"What kind of name is Attila Girl? Heck, you can't wage any kind of respectable war; you're just a lowly female.
--Glenn Reynolds


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Miss Attila--who is a Ms in real life--lives in the hills of Southern California with her husband, a herd of deer, and an impressive collection of old magazines. She spends a lot of time cleaning her guns, and is reachable at: littlemissattila@yahoo.com.

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News from The Command Post

If I weren't married
to the funniest man alive
these would be even better:

Everyone's ex-boyfriend should
spoof their site like this:
Little Mr. Mahatma
Isn't it wonderful?

I'm so lucky to know Hip Nerd in real life. Try him for left-of-center excellence.
Hip Nerd's Blog

And my other faves:

A Small Victory
Amish Tech Support

The Bitch Girls
Da Goddess
Damnum Absque Injuria
Dean's World
Desert Cat

Electric Venom
Eleven Day Empire

Hi. I'm Black.
Iberian Notes
Infinite Monkeys
Intel Dump

Jay's Verbosity
John Lemon
The Last Man Dancing

Margi Lowry
No Watermelons Allowed
On the Fritz
Photon Courier
The Protocols of
the Yuppies of Zion

Right Wing News
Kelley's Suburban Blight

The Truth Laid Bear

We Try, Guy
You Big Mouth, You!


The Bear Flag League

Little Miss Attila
Sunday, November 30, 2003  


I'd keep the knife farther away from my nipple. Safety first.

You are a seductress! You use your beautiful body
and hypnotizing eyes to reel in your prey, and
go in for the kill after they have fallen in
love with you. It is truely a fatal attraction
that kills them. Perhaps, you sometimes fall in
love yourself. Behold the power of woman!

What Kind Of Evil Bitch Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

A tip of my round black wool hat with a jaunty rim to E-Claire.

11/30/2003 02:36:00 AM



. . . to read Michele before I see her linked somewhere else. But she's the bees' knees, and I'm glad I dropped by tonight:

. . . By the time I'm done with the tree and I'm itching and cursing and sweating, they've taken the tubes of icing and made genitals on the gingerbread men and boobs on the gingerbread girls and they're watching Silent Night, Deadly Night. I retreat to the living room where I proceed to drink a bottle of tequila, no shot glass required, and by 3am I'm prancing around in a Mrs. Claus outfit trying to get my husband to say Ho! Ho! Ho! and telling him I want to ride him like a reindeer. Oh yes, I put the ho in holidays!

Isn't it always like that? I know it is for me. Now go read the whole thing. I'm serious, here.

11/30/2003 02:07:00 AM



The blogosphere map seems to be . . . I dunno. Missing a few continents. As well as Blytisburg and Atyla. I'm not even found in the "countries" of my patrons, James and Frank. Or near Kate's city. Major bummer.

Those liberals--they are threatened by my power and influence. Soon I will take over the entire blogosphere, MHHH (Mu Ha Ha Ha). And all those liberal blogs will be sent to the gulag . . .

UPDATE: I'm in. I'm now a body of water adjacent to Lower Reynoldssia. It turns out the way to get in is simply to . . . ask. There might be something to this socialism business after all: From each according to his ability, to each according to her need.

11/30/2003 01:29:00 AM

Saturday, November 29, 2003  


This guy is amazing: his backbone is made of titanium.

The nine dwarves are starting to look more and more like a pathetic circle jerk.

11/29/2003 01:54:00 AM



For years I considered myself a light-haired brunette, though I was blonde as a little girl. Around age 30, I started getting blonder highlights and stuck with the "pageboy" cut, with the hair wandering between my jaw and my collarbone. So, blonde it was: that's how others saw me, and how I saw myself. It was very respectable. I was a spy in the house of middle-class values. I was a half-hearted advocate for Corporate Life.

I'm still technically a blonde, according to my hair guru. I have, she tells me, "honey-colored hair." There should be some gray or white in there. There isn't. Which isn't fair (so to speak), and I ought to be sorry about it--but I carry my looks like an entitlement. I take it all as my due. I'm insufferable.

And I'm left clueless, relying on Madeleine L'Engle's description: "hair-colored hair." That's what I have, and I share it with my Anglo-Saxon brethren. Not fish, nor fowl, nor good red herring.

I'm growing my mane long these days, to symbolize my lifelong marriage to rock 'n' roll and my growing realization that there's no way I'll really fit into any corporate structure. I'm coming to think that I am what my father is: too eccentric to be a staffer anywhere, and best employed as a consultant. A troubleshooter.

"Down to here, down to there, down to where it stops by
itself . . ."

I'm only bound to my spouse these days. It feels good.

11/29/2003 12:44:00 AM

Friday, November 28, 2003  


Thanksgiving was lovely. A wonderful, quiet day.

It's probably important to note here that my relationship to domesticity is rather like the one Ed Wood enjoyed vis a vis filmmaking: I'm not good at it at all. But I feel a sort of affinity toward it, so I continue to make efforts in a field I'm Definitely Not Suited To. Much hilarity ensues.

Usually I punt, and let my stepmother cook. And I bring home whatever leftovers are foisted upon us, serving them alongside a small turkey I cook on Friday or Saturday--just so we'll have lots of sandwich fixins and a carcass to make soup with.

I love making pies. As a matter of fact, a favorite sport of mine is seeing how many pies I can make in one session. (So far, my limit is three, but they were made for a co-worker on a weeknight, the evening before we would celebrate her birthday at the office. Pumpkin, apple, and lime meringue, as I recall. I'm sure I could beat this on a full day, given a little motivation.) I often show up at a family event with a couple of pies for dessert. This is basically immaturity: I finally figured out how to perfect a pie crust at the age of 30 or whatever, after years of trying, and now want to show it off at every opportunity. There is, of course, a trademark for my apple pies: instead of making a lattice for the top crust I usually employ a solid crust broken by three apple-shaped cutouts, formed with a cookie cutter.

The basic formula for a Thanksgiving actually spent at home is to make the dinner rolls two nights in advance, and the pies the night before. One of these sessions is also the time to make cranberry sauce. (I tend toward the simple, reliable type wherein you heat the stuff till most of the berries burst their skins, refrigerate the concoction for a day or so, and get on with your life. But I do want to do an actual relish, one of these years. With oranges in it. Yum.)

This year I was a day behind, and made the rolls the night before show time. This always means making a pie or two alongside a turkey. Theoretically it's no problem, since I have two ovens and the turkey doesn't need a bunch of babysitting--but it tends to throw me off my game. Probably because I am a hopeless clutter bug, and generally wait until guests are due in 15 minutes before attempting to de-clutter my house. For some reason, this turns into a mad scramble. Fancy that.

There were only three of us this year, so I decided I'd stick with one pie. I figured it should be pumpkin, to give us an excuse to use whipped cream. Store-bought, thank you very much. (My husband waits till any guests have left, and then directs the whipped cream dispenser into his mouth, where he deposits a huge dollop on his tongue and eats it. I get the impression that this "guilty pleasure" dates back to his childhood. I want to encourage all these guilty pleasures, of course. Do you need to make a dirty joke now? Fine. Go ahead. I'll wait.)

In a moment of brilliance, I decided to only invite people who know I'm a horrific clutterer and don't care: My bestest guy friend and my bestest girl friend. Gal Pal and her mom were spoken for, so I cooked for the husband and the Guy Pal, which was lovely. They both ate enough to stroke my ego and give them a tryptophan high.

Then we all three rolled out of town today--Friday--at an early-but-not-obscene hour and went to Tijuana as a little day trip. Mr. Linguistics acted as tour guide, as he usually does on these forays to Mexico. The husband did the lion's share of translating. And I crossed a few things off the old Christmas shopping list.

I'm not sure I see life getting better than this. I guess it could, theoretically, but I'm pretty damned content.

11/28/2003 11:33:00 PM



Whoever you are out there who are finding my site by searching for "man fucking little girl," "little girls fucking," or any similar phrases, there are two things you need to know:
1) you're in the wrong web site;
2) if I ever find you, I will kill you. Then I will cut your nuts off and put them in your mouth.

Have a nice day.

11/28/2003 11:21:00 PM

Thursday, November 27, 2003  


Y'all aren't still looking for Paris Hilton, are you? Sheesh. Go home to your spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends, etc. Or at least get yourself some quality porn.

11/27/2003 02:34:00 AM



I'm only, say, 28 hours behind schedule. Wish me luck.

11/27/2003 02:27:00 AM

Tuesday, November 25, 2003  


I went to the local Ralph's supermarket today. As you may be aware, we are experiencing a supermarket strike in SoCal that affects the three major chains: Vons/Safeway, Ralph's/Kroger's, and Albertson's. In an effort to leverage concessions, the food worker's union stopped the picketing at Ralph's. The regular employees are still not there, but there's no need to cross a picket line to go into a Ralph's. In fact, picketers outside Vons/Pavillions stores hold up signs saying "shop at Ralph's."

But the people there are inexperienced, and the food stores have tended to be low, as the supply lines are disturbed. This leads to moments of quiet amusement at myself, when I see two rows of soup cans rather than four and it feels "low" to me. Impoverished. Like not enough. Do I live in a rich society, or what?

My sense of humor wore a little thin today when I went there and they were out of half of the stuff I "needed" for Thanksgiving. No half and half for our coffee. (I got Coffeemate.) No cranberries. (I got canned sauce.) No green beans. (I got asparagus.) Every year I try hard not to be at a food store on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. And I'm not going back tomorrow, even if it means we have to "make do" with asparagus. Thank God I don't have a set list of "family favorites" I need to make every year: If I make a couple of pies, turkey, gravy and the same bread-based stuffing every year, my husband is a happy man.

I kept thinking, "it's like shopping in Moscow during the Cold War," and then catching myself. It wasn't like that at all: they were low on onions and red sweet potatoes, but it wasn't like the kind of dipravation Eastern Europe went through under socialism. Not even close. It wasn't like what my grandparents went through during the depression--or even the rationing of World War II. In short, I've led an unbelievably sheltered life.

Those who didn't have Crisco at home will have to either cut back on their baking, or purchase their own pumpkin pies. I'm still making two pies for 3-5 people--a pumpkin and a lemon meringue. And we'll have pie for breakfast until it's gone.

I came home with five bags of groceries. After finding out there was "no food at the market."

Was anyone ever so spoiled?

I love this country. I love the system that gives me such bounty and so many choices. I love capitalism. I love the human greed that tells people who have millions of dollars that they should use it to make more millions--and employ lots of people in the process. I love the churn of creation. I love the plenty it brings into our lives.

And I want nothing more than to see it spread to every country on the globe. Not McDonald's, please. Don't misunderstand: I hate McDonald's. But economic activity, increasing efficiency, better distribution of goods.

And half and half in every grocery store, worldwide.

Can I hear an "amen"?

11/25/2003 11:06:00 PM



Via Kelley. Read this. Now read it over again, slowly. Savor phrases like “after I reached the end of the internet.” Just thrown in there, with no attention called to it. This is some good shit.

11/25/2003 10:50:00 PM

Saturday, November 22, 2003  


"It's awful," I tell my husband. "It's down to sixty degrees."

"It feels colder than that," he replies.

"I know, man. I thought it was 55. Brrrr. I thought I might blog about how chilly it is outside."

"Uh, Attila Girl? You may not get a lot of Amazon Honor System payments from the Upper Midwest if you do that."

"Right. The Saturn Clutch-a-Thon. I shouldn't be a smart aleck until that's over."

"You got it."

So I'm trying not to be a smart aleck, and it's cramping my style immensely. If you send me money, though, I'll get over it, and will be in a position to either a) be a smart aleck once more, or b) stop entirely, and turn over a new leaf. You pick. After all, that's what customer service is all about.

11/22/2003 02:12:00 AM



This just in from a colleague in the "outdoor publishing" world. (Read: gun magazines.)

A study conducted by UCLA's Psychology Department revealed that the kind of male face a woman finds attractive can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle. For instance, if she is ovulating she is attracted to men with rugged, masculine features.

However, if she is menstruating or menopausal, she is more prone to be attracted to a man with scissors lodged in his temple and a baseball bat jammed up his ass while he is on fire. Further studies are expected.

Yeah, Honey. Who loves you? Please don't change the locks, like last time. I'll be right as rain before you know it.

11/22/2003 01:58:00 AM

Thursday, November 20, 2003  


I'm one of those people who harbored a hope somewhere that somehow Michael Jackson was innocent. I mean, he's weirder than weird: we all know that. But extreme eccentricities shouldn't be enough to send a man to prison. And let's remember the McMartin case: where there is so much smoke, people thought, surely there must be fire. Not when the smoke is produced by overzealous prosecutors.

When Michael Jackson settled ten years ago I knew it was unlikely that it could be for any reason other than guilt. But I also remembered that he's a delicate guy, and he might well have thought that a trial would be more than he could bear. I'm sure his advisors all told him how it would look.

And it never struck me as impossible, as strange as Michael is, that he simply wanted to be an "honorary uncle" to lots of kids. There are, after all, people out there who simply like children and feel a drive to be around them.

However, an innocent-but-odd MJ would have put a stop to sleepovers, and to being alone with any child, after the scandal in the early 90s.

To illustrate: I have an OB-GYN I really like. We have a great rapport. He's not a nut. I think he realizes that I'm not a nut (at least, in the throwing false accusations around sense). But every time he gives me an internal exam, a nurse is in the room. She stays in the corner and says nothing. When the doctor pulls his hand (or ultrasound probe) out and takes his gloves off, the nurse leaves the room--just as I'm sitting up. But she's there during the exam. This is what people do these days to protect themselves.

I just can't see a scenario in which Jackson's advisors don't tell him he simply cannot be alone with children any more--or in which their advice falls on deaf ears. Well, one scenario. Only one.

I actually pity this man, and this astonishes me. He appears to be so ill-equipped to live in the real world.

I'd also like us to talk, as a society, about how to deal with people who are molesters. Is chemical castration ("suppression") the only real answer? Given the recidivism rate for these people, it may well be.

I was molested myself as a child, and I know life goes on. But I am astonished at how untempted I am to hate this guy. He's a delicate flower that finally got plucked, and is about to be crushed under the wheels of justice.

We've got to develop better therapies. We've got to figure out how to help these people.

11/20/2003 02:59:00 AM



Wonder what that's all about.

11/20/2003 02:54:00 AM



Special thanks to a certain Florida Cracker, who got the ball rolling in the Little Miss Attila Saturn Clutch-a-Thon 2003 by sending me my favorite gift of all: cold, hard cash. If everyone who visits here regularly will just kick in $10 apiece, I'll have . . . uh, $30.

But if those who are rich and eccentric then contribute $500 on a whim, just because they visited the site and can figure out how cute I am-- sight unseen--I'll be able to fix my car in case the mega-commute job comes through in January.

Give early and often. It'll make you feel all warm inside.

11/20/2003 02:10:00 AM

Tuesday, November 18, 2003  


I just looked over at the Weather Pixie in the bar to the left, and I'm surprised: usually she dresses sharp--but a bit conservatively. Today she's wearing purple boots and a black/silver outfit that zips up the front and features long fishnet-style sleeves.

She must have a hot date. With a style-conscious boy pixie.

I wonder when you visit my site--do you get the Southern California information on my weather pixie, or is it customized to where you are? I can't tell any more, because now that the pixie "knows" me (due to the magic of cookies), I always get the SoCal babe, no matter whose site I'm visiting. I would actually like to have other people's pixies give me their data. See the world a bit, you know . . .

11/18/2003 03:11:00 AM



It is with mixed feelings that I send you over to David Foster at Photon Courier, who has a great blog that may look . . . familiar. This is the first time I've seen a site that used the same blogger template I have, with the exception of my erstwhile high school sweetheart, who aped the Little Miss Attila look on purpose, so he could satirize me. (I was flattered to pieces.)

Time to renovate the blog, move, get into Moveable Type. All that grownup stuff. I'm so over Blogspot.

UPDATE: David called himself to my attention by coining the term "the inkosphere" to describe all those who do their pontificating on dead trees. I hear it's a very incestuous crowd, and they are always quoting each other, and making little in jokes. Even when they argue about things they feel strongly about, they seem to pull their punches a bit . . . you know what I mean? Like they are all friends. It's clubby, is what it is. Intellectually inbred.

11/18/2003 03:03:00 AM



I've been meaning to turn everyone on to Poliblog's Toastometer, in which he evaluates the Democratic presidential candidates according to their relationship with the old Proctor-Silex.

Via Outside the Beltway, natch.

11/18/2003 02:53:00 AM



Welcome, Suburban Blight readers! For those of you who are stopping off here first, go check out Kelley's Cul de Sac feature; it's a weekly one-stop shopping guide to the blogosphere. Kelley's the best tour guide a reader could have.

11/18/2003 02:46:00 AM

Sunday, November 16, 2003  


Well, I'm not going to re-take the test just to get a different result from Kelley--though I've certainly done that in the past . . . but there's just no time tonight.

You're Perfect ^^
-Perfect- You're the perfect girlfriend. Which
means you're rare or that you cheated :P You're
the kind of chick that can hang out with your
boyfriend's friends and be silly. You don't
care about presents or about going to fancy
placed. Hell, just hang out. You're just happy
being around your boyfriend.

What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

And as Kelley did, I plead inaccuracy in the test and refer you to my husband, who will vouch for my shrewishness.

11/16/2003 01:18:00 AM

Saturday, November 15, 2003  


"Kevin McGeehee has written a blogging manifesto. I'm a bit leery of manifestos, since they invariably result in either mail bombs or large, totalitarian empires."

--James Joyner

[Nonetheless, he did link the manifesto. I'll just link him.]

11/15/2003 01:30:00 AM



I don't have a copy of the Paris Hilton sex video for you to download. Even if I did have a copy of the Paris Hilton sex video, I don't think I'd make the Paris Hilton sex video available here, for ethical reasons. If you're looking for the Paris Hilton sex video, you've come to the wrong place, because there really is no copy of the Paris Hilton sex video available on my web site. You'll have to go somewhere else to find the Paris Hilton sex video.

However, I do have wonderful opinions and perspectives on matters wholly unrelated to the Paris Hilton sex video; just scroll down.

11/15/2003 01:11:00 AM

Thursday, November 13, 2003  


Emperor Misha has a gentle critique of Wesley Clark's latest idea: finding Osama bin Laden. Misha suggests Clark go off with a Glad garbage bag and have at it.

11/13/2003 08:55:00 PM



Don at Anger Management has a wonderful new idea: to make Frank J. (of IMAO) rich and famous by the end of 2004. He is starting a new orgnization to do just this, which he calls FUCK (Frank's Underutilized Comedy Knowledge). Frank has decided he approves of this idea, though for some reason he appears to want a different acronym to represent this new blogospheric movement. Fuck that.

I think it's a great idea--acronym and all--though I think it would be better if everyone focused on making me rich and famous first. That way, I'd be in a position to help Frank J. become so as well. I'd be a patroness of the arts, and would be able to patronize Frank J. (the good kind of patronize--like "give money to," rather than the bad kind, like "talk down to"). As opposed to the deplorable situation now, in which I can't even afford to buy Frank's "Nuke the Moon" T-shirt. (Hey. It wouldn't fit anyway, unless he makes a teeny tiny size. All T-shirts in the future should come in small Ladies or extra small Unisex sizes. That is the way to become rich and famous. Trust me on that.)

Let's all throw ourselves into this with complete abandon. Start by using my Amazon button to send me money. I'll leverage this to become rich and famous (or at least to fix the clutch on my 1994 Saturn, so my car will work, as befits the car of a rich/famous woman). Then, once I'm established, I'll become Frank J's Official Rich Patroness, and my full-time personal publicist will get to work creating buzz about Frank.

Thank you for caring and sharing.

11/13/2003 07:35:00 PM

Tuesday, November 11, 2003  


Why do so many people find me via strange searches in Google? There are days that it seems a third of my traffic comes through various search engines.

I've stopped looking to see what the actual searches are for. After a while it stops being funny and starts to just spook me: I'd rather not know.

11/11/2003 04:47:00 PM

Monday, November 10, 2003  


Via Michele.

In Goose Creek, South Carolina, a school principal decided the drug traffic at his school was "unacceptable," and invited local law enforcement into his school, where the kids were held at gunpoint while searches were conducted for drugs that never turned up.

This is a fucking outrage, and both the principal and the police chief need to lose their jobs. There's just no excuse for traumatizing thousands of kids in a lame-ass attempt to catch a tiny handful of students who are engaging in illegal activities.

Go read Michele's entry; for those of you who have high-speed web access, she also links video of the raid. This makes me sick. I hope the lawsuits are many--and that the community erupts into outrage over this incident. It's disgusting.

11/10/2003 02:57:00 AM

Saturday, November 08, 2003  


I guess I could have done worse . . .

Flannery O'Connor
Flannery O'Connor wrote your book. Not much escapes
your notice.

Which Author's Fiction are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Though I wish it had been Jane Austen.

Via Kelley.

11/08/2003 12:40:00 AM

Wednesday, November 05, 2003  


I found a new blog today--mostly because she blogrolled me as an Alliance member, and one of her readers dropped by to check my ramblings out. Her name is Candy. Go on down the road a spell, and say "hi." Read her musings on questions philosophical, and join in the discussion.

11/05/2003 03:21:00 PM



Why is it that working on issues in one area seems to mean a loss of progress in another? At least that's my perception lately: I'm working on my money issues (quickly), my time issues (slowly) and my household clutter (at an almost imperceptible rate). But I am gaining weight. In the spring I decided to take off seven pounds or so, and did so--but seemed in danger of taking it too far. At one point I thought if I dropped two more I should talk to the doctor about it. But a person should have faith: it's all back. My slim jeans are too tight, and my fat jeans fit without a belt to hold them up. Weight will always come back.

11/05/2003 12:43:00 AM

Tuesday, November 04, 2003  


I have a box of tampons sitting on my desk. Usually, I'm brand-loyal to Tampax, but I do buy on price and Kotex won that particular round at the store. But I noticed when I got them home what I hadn't quite focused on while making price comparisons: they are called Kotex Security. Kotex Security, Regular absorbency. Plastic applicator.

So I brought them in here to remind me it's time to blog on the delicate subject of snatch rags.

Ya can't help but wonder what's next: Threat Assessment Sanitary Pads? CIA Briefing Panty Liners? Terrorism-Monitoring Menstrual Sponges?

Is this a great country, or what? We've got Security Tampons. I'll bet they don't have those in France.

11/04/2003 12:21:00 AM

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