Oh, crap. Got impatient with God last night, demanded immediate action on my prayers. "That's right, Lord, now. Straightaway!" He got the last laugh on me. Yeah, you guessed it. I done prayed the straight away, and it won't pray back. Now what?

A cultural tipping point at 10:17 a.m. today in a shopping mall in Fairfax, Va., as every single person in the building -- 2,715 of 'em -- was a part of one flash mob or another. Time to move on, folks.

Obviously I've made plans for a zombie apocalypse or vampire infestation. Who hasn't? Ditto for a killer virus, be it unleashed by terrorism or scientific hubris. Dirty bomb? Check. Giant mutant spiders? Ready. Nuke meltdown? Bring it. Fire, flood, famine. Please. Alas, I did not envision The End coming with a bump up against something called a debt ceiling. Talk about going out not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Planking can be problematic if you're not actually shaped like a plank. Behold, then, the variation I invented for the ample-bellied: I call it teeter-tottering.

Every time someone misuses an apostrophe, an angel has its wings pulled off and is thrown into a woodchipper. So, let's be careful out there, people.

The 1st, 2nd and 5th get all the glory. It’s nice to see the humble 14th amendment finally get its 15 minutes of fame. I don’t recall from high-school social studies class just what the hell it does, but I think it lays out constitutional provisions for the Speaker and the President to dope-slap and, in some instances, tase party members who exhibit excessive asshattery.

Mexico just beefed up border security, so if you’re headed south to escape the collapse, plan accordingly. I still think if I drape myself in several serapes, keep my sombrero pulled low and, per usual, have enough refried beans and salsa caking my mustache, I can pass. Whether you plan to go or stay in the U.S. to the bitter end, experts say now's the time to convert your assets to pesos to hide 'em from the Chinese.

So, if Obama was left at the altar by Boehner a couple of weeks ago, how do we describe what happened to Boehner last night? How 'bout: Left going it alone at his own orgy?

Man, I sure wish Schoolhouse Rock was still around to take a run at explaining this. I'm pretty sure it’d involve rhyming “Boehner” with “insaner,” “Obama” with “yo mama” and “committee” with “you shit me.”

Too bad Obama and Boehner aren’t an item, so the tabloids could dub them Boehnama or Obamoehner. Oh, what that hell, let’s anyway.

Poor Boehner is losing it. Presented new debt plan to his caucus last night -- scrawled in crayon on construction paper, replete with f-bombs & elaborate pop-ups, a couple of which were alarmingly inappropriate. Mathematical calculations started out brilliantly, but gave way to Chinese characters, drawings of Obama with horns and, finally, dark, angry doodles that appeared to show himself piloting plane into the side of the Capitol.

Has anyone thought to dig through the cushions in all federal buildings? I’ll bet there’s a couple million dollars in change in the education secretary’s sofa alone.

Democrats are learning how to play this game. GOP has cleverly substituted the phrase "job creators" for "the rich." Now, Dems are using the phrase "chocolate fudge" instead of "taxes." Who could possibly be against raising chocolate fudge, hmm?

Why not take a lesson from NFL teams' frenzied activity this week: Cut marginal players to get under the cap. What the hell's Herb Kohl done for us lately? Maxine Waters? David Vitter? That's $522,000 right there.

It's an unoriginal age, even for the most evil of killers. That Norwegian lifted so much of his 1,500-page screed from the Unabomber that the latter is thinking of suing for theft of intellectual property. So help me, if the next murderer shouts “Sic simper tyrannis” as he leaps from a balcony or claims to be taking orders from dogs in David Berkowitz's old 'hood, I'm gonna quit reading these manifestos altogether.

How about this: Put Obama and Boehner in a large burlap sack, toss in a bucket of chum, half a dozen sewer rats, a couple of rabid, feral cats, a Rottweiler, four plans for dealing with the debt crisis and tie the bag shut. Trust me, eventually, someone's gonna deal; if it ends up being, say, the Rottweiler and one of the cats, so be it. Crisis over.

Broncos are milling around outside team facilities. No one in front office can remember where they put the key. Looks like another great season ahead, fans

Second least surprising news of the week – after Amy Winehouse’s death– is word that Brett Favre may be mulling a comeback. In other news, NFL owners and union are consulting lawyers to determine legality of extending lockout permanently for selected players.

If restaurants are gonna put that "Employees must wash hands" sign up in their restrooms, they really should have an employee stationed there. I'm sick and tired of having to track my waitress down to have her come in and take care of me every time.

Not to worry, a new plan is emerging: U.S. will draft 10 million Americans to be shipped to China to work off nation's debt in industry, farm fields and as domestic help. A new form of indentured servitude -- they're calling it Sino-dentured servitude. I'm getting my request in early to be assigned to an American flag factory, as that would appeal to both my patriotic and ironic sensibilities.

Dined at my favorite Chinese eatery last night. Waitress was unusually surly to me. My fortune: "Hard times are coming for you and all running dogs of imperialism." Oh, and the bill for two sweet and sour porks: $750. And so it begins.

In light of the coming collapse, I just finished what I assume everyone is doing this weekend -- spending every last penny of our savings before the Chinese arrive to shake every American down for what the U.S. owes 'em. I suppose I shouldn't have dropped it all at Trader Joe's, and half of it on dark chocolate-covered blueberries at that, but you prepare for Armageddon your way, and I'll prepare my way.

To update William F. Buckley Jr.'s famous statement: I'd rather be governed by 535 rejected "Cupcake Wars" contestants, or 535 members of the knotty, twisted Casey Anthony family tree, or maybe 535 randomly selected Duggar children -- what the hell, pick the dumbest ones, the ones resulting from what one assumes is indiscriminate inbreeding by this point -- than the 535 jackwagons we have in Congress today.

The debt crisis is kinda fun imagined as Spielbergian thriller. A la Indy Jones, our heroes Boehner and Obama get closer and closer to being crushed as they rise toward ceiling. At last second, Boehner fashions an improbable solution using a whip, his gavel and a vat of tanning cream -- well, that and gutting entitlements and doubling taxes (tho that tested poorly at test screenings). Screen fades as they share bromantic hug.

In troubled times like these, I like to break out my WWBDD wrist band. That's "What would Bob Dole do?

Oy. Boehner's wife can't get him to come out of his room. He's just lying on the bed, staring at his Reagan posters on the wall, sneaking an occasional peek at that bottle of lotion and thinking maybe another layer of tan would make the pain go away, "Everybody Hurts" cranked up to 11.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. So we could end up with no football AND no government by this fall? What the hell is this, Greece?

So, the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, you say? One word for you: Roundup.

Two contentious conflicts near their end game, with this difference: NFL players insist on actually reading their CBA before voting, while members of Congress regularly pass huge pieces of legislation unread. Does that mean the average monosyllabic, painkiller-addled, mouth-breathing, multi-concussed linebacker is smarter than the average lawmaker (some of whom, to watch them in action, may or may not fit those same adjectives, BTW)? Hmm.

Now that final shuttle has landed, it’s time government admits the whole thing was faked – 6-inch plastic models, filmed on Utah lot. Look at the video, man! You can see the frickin’ wires; in a couple cases, you can even see someone’s hand holding the thing, making it “fly.” They got really sloppy toward the end: In footage of Atlantis on the ground today; there’s a damn beer can sitting there, towering over it.

I'm a modern-day Alan Lomax (Wiki him, kids; you need to know who he is) -- working on my Sounds of Summer folk recording project. Recorded the Hissing of Summer Lawns yesterday, Grinding of the DQ Blizzard Machine last night, Desperate Panting of Guy Entering Car That’s Been in Sun 10 Hours the day before. Now, off to the furniture store for Big, Sweaty, Shorts and Tank-top-wearing Dudes and Leather Sofas.

Whoa, whoa, wait a sec. Being described by police as a “person of interest” is NOT a compliment? Guess I’d better take it off my resume then.

Fascinating new study out from CDC. Scientists have found it’s not the heat OR the humidity. It’s the fact that Americans have become such a bunch of whiny lardasses we can barely move without dripping sweat and bitching endlessly about it.

Like all married men, I’ve been eyeing my wife today wondering if she’d take out a pie-thrower who was gunning for me. Sadly, I’ve concluded she’d probably throw one herself if she had a clean head shot.

Surely I'm not the only person to notice that "Rupert Murdoch" is an anagram for "dour retch rump."

We grilled steaks on the deck last night. They were pretty good once we picked out the splinters.

Sometimes I contemplate today’s remarkable, life-changing technology – Internet, cell phones, e-readers, and so on – and I think to myself, “Big frickin’ deal. We were promised personal jet packs. Where the hell are they?”

Ungrateful geezers. Heat advisory says "check on the elderly," and if you're not gonna open the door to me, what choice do I have but to break out a window?

Well, this is embarrassing. Guess I'm the only one around here who heard the weather service's heat advisory to strip naked and cover body with cool mud.

We get it, it's gonna be hot. Is it really necessary for the weather service forecast to repeatedly use the phrase "satan's ass crack?"

Take it from me: When a hotel offers a free continental breakfast, always ask "from what continent?" Unless you want to be surprised in the morning with a table piled high with chunks of ice and penguin blubber, of course. And yes, I'm talking about you, Danville, Ind., Country Inn and Suites.

God's a funny guy, but he has a cruel streak. I'm pedaling my tail off on a stationary bike, and I'm praying, as I always do at this time, for a little divine help in recapturing just a small part of my youth. Then, I catch my reflection and, whaddya know, I got a new zit. On my 49-year-old face. So, I'm fat, graying and creaky, but at least my face is breaking out. Good one, God. Now, get the hell out of my gym.

This just in: 900 gallons of oil spilled into Missouri River in NoDak. Not to worry, though. Apparently, U.S. Corps of Engineers, on top of things as usual, is just trying a new method of soaking up floodwaters.

I'm headed back to the lab this morning to continue my summer's work -- designing a beer popsicle that won't go flat. You'd think a country that can put man into space would have managed this by now. Oops, guess that metaphor doesn't work anymore, huh?

For what it's worth, I happen to believe getting old is a choice, too, and certainly a satanic one at that. Hence, my new ministry, Pray the Gray Away.

Don't make the same mistake I did, folks. Went to the midnight release of the big show and ran out in horror moments later. I'd misread the marquee -- it was a porno about a furry dude who does disgusting things with clayware.

Radio ad urgently asks: "Men, do you wake up at night to urinate?" Well, so far, yes, thank God.

Smells like teen spirit, tastes like chicken.

Bummer about the Clemens mistrial. I was looking forward to defense's argument he got steroids in his system after falling into a backyard swimming pool full of them.

This country teeters at the abyss, cataclysmic failure looming. Yet the leaders charged with heading off disaster, doom, yea, verily, apocalypse itself, are mired in partisan bickering, media showboating and general asshattery. It is time for all Americans, whatever their color, creed, religion, sexual preferences, or toilet-paper dispenser beliefs to rise up as one and cry out: Get this frickin' NFL deal done!

Note to self: When stowing groceries, do not put Special K on shelf next to Cap’n Crunch. I fully intended to pour myself a bowl of the former this morning; instead ate two fistfuls of the latter right out of the box. No bowl, no milk, no spoon. OK, three fistfuls. Overcome by self-loathing the rest of the day.

I am neither a pitcher nor a belly itcher. Are those really the only choices?

Just think: Sgt. First Class Leroy Petry receives the Congressional Medal of Honor for losing his hand when a grenade exploded while he was tossing it away from his co-workers. And you work with a bunch of schmucks who can’t be bothered to clean the microwave out when their Hot Pockets explode.

Though it's a different galaxy, a different time, may The Force be with Solo today.

Getting closer: GOP agrees on new coat of ceiling paint. Dems insist on skylight. The clincher, from Lieberman: A proposal to lower the floor a couple of inches.

Ha, I knew it! My local newspaper's been trying to hack me for years, too. And people made fun of me for wearing a tin foil hat whenever I read it. Well, who's the idiot now, huh?

Free Slurpee day at 7-11. An even better deal: After 5 days, they toss the hotdogs from that rotating incubator; if you're in the alley at the right time, mmm boy.

If it’s any consolation, consider this: “Heat index” is a completely arbitrary calculation created by a drunken, bored MIT engineering student one night. In fact, that same night he came up with the formulas for similarly meaningless figures we now know as “quarterback rating” and “calories.” So, what the hell – call today’s heat index 73; feels better already, doesn’t it?

I got a bad feeling about this week, so I'm lawyering up now. You want anything from me, talk to this dude next to me in the slick suit whose eyes light up every time he hears an ambulance siren.

Those new graphic warning images on cigarettes are a good idea, but why stop there? On booze, how about photos of people drunk-dialing their bosses or exes? On fast-food packaging, a manatee-esque dude sprawled dead on a couch, remote control in one hand, the other clawing at the heart that gave out a week ago, french fries scattered hither and yon and his pet shih tzu dining on his extremities.

My dumb dog comes running whenever I shout "cookie," never mind that it's been months since I gave him one. Idiot. Of course, when my wife shouts "ice cream," I come running, too, only to find some damn chore to be done. So, who am I to mock? Oooh, I think she's yelling it now. Bye!

Excruciating headache, swollen purple tongue, sticky mustache, bloodshot eyes, stained chin, churning stomach, shaky hands. Jesus, it's all a blur -- how many Kool-Aid stands did I go to yesterday?

Spending the day on my deck perusing my summer reading list. Larsson, Larson, Louv. Fey, Foer, Franzen. Mankell, Mieville, Moning. Kawasaki, Krakauer, Kasischke. Shin, Shulevitz, Shteyngart. Impressive, huh? As you can see, I'm a habitue of the Sunday Times book section. Next summer, perhaps I'll even read some books. For now, I'm content to know I have the best list in town. Hell, I might just read it again tomorrow.

What I have out back is not so much a garden as a rabbit preserve.

This just in: Huskers have informed NCAA they're vacating their 2010 football losses as self-punishment for letting athletes read too much.

Yes, as a matter of fact, if my friend jumps off a cliff, I might, too -- especially if I can’t get that mountain climbing rope between us untied quickly enough.

I'm thinking of starting a one-man marketing firm, thought I'd kick it off with a few health PSAs. Warning: These are kinda edgy, but my firm believes it's time to move beyond soft and comforting to more combative approach. Like: “Alzheimer's? Fuggedaboutit.” Or: "Only assholes get rectal cancer." And, finally: “Fkcu dyslexia.” I have one on Tourette's, too, but I'm gonna need to see some upfront money before I offer up that gem.

I suppose it's asking too much to hope to never hear from or about Casey Anthony again, isn't it? Yeah, I thought so.

Cripes, how humiliating. Not even a week in the Big 10, and the Huskers already are in violation of NCAA rules. And for what? Providing athletes too many textbooks! Textbooks?! Unless they're using them for some weird conditioning exercise, like banging each other upside the head with 'em, what the hell are athletes doing with textbooks? I guess that N on the helmet doesn't stand for "knowledge," after all. It stands for "nerds."

And somewhere Johnnie Cochran is saying, “if you can’t pin it on this cracker fool, you must blame it on the backyard pool.”

So, maybe a dingo ate her baby.

It's not really that surprising, is it? I mean this WAS a jury of a dull-witted, skanky loser's peers, after all.

Damn. I just had a disconcerting thought: What if I'm the brains of this outfit? All these years, I've assumed I was the looks. This might explain a lot.

Good haul on my annual July 5 morning stroll: 6 digits -- 2 index, 2 middle, 1 pinky and one that's charred but is either an ugly thumb or even uglier big toe, or, oh sweet Jesus, it's not a thumb or a toe, is it? God knows what a guy was doing to blow THAT off, but I now have some images seared in my mind forever. IM me if you're missing any of the above, and we'll meet and do the Cinderella thing to see if there's a match.

Let us take a moment before this day ends and thank our Founding Fathers, for without their courage and determination, we'd all be speaking with British accents still, Govn'r. Also, this would be just a boring, quiet summer evening, with a pint and bangers and mash on the deck, later watching the Beeb on the telly. So. freaking. boring. USA, USA, USA!

A simple, laid-back Fourth at our house: Steaks, corn and veggie kebobs on the grill and, as is our custom, at nightfall we'll put $250 in a bowl and set fire to it.

Note to self: Stock deep freeze with snowballs this winter for neighborhood snowball fight next July Fourth.

People who complain about a few days of fireworks a year are probably the same ones who act like they've never seen snow and ice before when January comes around. Also, they hate America.

The Grinch Who Stole the Fourth of July

Every Who down in Whoville liked the Fourth a lot
But the Grinch who lived just north of Whoville did not!

The Grinch hated the Fourth! The whole Fourth season!
Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.

It could be, perhaps, that his flip-flops were too tight.
It could be his head wasn't screwed on just right.

But the most likely reason, if you ask me
Was that he blew off three fingers and an eye in '03
As Lee Greenwood sang his treacle on the TV

But, whatever the reason, his missing parts or his shoes,
He spent the whole holiday weekend hating the Whos.

Staring down from his campsight with a sour, Grinchy frown
At the red, white and blue below in their town,

For he knew every Who, no matter the weather,
Was busy now stringing M-80s together.

"And they're hanging their bunting," he snarled with a sneer.
"Tomorrow is the Fourth! It's practically here!"

Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously drumming,
"I must find some way to keep the Fourth from coming!

For I know all the Who girls and boys
Will wake bright and early. They'll rush for explosives!

And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
There's one thing I hate! All the NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

And they'll shriek squeaks and squeals, waving their sparklers.
They'll dance with firecrackers tied onto their heels.
They'll blow their Roman candles. They'll spout their fountains.
They'll blow their rockets. They'll bang their poppers.
They'll spin their spinners. They'll shoot high their parachutes.

Then the Whos, young and old, will sit down to a feast.
And they'll feast! And they'll feast! And they'll FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST!

They'll feast on chips and hot dogs, burgers and potato salad, watermelon and that cherry cheesecake stuff. Why, oh why, does every potluck have it? For cherry cheesecake is a feast I can't stand in the least!

And then they'll do something I hate most of all!
Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small,

They'll stand close together, while my ears are still ringing.
They'll stand hand-in-hand, and those Whos will start singing!"

"God Bless America,
Land that I love.
Stand beside her, and guide her
Thru the night with a light from above.
From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam
God bless America, My home sweet home"

And the more the Grinch thought of that patriotic bling,
The more the Grinch thought, "I must stop this thing!"

Why for fifty-three years I've put up with it now!
I must stop the Fourth from coming! But how?"

Then he got an idea! An awful idea!
The Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea!

"I know just what to do!" The Grinch laughed in his throat.
"I'll make a quick Uncle Sam hat and a coat."

And thus attired, he started down
Toward the homes where the Whos lay a-snooze in their town.

He broke into garages, empty bags in hand,
And stole every last firework he could land.

Snakes, firecrackers, candles, lady fingers and rockets,
Even the cute tanks that spout and spin, all went in his pockets.

Then he slunk to the icebox. He took the Whos' feast!
He took the watermelon, potato salad, beer and ground beef

All he left behind was the cherry cheesecake, that gloppy, viscous lump; and atop it he squatted and left a big ol' green Grinch dump.

Interrupted just once, when awoke a boy named Tommy, who asked the Grinch, "what are you, a Muslim or Commie?"

But, you know, that old Grinch was so smart and so slick,
He thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick!

"Why, my sweet little tot," the fake Uncle Sam lied,
"There's a punk in here that won't light on one side.

"So I'm taking it home to my workshop, my dear.
I'll fix it up there, then I'll bring it back here."

And his fib fooled the boy, who wasn't especially bright
So the Grinch gave him half a bottle of Nyquil and bid him good night.

It was quarter of dawn. All the Whos still a-bed,
All the Whos still a-snooze, when he packed up his sled,

"Pooh-pooh to the Whos!" he was grinchily humming.
"They're finding out now that no Fourth is coming!

They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!
Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
Then the Whos down in Whoville will all cry boo-hoo!

That's a noise," grinned the Grinch, "that I simply must hear!"
He paused, and the Grinch put a hand to his ear.

And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.
It started in low, then started to glow.

"And I'm proud to be an American,
where at least I know I'm free.
And I wont forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.

And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA"

But this sound wasn't sad!
Why, this sound sounded glad!

Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small,
Was singing without any fireworks at all!

He hadn't stopped the Fourth from coming! It came!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!

It came without fireworks! It came without flags!
It came without chest-thumping, xenophobic brags.

He puzzled and puzzled till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.

Maybe the Fourth, he thought, doesn't come from a store.
Maybe the Fourth means a little bit more!

And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say
That the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day!

Perhaps that is so, he'd say as he fidgets,
Though what he really would have liked was some new digits.

And then the true meaning of the Fourth came through,
And the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches, plus two!

He descended the mountain, a right happy fella.
Cheerily blowing "Who! Who!" on his vuvuzela.

He brought everything back, all the food, to the lake
Where he, the Grinch himself, carved the cherry cheesecake.

Then he stood before the Whos, tapped a keg, filled his cup
And said, "gather round now, y'all, let's blow some shit up."

Last Fourth of July's unfortunate E. coli incident notwithstanding, I remain convinced it's possibly to cook hamburgers with sparklers. We'll try again today. My family insists I sample the first burger this year. They hate science.

In my attempt to get my daughters to clean up their act, I am quite unfortunate

Last fall I unilaterally, arbitrarily and capriciously forbade my daughters from using the word "suck" in my presence. I was inspired in part by Oprah's announcement that she was banning the word "bitch" on her new network.

I'd grown sick of hearing them use the word so casually and frequently. I remembered "suck" as the province of sniggering junior high school boys, from the days when I was one myself. If you said it, you might get your ears cuffed by an adult who didn't know for certain whether it was dirty but decided not to take a chance. (In that era, adults were permitted to cuff the ears of any child who offended for any reason, no questions asked. It takes a village to raise a child, you know.)

"Suck" certainly wasn't a word to be used in what was then called "polite conversation." There's no such thing as polite conversation anymore, I suppose. More's the pity, if you ask me.

Yes, I'm aware I'm channeling my inner Andy Rooney here, and I admit I embrace him more with each passing year.

The straw that broke the camel's back was hearing my daughters say, "It sucks to suck," which offended me not just in its crudity but in its clumsy syntax. I can live with a certain amount of vulgarity, but please let us not abuse the king's English, motherf---er.

I will confess to some old-fashioned sexism here. This sort of thing offends me more coming from my daughters than from my sons. There, I said it. I come from a time when a certain crudity was expected, tolerated and even encouraged from boys, but we expected better from girls. Boys will be boys, on the one hand. Sugar and spice and everything nice, on the other. I still believe girls should be "nicer" and more refined than boys. Having observed many in one of their natural habitats -- cruising a mall, say -- I realize that's a hopelessly idealized and romanticized view of females. Yet still I cling to it.

I understand that elimination of all gender-based distinctions is all the rage these days. In many important respects, I'm on board with that trend. I had no quarrel with the woman who drew such attention for painting her little boy's toenails pink. Go ahead, paint 'em. By all means, let your daughter go out for the football team, rather than the cheerleader squad. Cripes, if we could find one in Nebraska who could get the ball 35 yards down the field and lead an offense to more than 10 points a game, we'd happily make her the Huskers' quarterback.

Even then, though, I'd expect her to show a little decorum in the huddle, and for the players around her to carefully watch their language in her presence -- because when I was a lad, guys cleaned up their acts, at least superficially, when girls were around. We knew -- or at least assumed -- they didn't appreciate our usual crudeness and, once we realized it was important what they thought of us, that made a difference in how we behaved.

And thus were the males of the species tamed and made more presentable. Now that girls are down there in the muck with boys ... well, how can this not make for a cruder society?

Yes, Andy Rooney again. I need to wrap this up before I start scowling, wagging my bushy eyebrows and ranting about "the so-called music" these kids listen to these days.

Enough armchair sociology. How is my ban on that one little word going, you may wonder. Well, when I announced it at the dinner table last fall, my two teenage daughters gave me that look that only teenage girls can give, and only to their fathers. It's that "old man, what rock did you crawl out from under" look. Of course, my wife backed me, as part of that pact parents have that in the presence of your children, you always back each other; it's not until later, in private, that you can say, "What the hell were you thinking there, honey?"

My daughters asked me for an acceptable alternative to "suck." I suggested the word "unfortunate" could be used in many contexts. Or, for extra emphasis, "That's quite unfortunate."

So, they humored me, though you'd be amazed at how sarcastic an innocuous phrase such as "that is unfortunate" can sound when uttered by an eye-rolling teenager.

My youngest daughter ultimately got me to agree she could say "suck" once a day, knowing fully well I'd lose count. Once that happened, we all knew the jig was up, though I'm claiming partial victory by at least making them think a bit about the words they use and the message they send.

I wish Oprah more luck with her "bitch" ban.

Meantime, as atonement for any sexism, I think I'll go paint my toenails pink.

America's weight problem captured in one drive-thru encounter: The other day, I ordered a sweet tea at McDonald's -- I have one a month; don't judge me -- and the cashier asked, "would you like a baked apple pie with that?" And God help me, I considered it for a moment.

A legal clarification: Being a self-centered, insensitive asshole IS a handicap, but not sufficiently serious to warrant use of a handicapped parking space.

I love the smell of fireworks and testosterone in the evening.

Big breakthrough in therapy. Turns out my therapist's been telling me all this time I have an EDIBLE Complex. Wow, I totally misheard him -- huge difference. I feel guilty about ranting about all my mommy and daddy issues all those sessions. But what a relief to finally have a name for stuffing my face at the first sign of stress or anxiety. I feel validated. Oh, and really hungry, too, of course. So. very. hungry.

Hard to imagine, but 1.3 billion Chinese don't even care that Nebraska's in the Big 10. Hell, there may even be a few Americans who don't care. They'd be lousy Americans, of course; in fact, why don't they just move to China with all the other commie pinkos? GBR!

What’s happened to people’s sense of humor? My sandbagging flash mob is still picking buckshot out of our asses after getting run off a dike along the Missouri last night when we broke into a brilliantly choreographed “5 Feet High and Rising” routine. It’s hardly our fault that our spiked-heel dance routine breached part of what appeared to be a very poorly built dike, is it? C’mon people, lighten up.