I’ll have you know that at my house, making tacos IS making war. Because I like to kill the cows myself, and also because I like to give them weapons and encourage them to fight back. You haven’t seen combat until you’ve seen a Red Angus with a thirst for blood, recently grave-snatched and freshly-stitched-on opposable human thumbs and a rusty Puckle Gun. Unless you’ve seen Apocalypse Now, in which case let’s just move on, shall we?

In what world does this thing come with just one rap video vixen? I demand a cash refund. Have Jeeves shovel it into my stretch Hummer and I’ll be on my way.

Should I be worried that the very first thing that popped into my head when I saw this was, “Here I am! Rock me like a Whorey Jane!” Or more worried that the second thing was a really long inner monologue about how her hairstyle is clearly not a Jane hairstyle and more of a Betsy or a Elle? I’m worried. The first thing to pop into my head should have been a deep concern about labial splinters. In the wise words of Dr. Dre, never let me slip cuz if I slip then I’m slippin’. Ya heard?

So, what’d did you dress up as for Halloween last night? Ha, you must have mistaken me for someone who dressed up as someone who gives a shit. PS – In case it’s not clear, I didn’t. Anyways, I’ve got nothing for this post except a sweet title and a picture of a really badass cross stitch I found on Pinterest. But don’t worry, your day isn’t totally ruined. If you leave work now, you can get home in time to pick all the good candy out of your kids’ Halloween stash before the end of soccer practice.

I’d tried to muster up the energy to feign shock, indignity and disgust over this Jersey-licious Track Jacket iPhone case, but instead I got drunk and stood in oncoming traffic. When that failed, I got my nails done and bought a jar of pickles, snug in the reassurance that my phone will be stylishly protected from gum smacking splatters,  smears of cum and self-tanner.

This little piggy went clubbin’.

This little piggy got stoned.

This little piggy took ecstasy.

This little piggy did blow.

And this little piggy cried, “Untz untz, untz,” all the way home.

If you’ve been pondering the relative dearth of housewife rappers, let me clear something up. There are no housewife rappers because housewives have nothing to rap about. They don’t have time to drink forty ounces, they don’t drive droptop Benzes and, not only do they not have hos cookin’ grits like Alice, they are the hos cookin’ grits like Alice. But – paradigm shift – housewives can now pimp out their KitchenAids with decals from FlameKA.com. Next thing you know, their grocery carts will be ridin’ on blades, their aprons will be sagging and there will be an East Side PTA/West Side PTA souffle deflating feud. Things are about to get real ugly on the baking aisle.

I never would have guessed that the Black Eyed Peas were into ping-pong.

Taboo Stool available at the MoMA store

I’m breaking the “homes and gardens” rule for a very special post. Holy Smoke is a company that packs your cremated ashes into functioning bullets. Bullets that you can actually shoot at things, nay, at people. Deadly, deadly bullets. Think about that for a second.

That’s right, motherfuckers. I’ll be able to murder some unlucky bastard EVEN THOUGH I’M DEAD. This is the kind of thing I’ve been dreaming of since I was a little girl. Basically my thought process went like this: Jem and The Holograms, My Little Pony, candy, candy, candy, sandbox, candy, posthumous murder, Strawberry Shortcake, jungle gym, cats.

This pup has 99 problems, and a bitch ain’t one.

Problems 1-50: Cannot locate the floor to lay down.

Problems 51-98: Beggin’ Strips are not real bacon.

Problem 99: Backne.