from Troy, Michigan ("City of Tomorrow...Today!") to Chicago, where we were abruptly stopped by the right field wall at Wrigley Field. Phoebe wrested the wheel from Acid Alice and landed us here where we are taking a well-deserved break at Carl's Ice Cream Shoppe & Oddities Museum.

They have all sorts of things here! But my favorite by far is Jim Croce's head in a jar. Remember that song about Time In A Bottle? Of course you don't, my Darlings, you were not even born yet. Let me explain. A man who looked to be the love child of a walrus and Groucho Marx became a star by singing tender ballads about fantastical nonsense like eternal love. One of these songs was called "Time In A Bottle", and in it, Jim Croce expressed his wish to save all sorts of useless trivia inside a bottle, presumably the one he had just finished. No sober man could write such pablum!

But, Cherubs of mine, it seems he got his wish...sort of...because right there in Carl's Oddities Museum sits old Jim's noggin, preserved inside a water jug. He seems to peer out, wondering what happened. Small fish are living in his disgusting mustache. It's revolting! He must be dead, though, because Phoebe stood right in front of him and he never looked at her cleavage at all. Phoebe said that had never happened to her before.

What's that, Lambs? His body? Well, it must have landed someplace else when he met his maker. It wasn't with his head. But they do offer these lovely little model airplanes for sale! They actually burst into flame as soon as they reach an altitude of 500 feet! A little man holding a tiny plastic rotary telephone falls out of it and sings "Operator, can you help call 9-1-1?" So imaginative!

Ta 'til next time, Lambs. Let me know if you want me to buy Chicago for you. We'll be here through the end of the week!

Air kisses,

Babs

____

Below The Neck

2010-08-22T18:32:00.000-04:00

Lambs, how long has it been since I told you a bedtime story? What's that, my Darlings? You say reading the financials to you at 3 a.m. in my leopard print kimono doesn't count? Fine, be petulant. But who else would I allow to see me in mud mask and curlers? That's love, Dumplings of mine, real love!

Speaking of which...life holds certain eternal mysteries. You know me Lambs, as introspective as a Romantic Poet on a stormy cliff by the seashore. Stop that, you sound awful when you bray.

But really, consider. How were the pyramids built? Why were they built, for pity sake? You can't shop there. There's no spa. They're as useless as that godawful Land Rover my sainted late husband was so fond of. Sniff....give me a minute....I adored the man through all five months of our marriage before his untimely tragic demise, but honestly, he wasn't Ernest Hemingway, or even Daktari, no matter how many stuffed gnus he mounted on the wall of his study.

But I digress.

Mysteries. Pyramids. Here's another one. Why do men believe that splashing Ice Blue Aqua Velva on their faces will be attractive to women? They might as well turn a jug of Alpine anti-freeze over their heads and call it a day. In fact, I think RRRRRamon actually tried that once, and he did manage a weekend fling with the kitchen assistant, so what do I know about these arcane masculine rituals? But I do know how to catch a man without using a helicopter or netting, and that leads me to the biggest mystery of all. How did Bitsy Henderson ever manage to get a husband?

Oh dear. I've shocked you, haven't I? I'm sorry, Lambs. I know she wears off the rack clothes from Bargain World. If she stopped wearing jewelry, the Dollar Store would go out of business in a week. But that only deepens the mystery, doesn't it?

Well, I know the story.

Basil Henderson was actually keen on someone else when he and Bitsy met in the emergency room of some godawful charity hospital in East Bumfuk. Bitsy was there with a friend who was being seen for end-stage dry fly-away hair. Meanwhile, Basil had been "entertaining" his lady friend and suffered a rather embarrassing injury. You see, Basil had slowly fallen in love with a mannequin from the nearby Target store and had been showering her with attention and gifts. So captivated was he by her lovely face and her glazed but promising come-hither eyes, that on that very evening, he had summoned up the courage to remove her from the Misses section and take her home, where he had an elaborate candle light dinner planned. All went well through ~~the heist~~ picking her up as well as through the half-thawed Hungry Man chicken fried steak dinners he had prepared.

"Would you like my brownie?" he asked her tenderly, and then, overcome with passion, he fell upon her like a perfect beast, and tried to have his way with her. But she was....how shall I say? She was....incomplete...below the neck. Below the waist, actually. . And so he injured himself trying to achieve congress. Can you imagine? And she had been so lifelike! She had lain there, stiff as a board and completely unresponsive, just like all of the other women of Basil's experience.

So you see, Lambs, it was Bitsy's lucky day! Like any woman worth her salt, she knew what to do with it once she had embarrassing dirt on a man with money! The wedding was set for the following June--Bitsy wore what looked like a table cloth left over from the church's white elephant sale, and posed for photographs standing between the half-buried white automobile tires in her front yard, holding a bouquet of...of Goddess knows what, kudzu probably--and voila! She had her man.

Oh look at that, you're asleep! So adorable. Now I can go into your closet and swipe that angora sweater you've been hogging all to yourself. Sleep well, Darlings!

_______

A Close Call!

2010-08-21T10:29:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too awful to describe adequately! Somehow, Phoebe and I, in our borrowed National Trailways bus, became disoriented trying to get to New York and we found ourselves in Detroit instead! What's that, Lambs? How did we know it was Detroit? Why, by the city officials driving their Cadillacs with the smoked glass windows through the bombed-out moonscape of the local neighborhoods! So we did what any two elegant ladies would do in such a situation, and screamed at our driver, Acid Alice, to floor it and get us the hell out of Dodge.

But no sooner did we leave 8 Mile Road and Detroit (and Eminem, who had been in the cross walk) behind us in ruins, than we found ourselves part of a strange mass ritual the locals had cooked up. I remarked to Phoebe that, whereas everyone we saw had been black a minute ago, now everyone we saw was white! "Maybe they had a bleach rainstorm!" I said, and Phoebe nodded sagely and said, "Noooo shit!"

Well, Darlings, we asked around--

Oh all right, Phoebe got out and sat astride some middle aged Melvin in a portable lawn chair and found out from him that we had happened upon the annual Woodward Dream Cruise. As the Melvin's wife pelted us with excess hot dog chili that she hadn't managed to stuff into her gaping maw (can you imagine? me, within twenty feet of an indeterminate cut of meat?), Acid Alice pulled us back into traffic, which was filled with classic cars. Lambs, we saw a positively pristine 1955 Chevrolet convertible...well, it was pristine before Acid Alice had a flashback and sideswiped the Chevrolet off the road and into a brick wall. "Sooorrryyy!" Phoebe called out the window as we moved on. And people say actresses are all selfish divas! Not Phoebe Bates! Why, as we drove away, she even tossed her half full tin of Altoids into their smashed and flaming car, and you know how she loves those things. A miracle of humanity, that's our Phoebe! In fact, the little homosexual who makes her custom bras said so, only last week!

Lambs, I'm afraid that this is where my tale turns darkly disturbing. Up until then, our trip had been nothing but light-hearted fun (except for Eminem and the Chevy people...*titter*) but I can scarcely take enough Valium to be able to tell you what happened next. But brave little sojer that I am, I will! Why, I feel like Joan of Arc, except without the mannish wardrobe!

Because this Dream Cruise is a celebration of classic cars and the days when carefree youths placed a hand over one eye and careened down Woodward avenue in their oil-dripping third-hand rust buckets, there are several local radio stations broadcasting from tents, as if they were some sort of oldies-addled Al-Jazeera. Every song is older than the brie in Bitsy Henderson's refrigerator.

Now it gets horrifying. You may not want to read on. As we crawled past in the cheerful, nostalgic, wonderful bumper to bumper gridlock, one of these stations began playing one of those appalling Harry Chapin story songs from the 70s.

Yes. I can't describe the horror.

Suddenly, I had the overpowering desire to wear Earth Shoes, change my name to Buttercup Peacedove, and join a commune! I had to fight down the sick urge to part my long, lank, dishwater blond hair (which I don't even have!) in the middle, and do mushrooms until I convinced myself that Harry Chapin is Jesus and he's come back in his taxi to save the world! Phoebe had to slap the shit out of me to make me snap back. Thank Goddess she was there! I can't even bear to imagine what this experience has probably done to my chi.

We did manage to eventually escape, and Acid Alice pulled the bus onto a golf course somewhere in the northern suburbs. I'll tell you a wicked little secret, Lambs....we didn't replace the divots that the bus's six enormous wheels created. After all, this trip is all about living on the edge, and really being alive! We bought a new ouija board somewhere along the way, and tonight, Phoebe Bates, Acid Alice, and I are going to try to summon the spirit of Harry Chapin and tell him that he sucks! It's the least we can do to atone for killing Eminem.

*titter*

_______

The N Word

2010-08-20T11:38:00.000-04:00

Lambs! It's me, Babs, checking in from the road! Phoebe Bates and I are having a wonderful time. Phoebe has taught me many foreign customs. At least, they have various national appellations in the names!

But I digress.

There isn't much to do when traveling between, say, Martha's Vineyard and Dust Flats, Texas, and so we listen to the radio sometimes. Well, Cherubs, you simply won't believe what we heard. We tuned in to Dr. Laura. Well, every time I see that woman, I want to have my plastic surgeon perform an on the spot face lift before she frightens anyone else. And her hair! I think she stole it from a box full of Barbies and she just yanks it up out of a hollow in the top of her head, like some nightmarish sperm whale. She could do dermabrasion with her head, it looks so stiff.

Anyway, there we were, listening to Dr. Laura when Phoebe's eyes got big and she said, "Did you hear that? She used the N Word! Several times!"

Oh dear. "You mean "neck"? Because the woman has the grand daddy of all turkey necks. Her jowls could swing around suddenly and K.O. Mike Tyson. Oh wait...Tyson...chicken...turkey...turkey neck!"

My cleverness got me a kiss from Phoebe, but she told me that wasn't the N Word in question. I blanched.

"Not...."new taxes???" But that wasn't it, either.

Did I mention, Darlings, that Phoebe and I were at the time traveling in a redecorated National Trailways bus? We had persuaded the passengers and driver to abandon ship, as it were. Well, yes, Phoebe did wave her Prada bag around and shout "I've got a bomb", but all she meant was that her last movie hadn't done as well as she had hoped. Anyway, we installed our new friend Acid Alice behind the wheel, with her lovely motorcycle friends trailing behind us down the highway, and Phoebe and I set about making the place livable.

So there we were, with me trying to ascertain exactly which N Word had offended us, when we saw the Reverend Al Sharpton standing by the side of the road at the bus stop, waving his arm at us. Well, Acid Alice at that very moment had to swerve to avoid a caterpillar that was crawling along the middle of the highway, and I'm afraid the enormous wheels of the bus went directly into a pool of standing water and drenched Reverend Sharpton as we drove past.

*titter*

I turned to Phoebe and gasped. "Was it....?"

Phoebe gave me her big eyed "oh-yes-she-did" look, and I knew. I knew that Dr. Laura had used that foul, vulgar, frightening, and terribly upsetting N Word we all know and shudder at:

"Nouveau Riche."

Yeah, honey you had better resign! And have someone sandblast that horrid 1960s suit off you, too.

Air kisses from the road,

Babs

_____

Cops Investigate Disappearance

2010-08-15T09:28:00.000-04:00

Police are investigating the disappearance of Pompano Beach's own Babs St. Argent, the woman described by Donald Trump as "Filthy rich...the kind of rich I can only dream of." Trump went on to say something that rhymes with rich, but this reporter can't quite summon it up, because of a recent head injury.

St. Argent was last seen with blue film star Phoebe Bates, who won Pornys in 2007 and 2009 for her roles in direct to video features.

Ms. St Argent's home, dubbed Rose Manor but usually referred to as The Third Circle Of Hell by visitors, stood empty at the time of this writing, save for one staff member who refused to come out of the kitchen cupboards where she said she has been hiding since 2003.

Neighbor Elizabeth "Bitsy" Henderson said that she had seen nothing unusual, but that she had slept in the morning of the disappearance, citing a touch of flu. Following this interview, police gathered up the pills that had fallen out of the torn pocket of Ms. Henderson's bath robe, and arrested her on drug charges and also with public display of an unusually tacky lawn ornament. The latter charge carries heavy penalties, but falls under the auspices of the local Neighborhood Association to prosecute. Association president Prudence Michaelson Todd stated--while standing in front of the heads displayed on pikes around the stately grounds of her own tasteful home--that "this looks even more serious than the unauthorized gazebo last year."

Another neighbor, Mabel Van Deusen (nee Fritzenganger) said something unprintable and then served a tennis ball at this reporter's dome, resulting in the aforementioned head injury. Her husband, brandishing a World War One grenade launcher, stood on the balcony as I ~~fled~~ moved on to other business.

Updates on the investigation will follow as information becomes available. Meanwhile, I am planning a second interview with Elizabeth Henderson, and hopefully I can score something for my headache.

Oh, and....television evangelist Joel Osteen also remains missing. In his absence, Lady Gaga takes over his ministry.

_____

So Long, Pompano Beach

2010-07-27T10:28:00.000-04:00

Lambs, remember when you used to worry that you would come home from school and find that I had moved away without telling you? Well, sometimes dreams do come true! Oh my gosh, I feel like Walt Disney, but without the cheesy mustache!

Yes, it's true, I'm taking my mah jong tiles and hitting the road. One call to Immigration cleared out the staff, and I'm giving the RRRRRolls to RRRRRRRRamon as soon as he drops me off at the airport. Judith has a gig at Rally Burger, and Maxie, well....there comes a time in every young girl's life when she needs to go and live with the wolves for a while. What's that, Lambs? She already has been? No, I mean the kind of wolves who live in the forest and have no line of credit! Oh, don't look at me that way. I gave her a letter of introduction!

It would be inelegant of me not to thank my loyal readers. You've been like the four equestrians of the Apocalypse to me, and if only there had been more of you, there would be more tears at my departure, which would be cool. I may have to hire someone, or have Enrique go down to the public park and recapture Nicole Kidman and the Eagles and have them stand in. So many last-minute decisions!

I am giving my Brian Williams PEZ dispenser to Riot Kitty. My tennis racket goes to Faye, and my prize possession, my toaster--which as you know, contains the spirit of Bill Cosby--I leave to you and Christine.

To Fireblossom, that evil little snark, I leave big fat nothing. Enjoy.

All right then, Darlings! It's time to go! Come, give me one last air hug. If I still had staff, I'd have them sniffle, and that sort of thing. Be well, my Lambs! If you have any problems, just write to Dear Daphne. Some horrid low level hireling will just delete it unread, but you'll feel better all the same, I promise!

Time to run. Here's RRRRRamon, with the RRRRRRolls! I see my traveling companion already seated and waiting for me. Oh, didn't I tell you? My friend Phoebe Bates is coming with!

Why thank you, I will take that granola bar. Just ask Bill Cosby, when you get home with the toaster. He'll tell you, it's all about evolving! I think I feel my chi centering already!

What's that, Darlings? Make it quick....oh, what happened to Joel Osteen? I left him my Sylvia Plath ouija board. He used it last night and a portal into Hell opened up and swallowed him. Joel, you forgot your gold cuff links!

*titter*

________

photo: Mabel Normand

Brioche and Brickbats!

2010-07-25T17:11:00.000-04:00

Lambs! How wonderful of you to stop by! You've just missed Joel Osteen again. Phoebe Bates and I were just teaching him how to read runic stones and center his chi! It was lovely. I feel like I do so much good in the world! Like some biblical woman, except without the humble obedience.

You know me, Darlings, mob-trained leg breakers couldn't draw a critical word from these lips, but I was just about to call out to God and ask Her why people do things on their blogs that annoy me. Oh yes, Darlings, I've got the Supreme Being on retainer. Leave nothing to chance, my Lambs!

Now then, my rogues' gallery of bloggy offenders. What's that, Lambs of mine? It's their blog? Perhaps so, but I am here to stamp out inelegance wherever I find it! I root it out and have the staff get rid of it!

First, there are the widget-happy. Slide shows of their latest foray into K Mart with their fifteen screeching children. The weather in Mumbai. The time in Vladivostok. Darlings, I could have a complete mani and pedi in the time it takes all of that to load. In fact, I usually do!

Then we have film clips and music players that auto-start. Not only does it take up the best years of my life waiting for it to load, my sensibilities are too refined to allow myself to be subjected to Angelina Jolie's latest action packed snoozer, or the music and magic of whatever teen heart throb has been most recently shoved on stage by his or her godawful, obsessed stage door parents. Puh leeze. Lose the gadgetry!

This brings me to people using Blogger, who use the comments at the bottom of the post format. Oh, the excitement of waiting for the whole bloody widget-packed blog to load in the first place, then load again to bring up the comments, then again to bring up the word verification, then yet again to actually publish one's remark, which by then is usually "please just shoot me now."

Word Verification is actually a lovely thing, ostensibly a tool to keep out spammers, but in fact a ploy to weed out the undedicated! In order to don the special goggles required in order to read the scramble word in the first place, and then type in "ihaytmycomenterz" in a little box while all the while some widget continues running in the background, one has to really really want to say something rather badly.

Now then, darlings, let's not leave the WordPress people alone in the corner. There is nothing else quite like the click click click of little boxes automatically popping up every time you come within a foot of anything remotely connected to any other page or blog. It reminds me of paparazzi!

All right then, Lambs, have I offended everyone? Are you sure? Wonderful! See you next time!

_______

Readers Always Ask

2010-07-16T23:30:00.000-04:00

Babs, why do some people have barely enough to survive, while others seem to have so much more than they need?

Because, darling, someone has to be the staff.

What is your opinion about gay marriage?

I know it's trendy, but so are condos in Fort Meyers. It has to be stopped, and I know just the way. If it is two men approaching the church door, simply shout, "Look! Three blocks away....isn't that Cher?" They'll be gone faster than those complimentary shampoos at some horrid chain motel. If it is two ladies (*titter*), the thing to do is to wave granola bars at them and keep backing up until they are far enough away from city hall to prevent matrimony.

Fox hunting has been made illegal. Now what?

Not to fret. Simply use one of the neighbor's children instead.

My husband and I gave our son a new Italian sports car for his sixteenth birthday. Now he comes roaring up the driveway at ungodly speeds and at all hours of the day and night. How can we get him to "cool it"?

Have a few of the lesser staff lay down across the driveway to act as speed bumps.

My dog is a little excitable. My daughter's little friend claims she was bitten while they were playing, but I couldn't find any injury, and I didn't see it. Now the parents are upset with me. What should I do?

Rent a Bengal tiger and invite the offending parents over for a talk. Leave them alone with the tiger in your sitting room. By the time you come back, the problem should be solved. Remove your better Monets first.

Babs, I find you materialistic, manipulative, promiscuous, selfish and completely blind to the feelings or needs of others. What do you say to that?

How droll. Go back to your dreary little poetry blog, Fireblossom!

___________

Extreme Elegance, Phoebe Bates, and Joel Osteen Redux!

2010-07-13T12:59:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's amazing what I have to tell you! So much news! It all happened this morning, as I was ~~smoking a joint~~ having tea with ~~porn actress~~ well-known movie star Phoebe Bates. You know Phoebe...richer than God--but not richer than me...*titter*--and always the very soul of elegance. Well, Darlings, I don't care what Christine says about her. Christine doesn't shave her underarms. Need I say more?

Oh, don't sulk. If we can't be honest with each other, then what's the point? So there we were, Phoebe and I, having a glass of milk and watching PBS, when someone came in through the west window! Well, Lambs, imagine my surprise when I saw that it was Joel Osteen again! I thought he had come back to try to get me to pony up, but no!

It's simply too good, Darlings. Dear Joel, wonderful Joel, had come back (hidden in the back of a lawn service truck) to ask for my guidance! Hat in hand, as it were! Well, Phoebe and I couldn't run and fetch the toaster fast enough. We both agreed that the best place to start was for Joel to meet the spirit of Bill Cosby, who as you know, lives inside the single slice side of that appliance.

Lambs, Joel was enraptured. As the wisdom of Bill Cosby flowed forth, I could see his face change, and I knew we had acted in time. And anyway, there's a timer on the toaster, and it hadn't gone off yet! You should listen, Darlings, this is science and spirituality all in one!

Pretty soon, Phoebe was doing energy work on Joel's chakras, and I was explaining crystal and pyramid power to him and promising to give him my astrologer's number! By the time he left, we all realized that we had certainly been friends in a past life, and that our auras are completely color coordinated. Even you have to admit, Lambs, that that's more elegance than you can shake a stick at!

Darlings, would you like a candy from my Sylvia Browne PEZ dispenser? Try one, they're lovely, and they make you see dead people. I've got one stripping the wax off the ballroom floor right now! Phoebe is supervising. She said she knows all about stripping.

It's simply been the most marvelous day, from start to finish. Why, I even heard that Mabel Van Deusen sprained her wrist. What a shame. *titter*

______

Oh For God's Sake...

2010-07-11T11:03:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too awful. And on Sunday, too! What's that, Lambs? Well, no, I didn't attend services this morning. I'm afraid I was detained. Yes, removing my nail polish and saving the cotton balls in case they are needed as relics someday does constitute being detained. And so, Darlings, I was home when it happened.

RRRRRamon was downstairs watching "Hot Fuzz" in the game room when a terrible pounding began at the front door. Yes, I know, the last time that happened, it turned out to be nothing more than Mabel Van Deusen hitting tennis balls against the door and returning them through the picture window. Since then, she's cut down on the energy drinks. This time, Darlings, it was something far more shocking.

I hadn't even had my coffee yet--Moroccan roast!--when it all began. I thought that Carmela, the new downstairs maid, would answer it, but INS was even at that moment dragging her across the back lawn to their van, despite the most colorful Spanish being hurled at them as they did. And so I staggered down the staircase and lurched to the door without even applying my volumizing mascara first.

It was Joel Osteen.

"Give me your money!" he screamed, and pushed his way into the vestibule. "Money! Where is it? GIVE ME YOUR MONEY!!!!"

I said, "How do you do."

He said, "MONEY!!!!"

I said, "May I offer you some tea?" (did you really think I would ~~waste~~ share my special coffee on his account? *titter*)

Then he seemed to come back to himself a bit. He straightened his tie and looked around. "Money!" he gasped. It wasn't terribly unlike a stockholders meeting at my sainted late husband's offices.

"Money?" I asked, goading him. Well, Darlings, men were clearly placed on the planet for me to toy with, n'est ce pas?

His eyes lost some of their glaze, rather like donuts going old in a cheap display case, and he became animated again.

"Yes! Yes! Money!"

I regarded him coolly, and made some vague move toward my desk in the study. "Check....(I made him wait. Aren't I terrible?)...book?"

"GAH! Yes! Checkbook! Money! Gimme!"

I raised an eyebrow and even in his agitated state he remembered his manners. I do have that effect on people.

"Gimme...please?"

I favored him with a smile. "Come with me!"

I got out my checkbook and then scowled at him. He understood immediately, and hunkered down, but gave little leaps into the air, yelping, as I dangled a check in the air above him.

"For....Jesus?" I asked.

He looked flummoxed for a moment and then shook his head. "Yes, yes, Jesus. Whatever. Please! Money!" He rolled over on the Persian rug with his hands out in a gesture of supplication.

Then I had RRRRRamon remove him.

What's that, Lambs? Well of course I didn't give him anything. Once you get on their sucker list, it's all over. Have a blessed day, Dears!

______

The French Threat!

2010-07-10T11:10:00.000-04:00

Lambs, you remember Charity Duquette, don't you? Why, when you were little, I used to invite her to come in from the sandbox and have some crepes suzette with me. What's that, Lambs? No, I don't seem to recall telling you to stay outside. Maybe Halley's Comet was due to come over! Or perhaps you had poor Charity in tears again, pressuring her to play Bring Down The Patriarchy with you. You never tired of that game, did you, Dears? Poor Ken. Not only did Barbie keep leaving him for another Barbie, but you melted him in your E Z Bake Oven besides. It ruined his serve. I almost wept myself!

But I digress.

The awful news is that Charity's mother broke out of the French prison she was in and came home. As you know, she was sent to a French prison because she kept surrendering to every man she met. Along with chain smoking those awful Gauloises, she drinks all of Charity's vintage wines even though she immediately declares each bottle "nothing but bilge water!" and then passes out in the carport. Yes, Darlings, the carport. Charity has been practically ruined by her mother's excesses.

I told her, Char honey, just put Rogaine in her bottle of Neet and the woman will commit suicide before the week is out. Or put Nair in her Vidal Sassoon. The smell alone will kill her. Oh, we considered a few other viable options, such as replacing her Valium with diet pills, but we thought she might start smoking two at a time while exercising to some dreadful morning tv show.

Don't you see,Darlings, we've got to help Charity! Oh, I know she told you, that one time, that she had tickets for the Indigo Girls and it turned out to be Michael Bolton instead, but that was so long ago. Can't you forgive? Look, all we have to do is lure her out into the middle of Peachtree Lane, and RRRRamon will do the rest. He can say later that a low-flying migrating flock of blue herons screened his view. And then, when it's all done, you and Char can go to a movie together, just like when you were teenagers! But this time, don't pick "Desert Hearts", like before. I really don't think she enjoyed that one. Oh, you've chosen something else? "Strangers On A Train"? Hitchcock, how lovely. Is that the one with the birds, or the one with the cross-dressing concierge? Well, have fun! But wait. I know that look. What are you up to? Darlings? Lambs? Ah, there's my air kiss! Ta ta!
_______

Redcoats!

2010-07-03T23:08:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's Independence Day! On this date in....oh, 1922, or 1654, or some time anyway, George Washington defeated Herman's Hermits at the Battle of New Orleans, and with Johnny Horton installed as the first president, our nation became free!

Don't quibble with me Darlings, I'm trying to explain what it all means. I can't be bothered with exact dates and trivia!

Now then. It's hard to imagine that we were ever subject to British rule. I mean, Cherubs, these are people who get excited to the point of rioting over a sport where the score is always 1-0. Trust me, Darlings, London is like a big elevator, where everyone is breaking their necks just to avoid having to actually speak to anyone else. And they're an island. Fiji is an island. Rhode is an island. No self-respecting country is an island. It's absurd!

And now, Darlings, you've got middle-aged duffers like Mabel Van Deusen's husband dropping their golf clubs and stuffing themselves into Revolutionary War costumes so that they can recreate the Battle of Bunker Hill in the park across the street from the 7-11 and the Instant Oil Change place. Why, last year, they sent a cannon ball through the Hyundai showroom window.

You know me, Lambs. Forgive and forget, that's my motto. Never let the sun go down on an argument. Still, I feel so patriotic ordering escargot at Chez Pierre's, to support the French effort to sink Great Britain once and for all. I feel just like Nathan Hale, except with much more stylish shoes, and a better figure by far! Really, Lambs, what do we need stodgy old England for anymore? We're talking about a country that let a bald man wearing diapers kick them out of India.

Oh all right, I'll stop picking on them, if you insist. But still! Thank Goddess we're not from some hellhole coal mining village in England, trying to survive by eating the bark off the hedgerows. It would be awful! If those English had any sense at all, they would have forgotten about Lexington and Concord, and established themselves in Las Vegas or Miami Beach. Or even right here in Pompano Beach! Then all we would ever have to say would be tut-tut, and here-here, and oh reeeeally. Life would be so simple!

Well, I'm glad we had this little talk, aren't you, Lambs? But it still seems a shame, in a way. Well, Dears, I mean all of the struggle and kicking Brits off of the wrong side of the highway and everything, and yet you still walk around with your hair looking a sight. Is that creature who does your cut and color down at BoRic's English by any chance? Mhmmm. A mother can sense these things. I think I'll buy the entire chain and phase them into a line of washeterias instead. I'll put a little American flag in the logo!
_________

My Humanitarian Work!

2010-07-01T10:30:00.000-04:00

Lambs, is it really so wrong? Is it hurting anyone? I don't see why I should give up my harmless morning ritual of walking out onto the balcony and dropping a bit of cruller onto the lawn below, so that I can watch Valerie Bertinelli and Marie Osmond explode out of the shrubbery and have their own little Celebrity Death Match to see who gets it.

I did try to talk to Valerie once, but Lambs, I'm afraid her mind is gone. To anything I said, she just kept reporting her weight. I asked about her career as a famous Hollywood and television actress. I asked about her marriage to rock god Gilbert O'Sullivan, or whoever it was. I brought up her children. (On charges. They damaged the hydrangeas.) But to everything I said, she kept spouting nonsense about dress sizes. So I shot her. What else could I do?

But there is still Marie Osmond. There she is, crouching behind Enrique's tool shed, with all her husband's other wives, waiting for the UPS truck to arrive with her horrid frozen meals. Oh no, Marie! A miraculous flock of seagulls flew in and ate them all! Now what? Well Marie, you may be a shameless huckster for a ridiculous misogynistic company, but you're not quite Danica Patrick yet. Darlings, if she were, I would have no choice but to drown her in the fountain. But as it is, I see hope. I have taken a string and tied one end to a stick, and the other end to a donut, and with this invention I can make Marie Osmond do anything I want, without ever leaving my balcony or even getting dressed. After just a little more training, I may enter her in the fifth race at Pompano Beach Downs. Of course, no one goes to horse races anymore, and she struggles so, every time Enrique tries to put a nosebag on her, but in time, I feel certain that she will be able to to become the first singing carriage horse in our city.

So you see, Lambs, I do nothing but good, from the purest motives! Why, I feel just like Mother Teresa, except with shapelier calves!

Now help me tie this donut...

________

So THAT's Why They Laugh!

2010-06-27T12:39:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I've just been watching the most wonderful program on Animal Planet! What's that, Lambs? Well, that's true, I don't normally watch that channel, but RRRRRamon had been fooling with the rrrremote, trying to find horse racing, and he left it there. So, when I sat down to watch "Real Housewives of Pompano Beach", I found myself looking at a program about hyenas instead.

No difference, you say? You're so prescient! That's exactly what I discovered! Oh Darlings, if only you would have stayed enrolled at Bryn Mawr, you'd be running the eastern seaboard by now.

But I digress.

I found out by watching this program, that hyenas live in packs, and that every male in the pack is subordinate to even the lowest-ranking female. Well, Darlings, if you've ever seen the fifty year old (male) CEO of a Fortune 500 company reduced to idiotic jello by some fifteen year old tart from the local middle school, you know that it's true for humans as well!

Who's got the power now?

*titter*
__________

A Reader Cries Out! (Part Two!)

2010-06-20T18:02:00.003-04:00

Lambs, it has come to my attention that at least one of you prefers to be called "darling" rather than "lamb." Well, Lambs, you know me; always accomodating! You have only to barely whisper your tiniest wants to me, Lambs, and I will spare no effort to make them reality. Unless, of course, my show is on or I have tennis. All right, Lambs? Wonderful!

There has been a bit of excitement around here today! RRRRRRRamon's brother Orlaaaaaaando is here all the way from Venezagua! If there's any pomade left in South America, I'm sure I don't see how. I think he brought the national supply here with him!

Now don't say a word, Lambs of mine, but RRRRRRamon is in a bit of a sulk because I allowed Orlaaaando to drive the RRRRolls. Personally, I think that Bitsy Henderson's pretentious themed gardens look better with the tire ruts than they did without them, but she has sicced the Neighborhood Association on me just the same. Why, Orlaaaaaaando and I had to take refuge in my bedroom with the door locked for hours until it was safe to come out! But try to explain what's plain as day to RRRRRamon when he gets impossible like this. I may have to buy him a new cap, or something, or let him run over Hilbert, the tea butler, who annoys him for some reason. Oh well, I can always get a new tea butler.

Now then, Lambs--do you mind if I call you "Lambs"?--it's time to spread the Pompano Beach Inquirer out across the hood of the RRRRolls and have a look at Dear Daphne's column! But wait, what's this? *titter* It's the nose off of Bitsy's lawn jockey! Hmm. Too late for Nasonex!

But I digress.

Yesterday, Daphne received an urgent plea for guidance from a reader. And because she is brilliant, and compassionate, and so forth, as soon as she finished her pedi, and had a martini, and finished her Nora Roberts novel, she went straight to work and wrote this reply!:

"Dear Someone Who Babs Would Approve Of,

First, let me congratulate you on your excellent selection of a role model. And, since I am on vacation, I will make my answer to your letter brief and ask you to ask yourself "what would Babs do?"

First, what would Babs do if she found herself standing in Prada with an unsatisfactory bag on her arm? Buy a new bag! Buy one to match the dog, one to match the car, one to match the Prada shopping bag the bag will be placed in. This is entry - level Babs; I'm surprised you didn't think of this. Study harder, darling.

Second, what would Babs do if she found herself with an unsatisfactory shade of dog? Well, I would suggest a replacement pup, but I don't think turquoise occurs naturally in canines (a shame, I admit). So, a dye job is your only option. As for the mess . . . what do you care? Would Babs dye the dog herself? I think not. Let the staff color that dog like an Easter egg. It will be fun for them. Oh, and let them handle those tiresome PETA people as well.

There is one last thing that I would like you to consider. Would Babs even bother with a Yorkie? I know that I wouldn't. A Yorkie is a yippy, purse dwelling dog. Give me a Doberman or a Rottweiler. A dog that can rip a limb off of a hobo; well, that's the dog for me. I think that Babs would agree with me.

Best Wishes,

Daphne"

Oh Lambs, isn't Daphne marvelous? I'm glad you don't mind my calling you "Lambs." Mother used to call me "You There...Short Person." She wasn't very warm and fuzzy. But you know me, Lambs; my every breath is dedicated to your happiness. Now if only you would get rid of that girlfriend, do something about your hair, and wear something decent once in a while, you could go back to Bryn Mawr and make yourself into a child I could brag about over mah jong. But I know you won't do even these tiny favors for me, despite my devoting my entire life to you. Thank Goddess I have Olaaaaando to turn to in my hour of need. I mean, um, RRRRRRamon. I mean, Jesus. Or whoever. Now I'm so upset, I don't know what I'm saying anymore! I hope you're happy!

Oh, Orlaaaaando... they're gone. Yoo hoo, honey...

_________

"Dear Daphne" answers are written by Ms. M. Zen, senior staff writer at Baby Puppy Productions. Her column appears daily in the Pompano Beach Inquirer and in over five hundred publications worldwide, several of them in English. Ms. Zen is also the author of dozens of books, including "Planning Your Leather Fetish Garden Party" and "10,000 Famous Structures You Can Build With Drinking Straws And Twist Ties." Finally, just as you suspected, Ms. Zen was "that chick singer in that band, the Toxic Frogs, or whatever." She will be eligible for parole in the Fall.
___________

A Reader Cries Out! (To Daphne, Of Course!)

2010-06-19T22:50:00.000-04:00

Lambs, the world is beginning to fill and be fouled with the sludge and revolting goo of inelegance! I want my life back! The only thing that can possibly help me to center my chi at this point, is to sit down and read the "Dear Daphne" advice column. Daphne has such wisdom! Such insight! Such killer French nails! Let's see what the letter writer says, shall we, Darlings?

Dear Daphne,

I have a dilemma that is so awkward and embarrassing that I am not enclosing my real name. Indeed, dahling, I have asked an errand boy to walk across the state line and mail this from California so you do not even need to bother with my real location. (It's only an 8-hour drive, so how long can it be to walk? I gave him a box of Peeps to keep up his energy, after all.)

The sad and embarrassing story is that Fifi, my darling, brilliant and very fashionable Yorkie, clashes. With my turquoise Fendi bag, that is. It's horribly embarrassing when I'm in the Prada store, for instance, and I know everyone there is thinking quite loudly, "Why does that woman PUT UP WITH IT? Carrying a brown dog in a turquoise purse?" But you see, Fifi is too delicate to walk. I WILL NOT have her like a slave on a leash.

Can you recommend a solution? Would it be possible to dye her to match, without making a terrible mess?

Ever gratefully,

Someone Fashionable Who Babs Would Approve Of

Darlings, please shield your eyes. I had no idea the letter was going to be so upsetting. Dears, it's time we had a little talk. You see, Lambs of mine, there is a place called "Oregon", which is where everyone in California has moved. They have all opened tiresome little shops with what they think are clever names, and driven the local inhabitants either east into the merciless desert, or west into the sea, where British Petroleum executives have their way with them. It's too awful, Darlings. The poor things, soaked and unrecognizable with dark beer, are shipped back to England and forced to watch the World Cup until the sound of those absurd little horns drives them completely mad and they actually begin to enjoy watching "Coronation Street." Well, what can you do, Darlings, we are talking about the British. Or Oregonians. Or Yorkies. Or something. Oh, Lambs, I suddenly feel so tired and headachey, just like when you send me email pictures of you and Christine attending yet another Lilith Fair concert. I've got to go lay down. At least there is always one thing in this world that I can cling to, and that's Dear Daphne. What's that, Lambs? You say she's on vacation? That's it, I'm jumping off the Mackinac Bridge! Well, of course I mean that I'll have one of the lesser staff jump for me. I've got mah jong!

________

What About The Extra Point?

2010-06-15T09:09:00.000-04:00

Lambs, it's simply too good. Now, you know me, Darlings. I'm tuned in to Joel Osteen every Sunday morning, until I get bored and switch to the Food Network or something. So I'm holy and all that sort of thing. Nonetheless, Bitsy Henderson is always telling me that I'm going to be hit by lightning. Goddess knows why she says it. It's usually after I've said something especially cogent and revealing about someone we know. No, not gossip, Dears. Insight! As if I had eaten canapes loaded with special wisdom!

Anyway, there is this Jesus fellow. Past thirty, single, bearded, wears sandals and hangs out with other men all day. Mhmmm, a nod is as good as a wink to blind bank manager.

Which brings me to my point. Last night, the giant statue of Jesus in Monroe, Ohio, was struck by lightning and if he wasn't flaming before, he is now. The statue was known as "Touchdown Jesus." I couldn't make this up. Oh, Lambs, one can run--if one isn't wearing heels--but one simply cannot hide.

I hope that Bitsy will note that I am still here, an obvious sign that the Supreme Being values elegance! Maybe I could have RRRRRamon run down to Ohio and scoop up some of the ash. I could sell it in little baggies at fairs and carnivals! If I, you know, stooped to such things. Still, there might be a tidy profit in it. I know! Maxie........come here, dear, I have a little job for you....

________

Safeguarding Perfection!

2010-06-09T07:29:00.000-04:00

Lambs, I've just come from Salon 12, and if I do say so myself, I look fabulous! What's that, Lambs? Oh, well, they call it that because salons 1 through 11 are the ones they ran out of business and stole employees from! Who knew that such stylish ladies could also be pragmatic and bold!

Darlings, when are you going to let me take you there? You could look so much better, not like something that just swung out of the trees in the jungles of Borneo. And you're probably going to break my heart by announcing that you're dating some horrid leftover prisoner of war. I can hear it now: "He's an engineer, Mother. He builds bridges for foreign governments!" Why do you insist on torturing me? What's that, lambs? You haven't said anything? Well, you don't have to. A mother just knows these things. *sniff*

But never mind that! I'm so pleased with my hair, that I began to fret that Carmela, at Salon 12, might give someone else the same style. Listen to me, though, Lambs. The same style as me? *titter* As if that were even possible! But I kept thinking about the Taj Mahal. Did you know it was built as a monument to a man's eternal love for his bride who had died? So typical of a man, to come up with a gift late. And besides, he probably killed her, hounding her for sex in the morning. Can you imagine? What make-up artist is available before ten?

But I digress.

The man who had the Taj Mahal built is said to have maimed the architect afterwards, in order to make sure that there would be no other such monument built, ever. So I went down to Customs & Immigration, and spoke to (I love euphemisms!) Mr. Smithson, with whom I've had a "special" relationship for years. He was just saying how proud he is of you, Lambs! Why, your father and I have always....oh dear. I hadn't meant to say so much. But never mind! The important thing is, I had Carmela deported back to Banananagua. I had to do it. Oh don't worry, I'll smuggle her back in to the United States every six weeks for my standing appointment!

________

Psycho Stalkers and Eagles Reunions, Oh My!

2010-06-06T09:05:00.001-04:00

Lambs, I'm afraid it's true. The sleepy quietude here on the grounds of my Mayberry-like home went by the wayside last night! I had a prowler! What's that, Darlings? Well of course he left before the help arrived in the morning! You know me, Cherubs, Mongol hordes couldn't draw an unkind word from these lips, but not everyone is so sweet-natured as me. The gossip hens around here would be spouting junk longer and faster than a BP oil spill if I gave them half a chance!

But I digress.

So anyway, there I was, watching the Real Housewives of Atlanta, when I heard a noise at my window! My heart nearly stopped when I saw a face there, looking back in at me. I went over and, brandishing the television remote, I first tried to change the channel in the window, but when the intruder remained, I let him in. Have I shocked you? Well here is a teachable moment! One must always be a gracious hostess, even when one would rather not. I treated my unexpected guest in the identical manner that I would treat the King of Denmark if he appeared on my front step with his entourage, asking to be received into my home. Yes Darlings, I kicked him hard in the shins and demanded to know why he had interrupted my program!

He said that he felt certain he had left his favorite astrolabe on my bedside table. Well, Darlings, I looked, just to humor him, and there was nothing there but RRRRRRRamon's leather driving gloves and a few restraints. The help, you know, they're all from Ubetchestan and have wildly different customs. They put things away in the oddest places. Just the other morning, I found Judith's filleting knife sticking out of Enrique's arm! Anyway, Lambs, the point is, there was no astrolabe.

I demanded that my visitor tell me his name and he told me it was "Mac." An obvious alias if I ever heard one. Why, did you know, Darlings, that during the war, your Uncle Robert used to go by the name "Lord Aylesbury." He wasn't even English--thank Goddess!--and had no reason to take an alias apart from his usual habit of pompous self-delusion. But back to my visitor.

I had begun to feel put out with this "Mac." No, Darlings, not for spying on me in my room, but for arriving empty-handed! I had half a mind to have him hauled into night court's etiquette division and dealt with there! But I didn't. Yes, Lambs of mine, another teachable moment! I decided to take him under my wing and show him the proper way to behave when visiting one's betters. And since he had given me that silly alias, I told him he could call me Mistress Helena for the next few hours. Well, Darlings, I could hardly have given him my real name! He might have stolen my identity and used my credit cards to purchase kitsch or trash. The humiliation would have been unbearable when the receipts became public.

Don't worry, though, Lambs. I had netting installed just this morning around all of my windows. We already caught Don Henley in one of them! Somehow I don't think this was his last useless evening, though. The way he whined and tried to free himself in order to reach the suicide capsules he keeps in his fanny pack make me think he will just do this again, despite being caught this time. I had RRRRRamon drive him to the freeway exit and roll him down the hill and into the paper cup and beer can museum at the bottom. Glenn Frey was already there. Now I see on "E!" that there might be another Eagles reunion, though I don't see how they'll fit everyone who is left from the 70s down there by the freeway without disturbing traffic. Maybe they could all be lured onto a boat with the (made-up) promise of free tickets to see Orleans instead!

Still The One, la la la. Come on, sing it with me, Lambs, like you did when you were small. Lambs? Are you all right? Did you get some bad tofu at that health food store you and Christine are always going to? We could sing Abba instead. Lambs???
________