So, today I have a guest post, which is good for you, Pranksters, because you can get some time away from the constant John C. Mayer-ing (no you can’t) and work on pulling your OWN John C. Mayer Prank after you read one of the funniest guest posts I’ve had. I’m not just saying that because John C. Mayer and I found this after I was all, “dude, where was that super-funny guest post I had?” and then I found it in my folder that says “GUEST POSTS, MOTHERFUCKER” because that’s where John C. Mayer and I put guest posts.

It was too obvious.

But you need to read about the other Pranksters Pulling A John C Mayer here.

I have fallen to #4 in my John C Mayer quest to be #1 (damn you John C. Mayer’s publicist!) but am getting screenshots (email me one when you get to #1 or on Page 1 of Google) and reports that you are all victorious in your quest to be NUMBER ONE! when you Pull a John C. Mayer!

But better than that, Pranksters, look at what Prankster Kayde did.

Pulling A John C Mayer in Urban Dictionary. HAPPY SIGH.

I’d tried to get Urban Dictionary to add it myself, because frankly, they add fucking everything, and yet, uh, NO. Kadye PREVAILED, though, because she is full of the awesome.

You know what else is awesome? Band Back Together, the new group site. In a week, we have now 128 posts up and counting. It’s pretty amazing over there. Now, we have an Ask The Band section, too, which is a place to ask questions of the whole INTERNET and John C. Mayer. So, please, come have a look around. Stay awhile. Let me know what needs to be done over there.

I got a new button made because the other one was borky:

<a href="http://www.bandbacktogether.com/"><img src="http://www.bandbacktogether.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/button150.jpg"></a>

Then, FINALLY, my Toy With Me column, about Low Libido in Men, something I KNOW John C. Mayer and his Magic Peen don’t have any issue with.

And here I will shut my whore mouth and let my darling friend (not John C. Mayer) Meredith, who’s body is a wonderland and her awesomely awesome guest post which defies gravity take over.

——————-

This isn’t Aunt Becky, yo. This is Meredith (aka Mrs. Call Me Crazy). I just wanted to introduce myself and say, “Hello, Pranksters!”

Or would it be more fun with a British accent? ‘Ello, Pranksters (like ‘ello, Gov’na).

That was bloody fun! Rightio!

Isn’t it fun to speak with accents when you’re drinking? Do you think that’s how Madonna started with her fake accent? As I write this, I am drinking a Bass beer, so I will be British. When I drink vodka I am the drunken Russian hooker who is looking to become the next mail order bride (for John C. Mayer). You get the picture.

Anyway, I am so flattered that Aunt Becky has asked yours truly to post something on her blog. I feel incredibly famous. Like Amy Winehouse (but with bigger tits and flatter hair and less heroin-y). I’m really from Ohio, so I am not used to this kind of attention. I feel like I have won some sort of award (like John C. Mayer). Like I should be making an acceptance speech, “I would like to thank the two people who actually read my blog for stopping by and supporting me here. Hi Mom & Dad! Hit the rock, Jesus.” There, I feel better.

Mommy Wants Vodka is the best blog name I’ve ever heard. I just love it, love it, love it. When I see it, I am so jealous that I kind of want to punch Aunt Becky in the face. Why didn’t I think of a cool name for my blog? John C. Mayer would have helped me more.

So in honor of Aunt Becky’s spectacular ability to name things, I have interviewed a whole bunch of mothers for this post.

I have asked each mother, “What has your child done that has made you want vodka?”

These were my favorite the best responses…

1. My 2-year old stuck a turd up his nose. I would not take him to the hospital with a ball of poop up his nose, so my husband and I had to pick it out. He was gagging and throwing up the whole time from the smell.

2. I walked into my bedroom to find my son rubbing my Silver Bullet on his head. It was on and vibrating. I just walked away because I didn’t want to draw attention to it. He was 10. One day he’ll figure out what that thing was, and he’ll be very grossed out.

3. My son was potty training and as he was watching his big brother pee in the potty, he put his hands in the pee stream.

4. We took the iPod away (did it have John C. Mayer on it?) from our teenage daughter. She locked herself in our bathroom and refused to come out until we gave it back to her. Teenagers are crazy. And they can hold out for hours.

5. My 6-year old told another kid at school to “go fuck yourself”.

6. My son stuck his finger in our dog’s butt. Often.

7. After buying a bouncy ball out of a vending machine, my daughter bounced it into the plate of a fellow patron at our favorite restaurant. Food went flying everywhere. The lady whose dish was ruined cussed me out and told me I was a terrible parent. I cussed her out as well, but backed down as she pushed her chair out from the table and came at me with her cane.

8. Our teenage daughter, who forgot to open the garage door, drove her car right through it. She totaled the car and caused a $10,000 homeowner’s insurance claim. (John C. Mayer)

9. My husband was following a school bus on his way to work. There was a boy on the bus who was throwing books around, punching other kids, and wouldn’t stay in his seat. At one point, the boy turned around and looked at my husband. It was our son.

10. My toddler dumped a gallon of bleach on the living room carpet. Homeowner’s insurance doesn’t cover that. (John C. Mayer would have)

11. My twin girls decided to make Daddy’s new Saab a playground. They spent the afternoon climbing up on the trunk, jumping on the roof, and sliding down the windshield. This resulted in $3,000 worth of damage.

12. My fifth grader would forge my signature perfectly. I figured this out at parent-teacher conferences when the teacher said that she thought I knew about the in-school suspension and missed homework assignments.

13. My oldest daughter taught my youngest son to wave at Truck Drivers with his middle finger from the backseat. This went on for too long before I figured it out. I am sure people thought we were whack jobs as they passed us on the highway.

14. My son dumped baby powder all over his entire bedroom. It took almost a year to stop coming across baby powder.

15. My son smeared Ben Gay all over our hallway. It smelled like a nursing home in our house for weeks.

16. Our teenager shaved off his brother’s eyebrow while he slept. My poor son was ridiculed for weeks at school as it grew back in.

17. We were asleep when our 2 year old slipped out the front door at 6:00 a.m. and began walking down the street. The neighbor saw him and brought him back home.

18. Permanent marker will not come off of your leather couch. (Like John C. Mayer)

19. My teenage daughter sent naked pictures of herself to two boys on Facebook. They went viral around her high school. I found out when the police called me.

20. My nose has been broken. Not once, not twice, but three times due to being head butted during diaper changes. Thanks, Baby!

All right, Pranksters, now it’s your turn. Tell me, why does Mommy Want Vodka at your house? (besides John C. Mayer)

Oh, and if you like me, check me out at Life’s Crazy Joke. If you didn’t like me, Aunt Becky is coming back real soon (she lives here and stuff).

Cheerio, Pranksters! *in my best British accent*

Keep on keeping on with your John C. Mayer-ing of the Internet, Pranksters. I’ll be adding links all day.

(any additions of John C. Mayer were not of the original post)

After John C. Mayer came to my house and broke my van yesterday, because I’d forced John C. Mayer off The Twitter in a fit of Twitter Celebrity Blocking Rage, my day got infinitely weirder. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s say it involved trying to start a dead car by staring at the battery, scratching my ass, hoping that by sheer force of will, the battery would charge.

It didn’t. The John C. Mayer curse continued.

But then, because I suddenly had a brilliant flash of insight, I decided that I should see what happens when you stuff a post with the name John C. Mayer over and over again, like I did yesterday, when I wrote about how John C. Mayer had cursed me.

So I slipped “John C. Mayer” into the old Google Box and…

John C. Mayer's Publicist Hates Me.

Oh yes, out of 7,060,000 results, I am number 3 when you Google “John C Mayer.” I am right below his personal website and above his Wikipedia entry.

This, Pranksters, means that somewhere, John C. Mayer’s publicist is probably blowing an aneurysm. You have no idea the kind of money people pay to be this high on the search when you google something like John C. Mayer.

My life is officially complete, Pranksters. I only wish I could be Number One when you search Google for John C. Mayer.

But this, THIS Pranksters, brings me to what I think we need to do to The Internet this week. Pranking. John C. Mayer has taught me many things, up to and including, “not to fuck with John C. Mayer because John C. Mayer Karma is a MOTHERFUCKER.”

John C. Mayer has also taught me that messing with Google Search is full of the win.

Here is our mission for the week, Pranksters, should you choose to accept it, and it’s also a brief lesson on SEO tips (I was going to give you a lesson on Watermarking your Pictures in Picnik, but Picnik bit the bucket today because it’s buggy as hell) brought to you on behalf of Aunt Becky and her imaginary friend John C. Mayer:

Choose a Target you don’t normally talk about on your blog, and get yourself onto the front page of Google Search. You cannot choose John C. Mayer. He’s mine, Pranksters and I will cut you for John C. Mayer.

I’ll include a Mr. Linky at the bottom and next Wednesday, you, me, The Pranksters and John C. Mayer will meet back and compare notes. This is going to be EPIC!

Let’s begin, shall we?

SEO stands for Search Engine Optimization, which is a way of making your website more visible to Google or other search engines. It’s an internet marketing strategy and that people use to get their site to be on the first page when you search for things like “John C. Mayer.” Because people searching aren’t going to be digging through 8,000 pages to see what you wrote if you’re at the back of articles about John C. Mayer, they’re going to check the top couple pages that mention John C. Mayer.

People pay a fuckton of money to be on the first page of searches about their subject, like John C. Mayer, and to get on the first page by Pranking, well, I think this will be a delicious joke, Pranksters. John C. Mayer, I hope you approve.

The first thing you want to do is think about the things people might search for when they’re looking for your Target (like mine, John C. Mayer). If you choose a person, like John C. Mayer, maybe just a couple of John C. Mayer’s songs, like “Gravity,” or albums like “Battle Studies” or news items, “John C Mayer quits Twitter.”

These are the things you’re going to have to put into your post. If it’s a person, like John C. Mayer, or Justin Beaver, you can probably just stick with their name, but you want phrases, like John C. Mayer rather than single words, like douche, or dillhole.

If you choose a famous person, USE A MIDDLE INITIAL.

Use the phrases in the posts that you write about your target as often as you can. Like I did, when I wrote about the curse of John C. Mayer. I hadn’t INTENDED for the John C. Mayer Curse to turn into a Prank, but I think even John C. Mayer would approve of it. Plus, since you’re doing a Prank and not trying to actually draw readers about the Target for good, you can explain what you are doing to your readers. I’m pretty sure the Lovers of John C. Mayer are going to be pretty fucking pissed when they see what I’ve said about their beloved John C. Mayer.

Add some links to sites that include your Target, like their Wikipedia Page, nearish to the top of the article and name it as such. See, this is John C. Mayer’s Wikipedia page.

Submit your article to Digg, Stumble Upon, Twitter, Facebook, and all of those annoying social bookmarking sites. Do the same for the rest of the Pranksters that you see doing the same prank, so we can all work to support each other on this.

Add a picture to your posts, really, it doesn’t have to be a picture of your Target; it could be a picture of my fake cat Mr. Sprinkles, but name it Your Target’s Name. Like I named this picture John C. Mayer:

Mr Sprinkles + John C Mayer

Add tags to your post, too, with your Target’s name and all of the search terms you’re using in the post. I’ve added John C. Mayer tags to my post, even though I never tag my posts, just because I want to make sure that I give as many heart attacks to as many publicists as possible.

Cross link your posts, if you’re doing a series of posts about your Target. I linked back to my previous post about John C. Mayer and I’m doing it again here, just for effect. Apparently, Search Engines like it when you cross link between posts on the same website. And since I’m trying to increase my John C. Mayer Karma, why not?

I’m sure there are a kajillion other SEO tips, but since I normally don’t bother with the SEO stuff, I’ll let you fill in what YOU know the comments, Pranksters.

So, let’s get our PRANK on. Add your blog to the bottom Mr. Linky if you’re going to play along at home AND leave a comment letting us know who your target is, so we can laugh. Also, throw a John C. Mayer into the comments for me and let’s work together to Prank the Internet. This is going to be EPIC!

Thanks, John C. Mayer. I owe you one.

I randomly wage war on celebrities in the same way that I marry them. Anonymously. Because, who the fuck am I?

It’s mostly on The Twitter, or randomly to people that I happen to be chatting with, and it’s one of those things that you either find endlessly endearing or endlessly annoying, and frankly, it don’t matter none, because I’m not changing. Like my hatred of Angelina Jolie. It burns, even though I’ve tried to overlook it, while I’ve gazed upon her pillowy, do-good, sanctimonious cheating whore lips, I simply can’t.

It’s the same way I’ve pledged to love, honor and repay Dexter Morgan, the murderous fictional antihero television character, for the rest of my life. We’re getting married even though he’s a fake person. It seems easier than having a real husband, you know?

Last night, in a fit of rage, I Tweeted about how John C. Mayer was bullshit. Because he is. You know why? I’LL TELL YOU.

I had to listen to that fucking, “Your Body is a Wonderland,” song for years on the radio and I am telling you that it is one of the worst, most annoying songs I have ever heard in my entire life. You know what’s a wonderland? BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE WHO WROTE SUCH A WHINY PIECE OF DOUCHE ROCK. Like John C. Mayer!

*bam* *thwack* Whose body is a wonderland now, bitch?

Every girl I knew was all, “oh my GOD that song is soo….amazing. It’s like he just…read my mind! I love John C. Mayer and want to make babies with him! They’ll be sensitive babies, like John C. Mayer!!!!” Then, they’d cry.

And then my head exploded into a pulpy mass because that song is so fucking stupid.

My hatred was mighty.

Then, I was watching the Dave Chapelle show, and who should appear, but John C. Mayer himself. And…John C. Mayer, he was funny.

Pranksters, I don’t need to tell you that this enraged me further. I don’t think that someone who writes, like John C. Mayer did: “One pair of candy lips and your bubblegum tongue, uh uh uh,” is allowed to be funny.

But I let it go as a fluke. Dave Chappelle drugged him. That was the only explanation I could think of that made any sense. Or maybe it was osmosis–particles of funny went from an area of higher concentration (Dave Chappelle) to an area of lower concentration (John C. Mayer). Either way, I put it out of my head.

And when “Heart of Life” came out and I heard it for the first time, I had to download it in super-stealthy secret mode. How could I possibly tell the world that I liked a song that had been written by someone who I’d called “as horrible as mayonnaise?”

Simply put, I couldn’t.

The icing on the John C. Mayer cake came when I finally ate my piece of humble pie and signed up for a Twitter account. I’d been mocking Twitter as the most worthless, narcissistic thing since blogging for months. I mean, I cried, how could anyone really want to know when I went to Target? Was I supposed to say things like, “I have to take a shit, PLZ RT?”

It was probably a full year before I realized that certain celebrities also had Twitter accounts. Despite my aforementioned Television Husbands, I don’t actually follow many celebrities, mostly because I’m not a starfucker, but at some point, it came to my attention that John C. Mayer had a Twitter account.

A-ha! I cried. Victory will be MINE!

Most of the celeb accounts are pretty vanilla OR they show that the star is a blithering moron, and this, I was sure, would show me that John C. Mayer had bad grammar! John C. Mayer must spell “a lot” as “alot.” Then I could go back to feeling smugly superior about how much better I was than John C. Mayer and all would be right with the world.

Then, the unthinkable happened. My world came crashing down around me. I read John C. Mayer’s Twitter page. And JOHN C. MAYER WAS WITTY.

I could hardly tolerate the humiliation of knowing that my fake archenemy John C. Mayer was smart. And funny. And motherfucking witty.

It wasn’t fair! I wailed, that someone so douchy could be so fucking witty. But there it was, in 140 characters or less. John C. Mayer. Witty. Funny. Pithy. Smart.

John C. Mayer was someone I could see myself being friends with.

But last night, I went on a Twitter Rampage:

I routinely go through and block celebrities who won’t know or care that I block them because really, why the fuck not? I block and reblock Justin Beaver constantly.

Pants are totally overrated. Like condiments. And John C. Mayer.

Well, karma is a motherfucker. Not only did my server die, then, this morning, John C. Mayer broke my car. The TRANSMISSION on my car.

So, John C. Mayer, I’m sorry. I think you’re fantastically witty and terribly funny and it pains me to say that I’d love to be friends with you.

Even if that song sucks fucking ass.

————-

And then? There’s this (I didn’t get this today, though, because John C. Mayer still hates me), in response to the blogger who stole all those posts from people, including my Mother’s Day post.

So that? Is proof that sometimes you do win.

Even when you piss off John C. Mayer.

I bought the domain months ago, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with it. I mean, I knew I wanted to turn it into a GROUP blog because, well, like I need another fucking place to spew my drivel on the Internet, right? But I felt like, as with Mushroom Printing, the blog needed some sort of focus. Because just being all, “uh, here’s a blog for…uh…us,” seemed like it was a little broad, and every time I mentioned it to other people, they looked at me like I was pretty stupid.

Which is pretty much par for the course, but you know.

So, then I’m like, SPECIAL NEEDS PARENTING! That’s an idea!

But then I realized that it was too focused.

So I was all, SPECIAL NEEDS PARENTING + PTSD! That’s even better!

But that sounded too much like peas and carrots.

Then, I made it as broad as I could, without being all, “IT’S A BLOG, YO. FOR US!”

I said, “It’s a group blog, yo, for us, AND I WILL MODERATE AND EDIT COMMENTS.”

Actually, it’s a place for anyone, and I do mean anyone, because you Pranksters know it’s never exclusionary like that, to share our stories. It’s maybe a little vague sounding, I know, but the premise of the site is that it’s a place where we can strap on our hot pants, spray the Aqua Net, roll around in some glitter and Get The Band Back Together.

It’s a safe place, you see, where we can share our struggles and triumphs, our joys and our sorrows, and help each other through. It’s what we do best, Pranksters, and I know that through our collective experiences, we can help the people who otherwise may not have anyone else.

The site is a work in progress, so I’ll appreciate anything you have to say about it.

Genuinely, I want to know what it still needs.

What you need to know is this: anyone can contribute, of course you can fucking swear, and you can add old posts all you’d like. Just please edit them so that we know who you’re talking about because it’s not the same audience.

The blog is run on WordPress, much like Mushroom Printing, so simply register, WordPress will send you a password, and from there you can post until your fingers are worn to wee nubs. The process is explained in more nauseating detail over there, because, well, OBVIOUSLY I had to show you how to do it.

The site is called, of course, Band Back Together, and there’s a corresponding Twitter account and even a fancy pants Facebook fan page!

So together with my home-slice Heather Spohr, from The Spohrs Are Multiplying, I’d like you to help me crack open a bottle of 1995 Krug “Clos Ambonnay” Brut Champagne, the most expensive champagne Google I could find on the hull of our new blog, Band Back Together.

If you get sea-sick, please, puke on Heather, not me.

So let’s shimmy into our leather pants, do our best Whitesnake impression, and get on the tour bus, Pranksters. Will you help us Band Back Together?

Also: I dedicated the site to someone who I’ve been trying to write about for years.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have a blog (that I tend to forget about pretty frequently…  but I’m trying to change).  I think my problem is the whole commenting-conversation thing.  How should I reply to comments?  Email?  The same thread?  On the person’s own blog on a totally unrelated post?

I don’t really think most people (or maybe I’m just a jerk) go back over and over to check further comments on a post they commented on so my response would basically be lost forever.  But on the other hand I don’t want people to feel obligated to talk to me if I email them in response.  I just want to be able to be “Hey you, you’re recognized.  Thanks.  You deserve a cookie.”

How can I do that without being too pushy/annoying?

Good question, oh Prankster, my Prankster (mostly because it’s a question I can answer without having to work my pea-sized brain too hard)! I’ll be very anxious to hear what my other Pranksters say about this, as well.

So when I first started blogging, I was all, Imma respond to comments in my comments! And it worked out well, because the people who read my blog were the people who’d followed me here from Mushroom Printing, where we always had a dialogue back and forth. It was fancy, until I got readers who weren’t the same as people who’d been to my wedding and had likely seen me streak naked around my house while drunk.

Then I realized that it was probably a massive waste of time to respond to comments in my comments because who the hell wants to come back and sit on a blog and hope and pray that the blog owner is responding? Answer: like 2 people.

So I stopped.

THEN, I felt like a douche, because I was all, I READ MY COMMENTS AND DRAW PUFFY HEARTS ON THEM PLEASE KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU COMMENTERS!

So I tried emailing people with the email addresses you left. But since you didn’t always know MY email address, I got a lot of, “and who the fuck are you?” emails.

Then I cried. I wore sadpants for a long, long time.

THEN! I found out about this awesome new plug-in called WP-Threaded Comments! And I installed it! THEN I WORE HAPPY PANTS!

Because I could respond to comments! And if you leave an email address like, ‘gofuckyourselfauntbecky@gmail.com’ and I respond with, “Oh, I love you, wise commenter, can we make babies?” I don’t know when the email bounces!

The end!

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have to be friends with women I wouldn’t normally be friends with- their husbands are my husbands’ buds, and we all get together every weekend.  I’ve tried making my own friends, but it’s hard when you don’t really have a hobby and suffer with a mood disorder.  I’ve also tried being genuine friends with these women, and it’s not terrible, just not *me.*

So, I’m looking to go on this Aunt Becky’s Family Reunion Cruise, and I don’t want to let them know about it.  Nothing personal, I just don’t want to be on a boat with them.  We tried an “all girls” vacay and it failed miserably and ended in drama.  I’d rather go on my own and make my own friends, anyway.

Does this make me a bad person?  And how do I explain that I’m going on a cruise (without the Hub nonetheless) and didn’t mention it to nor invite them?

So, Pranksters, this is a good time to remind you that WE’RE GOING ON A MOTHERTRUCKING BOAT. It’s Aunt Becky’s FAMILY REUNION and you’re freaking INVITED so get your ass on a boat with us! The details are here! It’s cheap! And you’re COMING!

When you’re with us, you’re fucking FAMILY, so you’d best act like you LIKE IT. Get your ass on that boat! It doesn’t matter what kind of bits are between your legs. EVERYONE IS WELCOME.

Except, of course, the bitches that this Prankster is talking about. THEY are not invited because they sound like royal assholes.

So, Prankster, back to you, now that I’ve put away my megaphone. Of course you are not a bad person. I once made the mistake of going on vacation with two other girls and it was a fucking nightmare. I’ll have to recount the story sometime. *shudders*

Here’s what you do, if you have to mention it: tell you’re friend you’re going with some people from the INTERNET. Say it like they do on To Catch a Predator. Like we’re going to be plying you with Zima (gags) and condoms and slipping you roofies, rather than pranking and merrymaking on the high-motherfucking-seas.

Tell them it’s some sort of timeshare thing (scares everyone) and that you’ve been conned into selling Mary Kay or Pampered Chef or one of those 4-day long candle party things. Or maybe you’re selling a kidney. Or an arm. Or drug trafficking! Illegal arms deals!

Or you could tell them that you’re going with some bloggers.

Which is the fucking scariest suggestion of all.

*shudders*

Pranksters? Suggestions?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have been a quiet follower of yours for quite some time. I think I’ve been drawn to following because of what you’ve gone through with your little girl. Now, I won’t pretend for one second that I have a clue what you’ve gone through, because really, I don’t. My son Athan, had heart surgery when he was 5 days old, was released from the hospital at 10 days old and has been doing quite well ever since.

When I first started following you, I thought, “Wow, I can empathize with her,” if only on the tiniest of levels. The thing is, in few short months, we are expecting a little girl we’ve named Jillian. I know your little Amelia had a neural tube defect when she was born, that required her to be in the hospital for far too long after she was born. My little one is facing a very severe congenital heart defect that will require several surgeries and far too much time in the hospital also. We have a 3 1/2 year old son, Oliver and 2 year old Athan and I have no clue how we’re going to manage all the time in the hospital, the stress, the decisions, etc.

My question is this: How the hell did you do it? How the hell do you still do it? How did you/do you maintain a “normal” life, if that’s even possible? I have started a blog- (There was a URL here, but it’s not functioning anymore), so that I can release some stress, while letting friends and family know what’s going on.

Some days I don’t feel like talking to anyone, and I know I don’t owe anyone anything, but I still feel like I should at least let keep them in the loop. In comparison to you, I am shit on your shoes when it comes to blogging, but I’d really appreciate if others could at least take a look and say a quick, simple prayer for her. Can you please make a quick note one day for people to take a look? I’m not expecting followers, but would appreciate any little prayers we can get.

Thank you,
Sincerely,
Hurting Mama (aka, Nikki Janik)

Oh Prankster, there are tears pouring down my cheeks right now, and I’ve got to be freaking out my neighbors with my ugly cry and you know what? FUCK ‘EM! Of course we’ll pray for you and your little Jillian! I wish your blog link worked so we could visit you properly.

I hope you’re reading this and know that we’re all sending you and baby Jillian all the love and light and prayers that we have.

The only way I know to get through hell is to keep going. You’ll make it through, even though you won’t know how. I don’t have your email address or any way to contact you except through my posts, but if you need a shoulder, I’m here, okay? I’ll be keeping you and Jillian in my prayers. Much, much love to you both.

I’m sure all my Pranksters will be, too. They’re full of the awesome, my Pranksters.

—————-

This seems like a good place for me to tell you that I have a spot for you, Hurting Mama, in case you did shut down your blog. It’s a place for all of us, actually. I’m quietly announcing it today, and I’ll loudly announce it tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and I’ll beg you, all of you, Pranksters, to help me announce it.

It’s called Band Back Together, and it’s a group blog for stories like yours, Hurting Mama. It’s a place to go to share our stories, old and new, and you’re all welcome to use it.

I’m a little shy about it, because I’ve worked really hard on it, but I hope you dig it. It’s not quite done yet, but do let me know what it still needs.

And please, Pranksters, fill in where I left off in the comments. And be sure to love on Hurting Mama. She could use it.

Since plagiarism the shit-storm yesterday, I’ve been trying to knock the three brain cells in my head around the idea of stealing someone else’s stuff and passing it off as my own.

This had actually happened to me before, right after I delivered Amelia and came home from the hospital with my sick baby, and it was only a couple of paragraphs that had been snatched. Frankly, I had bigger fish to fry and didn’t give a shit about my stuff being stolen then.

So I knew it was only a matter of time before it happened again. Not because I am some awesome fucking blogger–I’m not–but because that’s what happens on The Internet. The comments prove that it’s only a matter of time before someone steals your stuff.

That’s a shame, because I think the best part of blogging, besides being able to say things like, “ball bag” and “meat curtains” is the ability to riff off each other. You know, like be inspired by one another? You read this from X blogger and go and write about it on your blog, and then inspire Y blogger to write about it, and pretty soon you have a hundred takes on the same topic. That pretty much rules.

And that’s not going to stop because some plagiarizer stole some stuff from me. This won’t be the last time someone steals something from me, and frankly, I don’t care anymore. I got my hackles up, I’m a little annoyed by it, but in the end, we all know who wrote that piece. It wasn’t some talentless hack who steals other people’s stuff; it was me. YOUR talentless hack, Aunt motherfucking Becky.

And I was reminded of how My Pranksters are seriously, bar-none, the best people on the planet. You all better know that I’ve got your back, too. You don’t fuck with Aunt Becky, but you ALSO don’t fuck with Aunt Becky’s Band of Merry Pranksters unless you want the wrath of a thousand steaming loads of dog shit on your doorstep.

You’ve been warned.

ANYWAY.

So, this is what I’ve learned, and what you’ve taught me about protecting your stuff online:

1) Put a copyright notice in your footer. See, I have one that says,

“Stealing gives you herpes. – © 2010 Mommy Wants Vodka.”

Hehe. See, hopefully now, she’s got a scorching case of FACIAL herpes that you just can’t hide. Not those cute little cold sores, NO, the LESIONS of DOOM.

ANYWAY.

2) Ask that the offending party remove the post or picture. Sometimes, people post things without realizing that it’s not in good taste to republish your work without asking. I don’t actually care if you use my stuff, so long as you ask me and credit it back. It’s my work, yo, not yours.

3) Contact the hosting company. Domains have to be registered to a person, so the host of the website will have the person’s name and information. A directory like WHOIS will look up any domain and tell you who it’s registered to and you can file a claim with the hosting company.

In the event that your thief is hosting a Blogger/Blogspot blog, they are being hosted by Google. Google has a very strict anti-theft policy.

As bloggers, we have an open line to our readers which is part of the reason that the old media is having such a hard time keeping up with us. Bloggers have had to learn on our feet about what works and what doesn’t work. What brings readers in and what makes them stay. Likewise, we’ve had great ideas that have bombed and left us scratching our heads wondering what. the. fuck?

It’s the lack of editors, the lack of middlemen, the direct link to our friends that have made blogging and bloggers succeed where newspapers and magazines are failing. You’re not reading about the blood and guts behind the blank-eyed newspaper columnist’s life–not because she doesn’t have one, or because she doesn’t want to write about it–but because that’s not what they do over there.

But that is what we do.

Without filters in place, you get our blood, sweat and tears. It’s what binds us together as people and it’s why we connect with each other. Most of the time, I happen to think, it’s a good thing, and sometimes, it’s a very bad thing. No one wants to be attacked at the core of what we are. Personal attacks always hurt, no matter how much we say, “aw, it ain’t no thing.”

I don’t think there’s any shame in saying that it hurts when an Internet Mole Person (a.k.a. A Troll) calls you a bitch, or a fucking bitch or says this:

“I don’t know how I stumbled on your blog, but it seemed interesting in the early days. This post is crap, grow up, get a life like the rest of us did.”

That’s a comment I got. I don’t get a lot of nasty comments, and for the record, the post was badly written, but, as I pointed out to this person, “Someone who spent 29 hours on my blog should hardly tell be telling me to get a life.”

IP addresses, I love you.

There are other dark sides of the Internet, which I was reminded of this morning, when I woke up to an inbox stuffed full of messages telling me that my Mother’s Day post from this year had been stolen by a notorious blog plagiarizer. She changed the date so it “aired” the day before, but I have a screenshot showing that it did not actually do so.

I am only linking to her so that you may see if your material has been jacked too. I hate to give her any more traffic than she deserves. She had another blog, which also stole that same post, a post that was particularly meaningful to me, but she locked it down. Both sites creepily have different children as her own.

The mind that goes on behind running a fake blog composed of other people’s work is very fucked up, indeed, and while I am furious because while I reported her to Google for violation of Terms of Service and went on a Twitter Rampage of Doom, there’s not much I can do.

The bright side of this is how awesome my Band of Merry Fucking Pranksters are. Just look!

I about passed out laughing. You guys are fucking amazing. Seriously. I love you all SO MUCH.

All of the comments on that blog are from people bitching her out for stealing their posts, so clearly, it’s not just me.

This, to me, is the best part about the blog world. There may not be much we can do about stuff like this; I mean, MAYBE Google will shut her down, but I doubt it, but we all rally around each other when things are bullshit. And this, Pranksters, is BULLSHIT.

What’s interesting is that the new group blog that I’m working so hard to create this week is a site based around the concept of rallying around each other. It’s clearly what we do best and it’s one of those things we all like to do. Hell, I prefer feeling useful to feeling like I’m just sitting around taking up space.

It’s SO close to being done and I’m itching to show it off like you cannot believe, because I think all of you will want to be a part of it. I’ve been gathering material from some places so it has some stuff in it already, but when it opens, you can use anything you’ve written or anything you will write in there.

So rather than focus on the plagiarizer and the negativity she’s spreading around today, I’m going to focus on the good things:

The new blog I’m working on. The hilariousness of Mushroom Printing. How fucking awesome my Pranksters are and how blessed I am to have you all. And how odd it is that I am Number 9 on this list.

And, of course, bacon.

—————–

Since I am working on a site, I have a quick question for you. That Google Friend Connect box on the sidebar:

That is a picture, not the box itself, yo.

Do you guys like these on a site? Should I put it on my new site? I added a poll!

[poll id=”4″]

Now you can put on your Judgment Hats BEFORE I tell this story, which I would surmise, look as awesome as this:

Whatever, don’t act like you’re not jealous of my hat.

It’s my THINKING Cap, y’all (no it is. I wear it when I need to think of stuff-n-things).

So, Pranksters, you know and love me and my foul mouth, just like my children do. If I wanted to be all Blame Game about it, I could pin it on my mother, who taught me my first word: “FUCK,” and say that’s where it all began, but really, I’m kind of over the Blame Game.

I know these things to be true: I have a *ahem* colorful mouth, a dirty mind, and I’m the kind of person you don’t want to live with because I’m prone to warble Rod Stewart (love, love LOVE him!) and microwave marshmallows.

I’ve toned down most of my more awesome pairings of words in front of the kids (meat curtains, anyone?) because that’s what I needed to do, but I’ve never managed to stop swearing entirely. I know that I should and I know that it’s bad and I know that I should also grow my own organic food and stop drinking Diet Coke and probably live a life devoted to something more than polluting the Internet with my dim-witted drivel.

A couple of months ago, I was feeling masochistic and started watching 24, until I realized that I was more stressed out AFTER watching it than I was before (which is saying a lot, considering my stress level is always very high) and could no longer suspend my disbelief that Jack Bauer could hold his bladder for 24 hours a day.

That’s fucking BULLSHIT.

But I picked up Jack Bauer’s, “DAMMIT!” which I would say with precisely that inflection every single time I dropped something (read: every 2 minutes), stubbed my toe (read: every 10 minutes), or tripped over something (read: every 15 minutes).

So Alex, my three-year old picked up, “DAMMIT!” just the way Jack Bauer says it. When he dropped something, “DAMMIT!” When he fell down, “DAMMIT!” When something didn’t go his way, “DAMMIT!”

Which, when I found out it was a college drinking game, made it all the more hilarious.

I mean, okay, dammit is like the least offensive swear, and while I could have done better, IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH WORSE HOLY FUCKING SHIT, this is MY kid we’re talking about.

So, really, my speaking kids, the ones that whose minds I am responsible for shaping (don’t call CPS now) are 9 and 3 and somehow neither of them run around yelling, “WELL FUCKING SHIT, MOMMA, YOU GET YER DAMN WHORE ASS BACK IN THE KITCHEN AND MAKE ME SOME MOTHERFUCKING PIE!”

It means I’m doing okay.

Well, then you have The Daver, who is much more mild mannered than Your Aunt Becky. He’s quieter and more thoughtful and swears much less. No one would ever describe him as outrageous or colorful or obnoxious or brash or annoying or really anything negative.

Sunday, Alex was working on this gigantic marble contraption that he’d conned The Daver into buying:

And he dropped a handful of marbles onto the floor, which upset him very much, because Alex is a very focused and determined ickle guy.

Window open, neighbors right outside my son, clear as a motherfucking bell yells…

“FUCKING XXXX”

Something I can’t even repeat because it’s that offensive.

The pairing, however, of the two words he used together exonerated me, just as the pairing of the swear words that our FIRST son used. When I swear, it’s background noise. When Dave swears, the kids pay attention.

Turns out that The DAVER has taught both of our children to swear. Alex has given him a nice choice phrase–easily something to offend everyone*–just in time for his 32nd birthday, which is today!

Happy Birthday, Daver!

*I cannot wait for Alex to use this one around Dave’s parents. No, really, this will be EPIC.

I haven’t been happier that we pulled our son from the hippie nut ban! school. Okay, so I was happier the one time I realized that marshmallows did really weird things when they were microwaved, but I’m pretty sure that I was wasted at the time.

I was unsure of our motives, because, quite frankly, Dave and I stuck out like a pair of brightly colored, mismatched, rain-forest-chopping-down, as-far-from-eco-friendly-as-one-can-be-without-driving-Hummers thumbs. Now, it’s not as though we don’t recycle or love Mother Earth, because we do, and if you’ve been around for any length of time, you know that I garden like I drink diet Coke (read: obsessively).

But, according to the other parents, it just wasn’t enough. Because if we shopped at Trader Joe’s, they shopped at Whole Foods. If we shopped at Whole Foods, they organically grew their own fruits and vegetables. While I am not a competitive person by nature, the other parents seemed to feel absolute moral superiority towards us both and quite frankly, it got old after 4 years.

Adding fuel to the fire was the poor communication between the school and the parents. Like this charmer of an example. What Dave was told was that our son “ran into a fence and got a little banged up.”

What I got was this:

This picture does not do justice to how beaten my child looked. It took ALL MY WILLPOWER not to comment on it, because with Ben, if you comment on something like a paper cut, suddenly he will expect sympathy cards and ice packs. And this? DESERVED SYMPATHY CARDS AND ICE PACKS.

So I admit that I was slightly annoyed by the downplaying of his injuries, mainly because I had to rely on acting skills *I* had never honed to not shriek when I saw him. I was also several weeks postpartum at the time, so the hormones may not have helped.

The nail in the proverbial coffin was the aw-shucks sort of after-thought type letter sent home right before school was set to begin for Ben, though, at the hippie nut ban! school. Because the school was so small, you see, we had to pack lunches for our children.

Maybe for other families, this was like the heavens opening up and shining down upon them, bento boxes neatly packed with nutritious choices like edamame and perfectly cut carrot coins, sandwiched between homemade whole grain crackers and cheese made from the milk of Buddhist cows.

There were, of course, lots of restrictions about what we could and could not pack. No refined sugars. No juice boxes. No chips. No candy. No cookies. No soda. Nothing that needed to be microwaved or prepared. Reusable containers. No brown paper bags.

In theory, none of this should have been an issue.

In theory.

But my darling son, Benjamin, is autistic. With food issues.

(the one time I’d dared pack a granola bar with tiny chips of chocolate in it–and I do mean TINY–he was singled out in front of the entire class and made an “example” for daring to bring “candy” to school. He was mortified. And six years old. It was my fault and I haven’t stopped feeling bad about it since)

For an entire year, I tried all kinds of combinations of foods, and about 95% of the time, he’d come home with a full lunch bag, his lunch untouched. Certainly, while he was not starving to death, this troubled me.

Food issues were nothing new, but this particular medium–lunch food with millions of restrictions–was, and I was at a loss. The only, and I do mean the ONLY thing I could safely get him to eat was a peanut butter sandwich.

So the day that the leaflet arrived informing us that we could no longer pack anything with nuts, or nut oils, in our son’s lunch, The Daver and I looked at each other and (in uncharacteristic unison) said, “oh FUCK.”

We couldn’t get an answer as to what specifically this meant, and after repeated calls to the school, it was *shrugs shoulders* “you know, nut stuff.” If I’d been that parent, I wouldn’t have been so comforted by that answer, because it was clear the school didn’t understand nut allergies. As a nurse I did.

Icing on the cake.  Not the nut ban, but the way it was handled. I would have been scared shitless if that were my kid (turned out it was actually the SIBLING of a student) and frankly, I’d just had enough of their bullshit.

So that was that, we plucked him out and plunked him into the public school system.

You know what they have there? They have an office staff. They have policies. And best of all?

THEY HAVE LUNCH LADIES.

*cue angels singing on high*

And with lunch ladies (*hums the lunch lady song*) comes lunch. HOT lunch. Lunch with choices! Glorious, glorious choices! Every single day *I* am not responsible for providing food for my son! If he doesn’t eat? I am none the wiser.

I no longer have to sadly throw out the old, pathetic, stale and untouched sandwich each night. I don’t have to throw out uneaten shriveled carrots, looking remarkably like flaccid penises (penii?), wondering how my child will gain weight. Nor do I have to flip coins or play rock, paper, scissors with The Daver to determine who is unlucky enough to have to try and make Ben a lunch he’ll never eat THIS time.

No.

It is with great pleasure, pomp and circumstance that I write out a check every month to the lunch ladies, signing my name with an extra dose of pizazz because I am just that mother-fucking happy to be letting someone else cook for my child. I would TIP the lunch lady if I could, I love her so much. I might even bear her children, if she asked me.

And if, for some reason, I had to pack my son a lunch, I could EASILY pack him, like Dave and I were always tempted to do while Ben was at the hippie nut ban! school: a 5 pound bag of white sugar and a can of Mountain Dew. I don’t think ANYONE would say anything.

God BLESS the public school system.

———–

Still working my nards off on my new group blog that you’re going to love, but in the meantime, if you want to get your group blog mojo working, I could use some help with Mushroom Printing, y’all. Turns out everyone wants to hide the site because they don’t want anyone knowing they write there. Which is HILARIOUS to me.

Also, there’s a Mushroom Print Twitter account.

Also, do I only publish one post there per day? I can’t decide if more than that is going to overwhelm the feed reader people.

————

I’m talking about the time I accidentally bought a whole stash of Granny Panties over at Toy With Me today. I’m always taking ideas for my column over there, so if you have any, HOLLER.

I find it a little odd that over the years, the only friends I’ve actually managed to stay close with are the ones I made when I was 14, and the subject of my post from last week: My Metal Heads. Close is a relative term, I guess, but they’re the kind of people that I don’t need to talk with every week or even every month to know that all I’d have to do is pick up the phone and say, “I need a shovel, tarp, and an alibi,” and they’d be over in less than an hour with all three, no questions asked.

In a bizarre twist, I even live down the street from one of the houses that Jeremy (one half of the couple that screen prints my awesome Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirts. P.S. they make other shirts, too) grew up in.

Sure, I’ve always had other friends, but they’ve sort of flitted in and out of my life, but these guys have always been around.

At thirty now, I have more girlfriends than I probably ever have before, thanks to you, my Pranksters, but I’ve never managed to hold onto any. I’ve always just been one of the guys. With a set of knockers. Not, I should carefully add, one of the guys, in the Village Bicycle “I fuck them all so they keep me around,” kind of ways, either.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been trying to make some local friends so that I can have occasion to leave the house now and again, so I figured that my neighbors would be an awesome place to start. I’m fortunate that I like my neighbors and my house and my motherfucking roses, and while The Daver is a hermit who is allergic to sunshine, outside air, and dirt, I’m always out and about with my pickax, shovel and power washer, trying to make my house look less like zombies live here.

I’m the only woman on the block who asks for power tools for her birthday.

I’m also the only woman who does the maintenance around the house. So, when I’m taking a break from ripping out bushes and shrubbery and busting up my ankles from buying a pickax that weighs 30 pounds (say it with me now, Pranksters, nice call on buying the HEAVIEST most HARDCORE one the hardware store had, Aunt Becky), I’ll stop, and have a chat with one of my neighbors.

Now, I’m going to have to draw you a picture to show you what I look like when I’m having these talks, just so we’re both acutely aware of how I look, okay? Then you can nominate my artistic skillz for a Tony Award.

Okay, so that’s OBVIOUSLY not my garden, but I’d say the artistic rendering is pretty incredible, don’t you?

Of course you do. So please, grab a tissue and dab up your tears. I know it’s beautiful. I cried tears at it’s beauty while I drew it.

I know pictures are worth a thousand words, but you cannot hear this amazing drawing speak (besides the worm, of course), but if you could, it would be saying, “So, how do you best remove those roots? And what blade works best? Tell me again about the miter saw. Can I borrow one or do you think that’s something I should really invest in?”

At no point is the interaction ever like this:

I just don’t get it.

I don’t want to have The Sex with other mens. I don’t want your boyfriends. Ladies, I’m not interested in your husbands. Married men don’t appeal to me. I know women who like that kind of conquest, but frankly, I’m more interested in learning about power tools, and I don’t mean the kind in their pants.

See, my dad knows what a klutz I am and didn’t teach me about power tools, probably because he didn’t want to take me to the ER to have my fingers sewn back on every other week. You know what? After I’ve successfully been to the ER on 5 out of 7 of my last birthdays, busted both of my ankles on the stupid pickax in a single week, maybe he was right.

But you know what? I’m scrappy and determined and how to PROPERLY use a miter saw, THAT is what I want to know from your husband. Not how best to take it from behind.

What makes me saddest about this is that I realized I can no longer easily make new guy friends. That’s a sad realization for me.

Hm. Maybe I can get a shirt made that says, “I don’t want your man.” Think it’ll make any difference?

Also: have you noticed this, Pranksters? Can you successfully make friends of the opposite sex now? If you can, tips please?

——————

In a TOTALLY unrelated note, I need halp. I need a ton of pictures for my new site (which I am hoping to get launched tomorrow) that cannot come from Dr. Google. I need your pictures. Not pictures of your kids, but other stuff. Drawings, illustrations, photographs are awesome, but I need them to be at least 450 Pixels wide.

What I’m looking for, which is REALLY convoluted sounding, because I’m not exactly sure how to explain, are pictures, drawings and illustrations that are riffing off the titles of Choose Your Own Adventure stories. NOT the covers. Just pictures that might be sort of like the titles.

I can’t explain more than “I’ll know it when I see it.”

If you have anything, you can leave a link here, or send me something to aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com. I’ll love you EVEN MORE than I did before. Which was a lot.

I’ll give credit, of course, I just don’t want to be stealing them from Google to get my bitch ass smacked down.