Every now and then I get requests to do guest posts for other bloggers.

I don’t do many of these; time simply doesn’t allow me to post on my own damn blog often enough let alone others, but the odd time the cosmos align and I find myself able to spew my magic in places I never thought I’d have access to.

Today, the planets aligned, Mercury must be in retrograde or the moon started spinning sideways.

In other words, I have a guest post up over at Karl’s blog.

You should go read it.

I talk about boobs. A lot.

There may or may not be pictures of boobs included in the post.

Perhaps my own.

In the mean time, because I tricked you all into thinking this is a real post and not just some giant advertisement to go read someone else’s blog whom I graffitti’d with my wisdom, I present to you gratuitous pictures of PUPPIES!

Everyone, meet the puppy who couldn’t find a home (I may or may not have looked very hard…shhh, don’t judge me) who was once named after a certain blogger.

He has since been christened Roosevelt.

I have a thing for dead American Presidents. (Well hello CIA and FBI! Please don’t add my name to any watchlists just because I have a fondness for naming my pets after your politicians.)

Meet Roosevelt (or as my husband still insists on calling him when ever he shits on the floor, Shawn.)

He’s kinda cute, eh? Don’t ask him what kind a dog he is. He’s sensitive about his lineage. I think that may have something to do with his mother’s whorish ways. And the fact that his grandfather may be his father. Incest is best, you know.

I like to cheer Roosevelt up by telling him there is always the possibility that the ugly little dog next door could be his daddy-o, but that only reinforces the fact his mother is a tramp and he tends to get all depressed and shit.

Roosevelt is a sensitive soul like that.

He’s a pretty little thing, though, isn’t he? And wee. Right now he’s about six inches tall and about 10 inches long.

He adores Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, EVER. Nixon, however, doesn’t exactly harbor feelings of reciprocation.

He will tolerate the little dude for small periods of time. I think Nixon is still holding on to some feelings of hostility and aggression from the time little Roosevelt mistook Nixon’s willy as his mother’s milk maker.

Nixon hasn’t forgiven Roosevelt yet for that itty bitty mistake.

Roosevelt is a good kisser. But the first time I catch him licking his arse or eating someone’s crap, he will never again taste the nectar that is my lips.

It’s tough work being this pretty yo.

It’s a family affair. Note that Mommy-Dearest, my darling dopey Diera, is not kissing my lips. Because she is not only a whore, she’s a certified asslicker.

I do have some boundaries people.

So there you go. Two posts for the price of one.

Go forth and be merry.

As most of you know, my husband Boo works out of town.

There isn’t a high demand for hugely endowed professional Nordic masseuses er, um, independent contractors here in the sticks so he travels to the big bad cities to sell his services.

We spend a lot of time apart (like eleven months out of every year) as I spend most of my time raising his children and maintaining our homestead while he takes his buddies to random strip joints featuring one legged vertically challenged strippers.

Oh sure, he says he actually works while he’s away from home,  but I’ve never seen any evidence of this. Well, except for the paychecks he keeps mailing home. But for all I know he earns that money sucking on the toes of elderly retirees.

I happen to know Boo is a very talented toe sucker.

(It’s like I can’t stop myself. I hear the voice on my shoulder telling me to shut the hell up but my fingers have a mind of their own. Seriously. I love you Boo.)

My husband knows  I spend the majority of my days trying to keep my daughter from dreaming of a life twirling around a pole and teaching my son that orange jumpsuits aren’t a good look on him, all the while pushing our youngest son around in a wheelchair and acting like a performing monkey for the masses, jumping through rings of fire to ensure the inmates don’t stage a coup while he’s gone.

He’s very sympathetic to my plight as a stay at home mother to his children.

I mean, he’s met these kids. He knows exactly how far the apples didn’t roll from our trees.

So in what has morphed into a long standing tradition, he likes to bring his charming and beautiful wife (that’d be me, at least in this city) a little something something every time he darkens his door.

Not that type of something something. That generally comes later. After the kids are in bed and a the wine bottle has been drained.

Boo always brings me a gift when ever he comes home. A small token to express his love and appreciation for all I do in his absence.

In other words, he isn’t above bribing me to stick around when he shows up instead of running into the forest and towards sweet freedom and away from the madness that is single parenting domesticity while I have the chance.

Generally, Boo brings home flowers or wine or crotchless panties. He knows I’m easy and like a kid with ADD, highly distractable. One minute I’ll be bitching about how hard it is to parent three children all by myself and the next minute I’ll be all “Oh look! Something shiny!”

Works every time.

This time though, he tried something a little different. A gift a little more unconventional for the woman he has been married to for well over a decade.

A trinket a tad more unorthodox for the woman he impregnated and watched as his offspring clawed their way out of her insides like a bunch of rabid angry badgers.

He brought home worms.

Seriously. I reached into my shiny refrigerator to grab some eggs and found this instead:

Meal worms, maggots and dew worms oh my!

Just taking this picture I had a flashback to when I was 12 and found a leech stuck on my left ass cheek.

Sure he claims he was being thoughtful but dude, there is motherf*cking leeches in my refridgerator.

Blood suckers.

Boo, you want to bring home a blood sucker for me, make sure it’s a he, is of Viking descent, bleeds from the eyes and his name rhymes with Deric.

(Although, if you are unable to locate said bloodsucking undead Viking, feel free to put in a pair of plastic vampire teeth, slick your hair back and call me Sooookeh in an exasperated voice while biting on my neck and we could just  have something to work with.)

Ahem.

I mean, there is a huge difference between the blood suckers in my fridge and the blood sucker in my dreams. Just for any future reference dear Boo.

I know, I know. I like to fish. You know I like to fish.

You were trying to be thoughtful.

But your definition of thoughtful and my definition of thoughtful are two obviously very different things.

Thoughtful to me would have been surprising me with a new lure and the suggestion to go fishing.

Thoughtful to you is obviously infesting my fridge and contaminating the very appliance that keeps food from spoiling so that I may safely feed the small starving mouths we are legally responsible for.

Still, I applaud your efforts. While I was busy squealing like a school girl over the live meal worms squirming around in a clear ziploc baggie, I was totally distracted from remembering that it’s tough work being alone all the time.

So you get points for creativity. This time. Next time you bring me insects to prove your love, I’m kicking your ass.

A bag full of maggots will only get you laid once in your life time.

You just used up your quota.

(I told y’all I was easy.)

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Knox Jumby with big brown eyes and a shock of soft brown hair. He was the size of a peanut, weighing in just more than a pound of butter.

No one thought he’d live, he was born too early at 24 weeks, it was unlikely he’d survive. But this little boy was a fighter. He knew that one day he’d find his way to his rightful true home and into the arms of a Redneck Mommy.

So with the help of a children’s hospital affiliated with the Children’s Miracle Network, some dedicated and very talented doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists and every other type of medical professional you can shake a stick at, they gathered around this wee peanut of a boy and did everything they could to help him live.

He spent almost a year in the hospital during his first year of life, and this boy overcame every health disaster that came his way.

Soon, the good people at the children’s hospital were waving good bye to him and wishing him well as he set out to find his true redneck mommy.

It wasn’t the last time Knox Jumby needed a children’s hospital. Sadly, he will always be a frequent visitor of the children’s hospital. Without the dedicated skills of these professionals, Knox Jumby won’t make it to adulthood.

Which is why today is so important.

Today at participating Dairy Queens across North America (yes, Canada and the United States) it is MIRACLE DAY.

Today, proceeds from the purchase of a Blizzard at DQ will be donated to the Children’s Miracle Network. To help children like Knox Jumby. To help any child.

You don’t have children? Your children are healthy? Why should you care? Well, because you never know when a blood thirsty leprachaun will leap out of the forest and rip the toes off a child you know or love with a rusty cheese knife.

Seriously. It happens every day.

Just go mosey up to any ward of a children’s hospital and you will see. It’s not all kids with cancer, or heart problems or broken bones from car accidents. You’d be surprised how many children are struggling to recover from the savage attacks on their lives by fairy tale creatures gone mad.

So I’m whoring myself out here people, asking you all to take a few minutes, spend a few dollars and support this campaign to make every day a miracle for a child somewhere.

Without the services of my local children’s hospital, I’d never have met my Knox Jumby. They have saved his life, more than once.

Without the services of my local children’s hospital, my son Shale would have died.

(Well, okay,so  technically he did die, but he would have died a whole lot sooner with out the Stollery Children’s hospital, a proud affiliate of the Children’s Miracle Network.  And I swear, and the coroner agrees, the fine people at the hospital had nothing to do with his death.)So let’s just ignore the fact that he died and focus on the fact they kept him alive for almost five years.

And that was no easy task yo. The kid was born with a gibbled brain and more health problems than a creative human can think of. I totally cooked him wrong when I was gestating him. If he had been born twenty years ago, I’d never have been able to bring him home.

But because of the fine people who work tirelessly at the Children’s Miracle Network and the medical professionals at my local children’s hospital, I got 4 years, 10 months and 17 days with my boy.

Not that I counted or anything.

Ahem.

Oh look! Pictures to guilt you into buying ice cream!

Look! I like to wear a bucket on my head! I really am a little redneck!

Peekaboo Puppy! I know! My head was just in a bucket and now it’s NOT!

You can eat ice cream and feel like a good person.

It can be your good deed of the day.

Don’t know where a participating Dairy Queen near you is? Simply click this link and find out! (I’m totally prepared in my whoring today. I should earn a girl scout badge or something.)

Can’t eat ice cream because you are lactose intolerant or too damn lazy to get off the couch to walk to the DQ?

Have no fear! Tanis is here! You can donate online and still be part of the Miracle of MIRACLE day.

You Yanks can donate online here.

(Really, I may as well just show you my boobs at this point. Plus my knees are getting really sore from being on them for so long.)

This post is brought to you by the pandering of a mother who has two children who wouldn’t have lived past birth without the support of people like you.

So go forth and donate. Be a Miracle to me.

Don’t make me post pics of my dead kid to really beat you into guilty submission.

Cuz you know I will.

I am a whore. As proven by this post.

*I totally rock at this whoring out stuff. I mean, dead kids, fairy tale creatures and shameless exploitation of children. I freaking rock! Now go buy an ice cream because my blind deaf kid can’t eat ice cream because he can’t control his swallow and it will run into his lungs and effectively drown him which means ice cream could kill my child and therefore you should totally buy TWO blizzards just cuz it’s so sad a five year old boy could be murdered by ice cream.*