Super Sabado: Righting a wrong

It’s happened. I didn’t make Bonnie Wren’s Super Sabado last weekend. Was I not funny enough? Was I not pithy enough? Are my posts dull? My prose lackluster? Should I have been perkier? Less perky? More meaningful? Less dense?

One Italian Guilt Bomb, courtesy of M.G. Tarquini

You see, this is what happens when I host Super Sabado without stimulants like Carlos Gallardo to keep me alert: I fall into a chips-induced stupor and totally ignore some of my fellow fiesta-goers.

Forgive me, M.G.—and anybody else I’ve left out. Let’s blame it on a reckless margarita daze, shall we?

So… off to find some stimulants! It’s a little late to get Carlos, but I hear Antonio is available…

Today’s Super Sabado is me trying to get EVERYBODY in. If I missed you, let me know!

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Sigh. My brain is on hiatus. I packed it in a box and it’s waiting patiently at the new house, biding it’s time, promising me tantilizing nouns and verbs, strung together in the appropriate order, to get me past the hump in my rewrite. Until then, it’s closed for business. There’s not a Crabby Cows game, a quoteworthy remark, or a Super Sabado Special to be had. Everything is wilted, hung out to dry in the Phoenician summer.

M.G., this is Antonio. Antonio, this is M.G., of Genre Neutral fame. Did you know she is a wicked dancer?

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5. Your Hubby tells everyone that you have a boyfriend and that his name is (insert brand name of computer here)

Wander of Wander’s World with No. 5 of “10 Signs you’ve been on the computer way too long.” We will admit to exhibiting No. 8.

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After 15 minutes of elbowing and being elbowed, this is what I managed to get onto my plate:

1 napkin
1 fork
2 pieces of ham rolled around something and speared with cocktail sticks
1 cherry tomato
1 olive which had fallen off something else
Oh! I got a glass of pineapple juice, too.

Welshcakes Limoncello of Sicily Scene, whose elbows are certainly not sharp enough.

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So then I started thinking. My mother, grandmother, and sister were all sleeping when our friend showed up. Wouldn’t it be funny if they all woke up and found a strange woman in my bedroom with my husband?

Honey of Meet My Muse, possibly risking her husband’s life in the pursuit of that elusive Really Great Chuckle.

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Oh and did I fail to mention my dog rolled in it. Oh yeah, it was great fun cleaning up the house.

Laurel Wreath, on the joys of dog ownership.

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Sure, she uses cusses a lot and tends to be on the bitchy side, but that’s what I like about her. She’s the me I’d love to be, except for the drinking blood part.

Jaye Wells of Jaye’s Blahg, on one female role model with a taste for Type O.

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Don’t Hassle the Hoff, yo.

The Glitterati of Brain Spam, defending a certain Baywatch alumni’s rendition of “Hooked on a Feeling.” We’re kind of partial to that surfing outfit, ourselves, but the fish mouthguard has got to go.

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My favorite costume was dressing up as a mechanic and having the sorority girls whistle at me. Oh wait… this is childhood memories, my bad.

Bayou of A Perfect Anomaly, who paints a really mean goatee.

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And just for the record, Maggie Grace and Selma Blair, I’ve seen Jamie Lee Curtis and Adrienne Barbeau and you, Young Misses, are no Jamie Lee Curtis nor Adrienne Barbeau.

Screamwriter, channeling his inner Lloyd Bentsen.

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My Rig May Be Old
But That Don’t Mean She’s Slow

Mark McLellan of Gullible’s Travels, channeling his inner Taj Majal.

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She’s just not used to hearing ‘no’ from wealthy middle-aged men and is having some difficulty adjusting to this new situation…”

Sponge Girl, on Heather Mills-McCartney’s fence-climbing and cleaning fluids-stealing, never-take-“no”-for-an-answer shenanigans.

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And why am I smiling, I don’t know, because my legs are about to fall off!

Kelly from Savage Living in Oklahoma, for whom exercise sucks big time.

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All passengers will be required to pass through TSA screening naked. Though travelers will be issued paper hospital gowns prior to boarding their flights, TSA officials feel that this is the only way to catch really determined terrorists.

Kvatch of If I Ran the Zoo, on future airport screening procedures. We approve, but only if we can fly with Antonio Banderas. Otherwise, no deal.

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Personally I think trans-Atlantic cruises should come back into fashion. No one ever hijacked a ship to crash it into a building. Although there is the risk of icebergs, piloted by polar bears upset over global warming.

Jon of Letters to Myself, with one helpful suggestion that just might work, if he could figure out for us how Antonio can fit into the picture.

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It’s awful and terrible and makes me think of amitriptyline. It’s hauling fourteen pieces of luggage across London and through lock down security. It’s being frisked by large hirsute women and camera gear I’m going to have to FedEx to the States.

Buffy of Plain Simple English. Sure, Buffy, amitriptyline might help, but nothing removes that “frisked by large hirsute women” feeling as quickly as tossing back a margarita with Antonio. Try it! (M.G., make some room, will ya?)

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Did I say my trainers were x-rayed twice in when boarding the flight back to the UK? I didn’t bleep going through the detector but I knew that one of the guys had his eye on m.

Wow! Podz, of What Makes You Happy, who is becoming an expert on tattoo profiling.

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I’m in trouble again.

Just because I had a little bit of fun with a planetary system, making time go backward then forward for them every couple of hours.

Q, over at Captain Picard’s Journal, mucking things up in one great galactic security screening station.

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I’m beginning to think that we’re never going to get any of those flying cars that we’ve been promised for the last few decades. In the meantime though, we can still manage to wreak minor mayhem on our neighbors with this remote controlled flying car.

Mr. Grouchypants, as always, looking on the bright side.

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I suppose he could then go home and boast to his neighborhood that he knew a bloke from Australia who was a good family friend. Sort of like normal people having a photo of them in a bath with Madonna.

60 and Counting. Have some more carnitas, 60, and please, tell us more! Are the pictures always with Madonna? Could they, say, be with Antonio in the tub?

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Walk her to the door
Warm embrace
Then it hits
Knees weaken
Senses tingle
The scent of a woman

Awwwww, Da Moose is in LOVE. Ladies, remember when our honeys wrote stuff like this about us?

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Decided not to milk that topic for a couple of reasons.

Bernita, on (ahem) bosoms and POV, a double-breasted topic if ever there was one.

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Dedicated to the iceman. It’s time to revoke your license to chill…me thinks you’ve “chilled” enough

Terry Gray Franta, who really needs a double margarita tonight.

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Funny, most Americans i have spent time with appear to be ever so polite, extremely polite, i just couldn’t imagine you lot taking advantage of a situation. Now i know ;o)

Michelle of Justitia. Oh, but we ARE ever so polite, Michelle! (And don’t listen to Terry, love, until she’s finished that margarita. Okay?

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Girl: He was so cute, Mom. A terrier. Just so cute and…
Me: lalalalalalala… I can’t hear you. I don’t want to hear this. You know I wear the biggest sucker sticker on my forehead.
Dawg: He really was cute.
Me: Don’t you start. No. New. Dog.

Kristen, fighting a losing battle in A-Mused Chaos.

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We’re pretty casual about weddings around here. Invitations are usually posted “to everybody” in the post office window. The closest thing to a wedding registry we have is asking the hardware store owner if anybody bought Andy and Sarah a fondue pot yet?

Dink of Ink Blog, reporting from a land where time—and Bride Magazine—forgot.

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2. You are receiving this automatic notification because I am out of the office. If I was in, chances are you wouldn’t have received anything at all.

Dennie of Dennie’s Thoughts, and No. 8 on her list of “Best Out of Office Auto Replies.”

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It’s time for a promo, time for a contest, time to giveaway a copy of the e-book! But, of course, being ‘me,’ I can’t make it easy on ya. MUAhahaha

Savannah Jordan of Nothing This Pretty Could Be Real. Guys, she’s giving away an e-book!

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No wild thunderstorm to thrill our souls, no rain to soothe our parched earth or dusty throats. Nothing but hot dry wind.

Elizabeth of Plein Air Sketches. Ah, but Elizabeth, dusty throats need margaritas! Thrill-less souls need Antonio! Can’t help you with the rain, though.

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And for those of you who’ve made it through the very end, here’s the funniest little commercial I’ve seen in a while. It cracks me up every time I watch it.