Scientists discovered hypodermic needles are too short for today’s world of super-sized bottoms, and headline writers all over the world rejoiced!

The Daily Mail: “Jabs don’t work on fat-bottomed girls”

The Sun: “Docs stumped by rumps”

The Mirror: “BUM JABS FOR FATTIES”

Australia: “Obesity a bummer for GPs’ needles”

South Africa: “Doctors make no butts about needle issue”

Canada: “FATTER BUTTS NEED LONGER NEEDLES”

Boston: “Docs: Needles have fat chance against big butts”

Tennessee: “Bountiful booties, short needles lead to ineffective meds”

ABC News: “Obese Buttocks Leave Drug Therapy Behind”

Scripps Media: “Fat heinies causing problems for doctors”

My personal favorite:

Baby got back? Junk in the trunk? A J.Lo butt?

She may be bootylicious, but it’s bad for her health.

HamptonRoads.com, Virginia: “If your baby got back, she may be missing the point,” Nov. 29, 2005.

“In terms of how much emotion each person devoted, she maybe gave 90 percent or 80 percent. At most I gave … I still haven’t figured out.”

Jet Li, unable to do the math and at the same time explain what went wrong with his first marriage.

My neighbor has three girls. She recently gave me a glimpse of life with female teenagers and I’d like to share it with you:

Female Teenager Thought for the Day
(said with a bit of impatience)

Mom, I’m old enough to do everything myself now! You don’t have to do a single thing for me anymore, okay?

Well, except… drive. And pay. You have to drive and pay.

But that’s ALL you have to do, Mom.

Drive and pay.

Last week in Monday Morning Mojo: our intrepid bulldog continued his quest for chewage. After exhausting his supply of those items found on the floor, he moved on to objects found hanging within shoe racks and resting on the sofa. This week he turns to those things residing in the lower shelves of our bookcases, namely, books.

WHAT: Living Dead in Dallas, by Charlaine Harris, second in the Southern Vampire series in which ultra-cute barmaid Sookie Stackhouse meets the mysterious vampire Bill and a whole lot of exciting vampiric happenings ensue.

“Oh, ho!” You might say, “Mojo dislikes the occult: vampires, shape-shifters, witches, fairies and other demonic stuff, that’s all!”

You think?

Take a look at this: (Read the rest of “Monday Morning Mojo No. 9″)

Sorry for that little break — I blame it all on Thanksgiving. There’s nothing like a major holiday that’ll make you sit down and reexamine your soul’s purpose. And if you’re anything like me, all that inner attunement will cause you to suddenly realize:

Heck, I haven’t dusted since, what, New Year’s?

In my case, further self reflection also produced this epiphany:

If I don’t do some intensive house cleaning REAL FAST, everybody who’s coming to visit this weekend is going to see how we really live, rather than how we live after a major house cleaning.

Lucky for me I share housing with another adult and two young men who are perfectly capable of DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING while I rush around like the proverbial headless chicken.

Bonnie: I thought you said you cleaned this bathroom! You didn’t sweep! There’s no toilet paper! No hand towels! The sink is a mess! And… oh, YUCK. Is that what I think it is?

Squirt: (exasperated) I DID clean the bathroom. You just didn’t tell me I had to do all this… extra stuff, too.

Bonnie: And Tiger, you call this vacuuming the stairs? What’s all this? A paper clip, two marbles, a paperback, a pair of shoes, a bookba—

Tiger: (rolling eyes) All right, Mom, I get the point. Please, next time be a little more clear about what you expect when you say “vacuum the stairs.”

Okay, so maybe they don’t consider what they’re doing to be “absolutely nothing.” They think they are working very hard. Working very hard at what, I have no idea.

Bonnie: All three of you are going to watch a DVD? But we’ve got company coming in four hours!

Hubby: It’s the UFC World Championship! A vital shared cultural experience for men—perhaps you don’t understand how important it is that the boys and I watch this right now.

Nothing to be done about the oldest male resident in our house; I married him knowing full well what he was. He should thank his lucky stars, however, that he’s got several attractive characteristics which allow me to overlook his faults, attractive characteristics I will not go into right now except to assure you they’re mighty fine and some of them involve cooking.

The boys, however…

Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m the perfect model of patient motherhood. Really, I am. Life is so much easier because of it, too.

Bonnie: GET TO WORK ON THOSE STAIRS AND THAT BATHROOM BEFORE I GO ALL UFC CHAMPIONSHIP ON YOUR VITAL SHARED CULTURAL BEE-HINDS DO YOU CATCH MY DRIFT OR AM I GOING TO HAVE TO DEMONSTRATE THE FEMALE VERSION OF GROUND AND POUND?

This morning I received an odd e-mail message:

Debbie P. wrote:
Please advise the purpose of your website, and what you are trying to accomplish.

How very strange! Kind of demanding, in a deadpan sort of way. This doesn’t sound like a human asking me a question, but a space alien trying to figure out whether or not she should blast me with her cellular disrupter.

Hey! What if Debbie P. really IS a space alien, and my life hangs in the balance depending upon how I answer this e-mail?

What if the space alien Debbie P. is what happened to all those bloggers out there who wrote regularly, day after day, for months and months, and then suddenly stopped, for no apparent reason? The blogosphere is littered with mysteriously halted blogs like these!

Suppose that one morning in the middle of their productive blogging careers, those missing bloggers turned on their computers and found this e-mail message reaching out to them from the cold depths of cyberspace?

Please advise the purpose of your website, and what you are trying to accomplish.

Being the wiseacres most bloggers are, I suppose some of them probably responded flippantly and/or sarcastically, without understanding the terrible threat represented by Ms P. and her trusty cellular disrupter, the Galaxip Mega Death 3000…

Dear Ms P.:

I write this blog because there’s nothing else to do here as I serve out my sentence. Please send me a photo of yourself, preferably nude, as well as your credit card number and your home address.

Or maybe they responded politely, with an uplifting message…

Dear Ms P.:

I write this blog as a means to share my hopes, dreams—and pictures of my adorable pet rat, Sniffelina—with the world! By the way, Sniffelina has her own Amazon gift list now, LOL! She is such a greedy little girl! Don’t feel obligated about that plasma TV, though, because a regular TV would do just fine. [[[HUGS]]]

Or maybe, they opted for the grouchy, “Hell, I thought it was obvious” kind of message…

Dear Ms P.:

Search the archives, for crissakes! If you agree with my politics, you are part of the solution, and congratulations to you! PayPal button is to the left of the contact form.

Otherwise, you are part of the problem and therefore brain dead. Please post your question in the comment section so my regular commenters may have sport with you.

Or maybe, just maybe, they ignored her, thinking she was a spammer…

Unassuming Blogger: Ho hum, just another IP to add to my blacklist. Hey! I’ll blacklist my boss’ IP, too, and then I’ll be able to write about him all I want!

And then, just because the bloggers’ responses were lacking, Ms P. decided the bloggers reminded her of various fungi she already eradicated from countless worlds! And as she fired up her blaster, she sent a final courtesy e-mail…

Debbie P. wrote:
Please stand by to be terminated.

And these bloggers were never heard from again!

Well. I do not want this to happen to me.

Dear Ms. P.:

I am not the person writing this blog. “Bonnie Wren” is a pseudonym for one of several people listed in my blogroll.

Please visit their sites and ask them what the purpose of my blog is; perhaps they’ll know.

Thank you for not blasting me,

Bonnie

It’s a little known fact that adolescent males very much enjoy making statements that have absolutely nothing to do with anything. This is not a mere teenage quirk; it is a diabolical plan to confuse their parental units.

Bonnie: You forgot to take out the trash this morning so I —

Squirt: Do you know that Walt Disney was afraid of mice?

Bonnie: What?

Squirt: (smug) It’s true.

These statements are designed to bring my mental processes to a halt. They work thusly:

• Stage 1: I think, “No way. This piece of dubious trivia is not true.”
• Stage 2: I try to remember what I do know about the fact mentioned. Unfortunately, what little I know is never enough to affirm or deny it and since we’re usually in the car when it happens, I can’t look it up.
• Stage 3: I tell myself to remember to look it up when I go home, thereby forgetting the chore I was going to assign.

You see? Simple and yet so very effective. Another stroke of genius brought to you by the teenage brain.

Bonnie: And when we get home I want you to put away your laun—

Tiger: Mom, you know that speech JFK made in, whatchamacalit, Germany? He said something in German… “Ick… wine…”

Bonnie: “Ich bin ein Berliner?”

Tiger: Yeah, that one. He thought he was saying, “I’m a Berliner guy,” but what he was really saying was, “I am a jelly doughnut.”

Bonnie: No way. I don’t believe it.

Tiger: It’s true. All the Germans laughed at him, too.

Bonnie: The Germans loved JFK! They would never laugh at him!

Tiger: (smug) It’s true.

It used to throw me off track, sure, but no more—I’m on to them now. I’ve not only figured out their clever little plan, I have headed them off at the pass where I now wait, chuckling and ready to take them on.

Bonnie: And then when we get home, I want you to —

Squirt: Hey, Mom! Do you know Hitler only had one testicle?

Bonnie: No, but if you hum a few bars, I’ll fake it.

Squirt: Wha—? That’s weird, Mom.

Bonnie: It’s a joke! You see, you asked me if I know “Hitler only had one testicle” just like it was the title of a song. Get it? If you hum a few bars of a song then I could figure out the song and play alon —

Squirt: (looking dubious)

Bonnie: Forget it.

Okay, I’m mostly ready.

At least I did remember to look all that stuff up. Disney was afraid of mice, but found them “sympathetic.” John F. Kennedy, Jr. did not call himself a jelly doughnnut and the Germans did not laugh at him. So there! And apparently, Russian doctors claimed Hitler did only have one testicle.

It’s a dark day in the Wren household.

Very, very… DARK.

WHAT: My Cell Phone.

I thought the boys were showing me some poor soul’s cell phone that they’d found in the street. I thought a truck had run over this phone and left it to die. I thought, “Ah, how sad for someone. Thank goodness my cell phone is safe, here on the sofa…”

WHERE: The sofa.

HOW: The sofa was soaked in several quarts of bulldog drool and covered with enough bulldog hair to give Vin Diesel a new rug. So. That let off the cats and the standard poodle. This deed was done by none other than… The Mojonator.

BUT…. HOW? His skills are growing at a rapid rate. He’s like one of those radioactive amoebas that take over Manhattan after arrogant scientists let them out of the Petri dish. Perhaps next week I shall be writing about how Mojo opened the oven door, basted the turkey and then ate it all; or maybe about how he took our van in for an oil change, picked up some groceries on the way home, and then ate both the groceries and our van.

BONNIE’S REACTION: Oh, oh, oh, oh….

TIGER’S REACTION: She’s gonna blow!

SQUIRT’S REACTION: Run!

BONNIE: OH, OH, OH, OH, OH, OH…..

HUBBY’S REACTION: What? Spit it out! Did you leave something on the floor? (panicked) Is the dog okay?

REPLACEMENT COST: $196.

This was freaky. Ole’ Mr. Sith asked me to picture an object in my mind so he could guess it in 20 questions, so I pictured the fat sausage at my feet: our English Bulldog, AKA Mojo the Flatulent.

Then LV asked me some questions, and I really thought I had him — I mean, the questions were innocuous little things like, “Can you buy this at a store?” (yes, even though you NEVER should) and “Can it swim?” (no, because despite them being the biggest gas balloons in the universe, they sink like rocks).

Vader’s all, “This is a battle of wits, and you are woefully unprepared,” and I’m all, “You’re going down, Vader!” because I’m thinking he just might be able to come up with “parakeet” if he’s lucky, when out of nowhere the Man in Black asks me if I’m thinking of an English Bulldog.

Dang, he’s good.

Oh, I do so love alliteration.

Remember the Pink Bra Bank Robber?

SAN DIEGO – Detectives Thursday arrested a man suspected of carrying out three recent mid-city bank heists while sporting women’s clothing and makeup.

Members of a regional bank robbery task force took 37-year-old Robnay Hosaka into custody, according to the FBI.

Investigators believe Hosaka is the so-called “Cat-Eye Bandit,” who passed demand notes at Union Bank branch offices on Oct. 14, Oct. 19 and Monday.

During the crimes, the robber wore women’s clothing, including a pink bra, and sported lip gloss, pancake makeup and French-manicured fingernails.

After seeing a report on the crimes on a newscast Thursday, a citizen called police to say that Hosaka resembled the suspect, FBI public information officer April Langwell said.

“Police arrest cross-dressing robbery suspect,” SignonSanDiego News Services, Nov. 17, 2005.

I looked long and hard for a photo of this guy Hosaka, with no luck. I did find this, though:

How ever he looked in his pink bra and lip gloss, the bank robber Robnay Hosaka (Hey! Get it? “Bank ROB-ber”? “ROB-nay”?) probably had nothing on actor Cillian Murphy, shown here dressed as a woman but not robbing any banks.

Heck, I don’t look as good as Cillian Murphy does here. And what a makeover! The last time I saw Murphy was in Batman Begins, where he played a man whose momma never saw fit to buy him a proper Halloween mask. All she would let him use was this nasty burlap thing, and it ruined his whole life.

Cillian Murphy as Burlap Boy in Batman Begins.

His character ended up consorting with an evil, secretive sect of vigilantes who believed the path to enlightenment was listening to Liam Neeson’s psychological musings as he beat the stuffing out of you. Lots of fun in that Evil, Vigilante Ashram, sure. Bruce Wayne ate it up, but I’d rather find my elightenment at La Costa Resort and Spa, thank you very much.

Humor, Batman Begins, Breakfast on Pluto, Crime, Bank, Robbery