Oreos and vaginas

I'm rolling my eyes right out of their sockets over advertisers trying to create imaginary milestones to sell a product. Case in point: Oreo cookies. I never sat down with my father and bonded over an Oreo race, in which the winner is the one who sucks the marrow first from the disassembled cookie. When did this become an activity of any kind? Oreo racing?
People need to get out more.
I think I had a similar reaction to a commercial where a mother and her teen daughter exchanged knowing looks, while cheerfully discussing vaginal dryness. I don't want to sound all Catholic here, but aren't teens supposed to suffer in silence? Something has got to fuel all that brooding -- and bonding over Nabisco treats (as well as birth-canal dust) just seems wrong.
So, back to the cookies. Did you know there's a site that's trying like hell to promote Oreo cookie racing, like it's a trend that's just dying to catch on? http://www.nabiscoworld.com/oreo/dsrl/
Now, I don't want to contribute to this lame-ass, invented past-time, but since you can find websites that show people and animals getting it on, (so I've heard ;-) I figure why not offer up this freak show. I'm sorry, but this is a monumental loser-magnet. Gentlemen, if you're in any way involved in this "sport" you better get the hell out of your mom's basement. Or, get on with the business of serial-killing, coz you're never gonna wake up next to a good woman. At least not one that doesn't need to be inflated.

What the heck happened to you Oreo? Was it jealousy? Was the Fig Newton just too regal? Were you eclipsed by the Nilla Wafer? When did you lose your self respect?
When I was a kid, Oreos were the best thing ever. I could carry my Johnny Quest lunch box with pride, knowing that I had a stash of Oreos. Tucked all cozy between my soon-to-be-broken glass and metal Thermos, A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, eagerly awaiting my barbecue potato chips (which were best placed inside the sandwich for texture) and a trusty Space Food Stick. That could have been my last meal on earth and I knew I could die happy.
All I can say, Mr. Oreo Cookie, is you've lost your edge. What's with all the new flavors and versions of a cookie that was already getting laid eight days a week? If you don't believe me, ask any pot smoker out there -- Oreos were like heroin after a few bong hits... These damn cookies were getting more action than Captain Kirk on Rigel 7, and you're screwing it up!

Tainting your image with such cheap antics is a sure indication the terrorists have won. This is end-of-days, sign of the apocalypse, kind of stuff.
I'm so confused and distraught that I think I just peed a little.

Look, there are few things that I'm really sure of:
One, Dolly Parton sleeps on her back.
Two, Elizabeth Montgomery was one of the sexiest TV moms ever, and,
Oreos were fine the way they were, you imbeciles!
It's not cool what you're doing, Nabisco.
You're jacking with tradition.
With America.
It's not right.
It's not kosher ...
No.
It's not Keeblarian....

Porcelain serenade...

All I can say is ... she never did poop.

Shaken, not stirred

It's funny how a middle-aged father sees himself.
True, there's no danger involved in getting kids ready for school, doing laundry and hosting play-dates. But the adventure has not been extinguished; it's just more shrewdly disguised. Let's say, for example, if I were to compare myself to a secret agent like James Bond, how would my life compare?
First, I do a whole number of things to protect the world from evil, by being prepared.
I’ve been backing the car into the garage lately. To you this might seem frivolous, however, it saves time when I’m running late for getting the kids to school, or rushing to deactivate an errant nuclear device. That three-point turn in the morning uses up valuable time that I could be spending saving the planet. Nay, the very axis on which our delicate little world rotates, is held together because I can just get into my Yaris and drive like the wind. Of course, I haven’t figured out why the world doesn’t need saving when I come home in the evening, and do the three-point thing backing in.
But see? Already 007 and I are like twins.

Then there are the steps that every agent must confront. I have to be able to assess a situation in a moment: Will my five-year-old scream to high heaven if I make her wear pants instead of a skirt? Will the three-year-old pee in her car seat within 15 minutes of drinking a juice box? These are decisions that require split-second timing; let’s see James Bond pull THAT off.
Also, I must be able to speak multiple languages, like whineish, and bratenese. To have the skill to decipher the ramblings of a child who wants pancakes instead of waffles through convulsive sobbing isn’t as easy as it sounds. Then there’s the language of their mom – that’s a whole different dialect that usually includes little talking and mostly the stinky eye.

Next, it’s definitely the hardware and software that all agents require for survival in any situation. The hardware, being plenty of wipes and diapers, which is essentially the gun and exploding pen of any agent. Things like extra clothing, activity books, dolls and an endless supply of snacks and liquids.
That doesn’t even include the skill to use these devices. I have to know how to put a dress on a Barbie in under a minute. I have to know how to quickly change a diarrhea-laced diaper in a restaurant before the smell kills anyone. You think defusing a bomb is tough? Try changing a diaper in a moving minivan 40 miles outside of Salt Lake City during a dust storm.
Software?
Well, a DVD player and plenty of movies are as important as a Luger and hallow-point rounds. Without those, I’d be dead quicker than you can say Moneypenny.
You also must have the ability to gather intelligence. What does that little fox say on Dora the Explorer? Do the pancakes need to be cut? Or, is she a “big girl” today? You’ve got to know the habits of those under surveillance.

Like James Bond, there’s an “M” at headquarters, which I guess stands for mom. She’s handing down the assignments, sifting through the intelligence gathered, and giving direction.
So, it occurred to me that there might be a few differences between 007 and I.

Each mission I receive isn’t hinged upon me accepting it. Maybe I’m mixing those rules up with Mission Impossible, it’s difficult to remember. Still, when an assignment is handed to me, I take it. After all, this is for God and country.
I’m not devilishly handsome, so ... there's that.
Oh yeah, also James Bond is traveling the world and having sex ...