Number 19 is on its way. 19. Let's think about that for a minute.
My daughter's 8th grade graduating class was smaller than that. You could make up two baseball teams and still have one leftover. You would need more hotel rooms than P Diddy or Diddy or Puff Daddy or Didster or whatever he goes by now and his entourage.
This is madness.
I will say, I do have a few, (very few) things I admire about those wacky Duggars.
I admire the way that tiny Michelle never raises her little doll voice and miraculously they all seem to listen.
That never happens in my house. It's only when I break and the lunatic screaming begins that people start picking up their messes.
Which leads me to the next admirable quality: their house is so clean! I know if I had 19 kids, my house would probably look like this:
Because, on some days, it does.
I also admire the way she can walk around without her uterus falling out.
Seriously, seriously.
A uterus is not made for 19 births. Ask anyone who's had more than one child.
And then there's the kindness. She seems like an incredibly kind person who shaped those millions of kids into kind creatures. We can always use more kindness in the world.
But, not today. Not on this blog.
Cause here's what I hate about the Duggars:
Number One:

I hate this dude with such a fiery, red-hot anger. Every time I look at him, I just see a big phallic symbol.
I hate his name, Jim-Bob. I really thought that was like a made-up name only used for southern stereotypes. Just like, the stereotypical inbred who lurks through the swamps waiting for fleshy Ned Beatty types to squeal like a pig. Gosh, I hope that one's definitely based on stereotypes and not some real inbred. I really didn't think anyone in their right mind would go, "You know, I can't quite decide between Jim and Bob, so let's just do both!"
And I hate his hair. Oh, how I hate his hair! It's up there with pornstaches. My kids, who watch this show on a regular basis, God Help Me, called me in one day to show me the scene where Jim-Bob was spraying his hair. Even in the 80's, I've never seen anyone use as much hair spray as he was plastering on his bubble head. He goes through something like two cans of Aqua Net in a week. And it's all to preserve that hairstyle! Shudder.
I also hate the way he has this constant look on his face, like, "Heh, Heh. I jist keep that lil wife of mine impregnated all the time, y'all. D'uh. It's mah job. I'm the impregnantor. Heh-Heh. Come awn, woman, time to git y'all all knocked up, agin."
My sister and I try to out-gross each other with our e-mails. Like the time, I sent her the picture of a salad a woman had made from her placenta. Unfortunately, a True story.
But, she took the cake the morning she sent me an interview where Jim-Bob detailed how they carve out a huge chunk of time for sexy time. I almost threw up my cereal.
Now on to Michelle. Like Jim-Bob, I really, really hate her hair.
She has her own reality show for Land's sake! What is wrong with these reality show stylists? Are they from WalMart? Between Kate and this jacked up mullet, can't anyone give these women some decent advice about their hairstyles? And how on earth does Michelle look in the mirror and think, "By golly, the mullet looks snappy today!"
And I hate the way she feeds her family. I was struck with horror when I saw the contents of her large, walk-in pantry. It was can after can after can of food. This isn't the 70's, Mullet Lady! People know now there is zero nutritional value in canned foods, not to mention the taste. And then there's her specialty, Tater Tot Casserole with loads of tater tots and different types of Campbell's soups. The red kind. The ones that make the worst foods list every year. She also makes her veggies she says with lots of cans, Velveeta cheese and loads of Campbell's soups. Yum.
Now, let's talk about the J thing. Those kids are all named with a J, to honor phallic symbol, bubble-haired Jim-Bob. Yes, let's give them even less of their own identity. Jim-Bob says they're going to ask the public's help for this next one, since they're running out of ideas.
I say, Jambalaya or Jam-Awn-It.
But, here's my biggest issue with Michelle, her religion, and the TV show.
Those girls.
She's raising those girls to be subservient wives and proper homemakers.
Not that there's anything wrong with being a homemaker. I'm a homemaker.
Well....kind of.
But, the subservient thing is a big, rockin' load of horse turds.
It infuriates me that she's not handing them the world. They have the right. They have every right. How can she look at her daughters and not say, "Take your passions, whatever stirs inside your heart and bring it to the world, to yourself."
Instead of brain-washing them into thinking that cooking and cleaning and taking care of your man and birthing babies until you're physically and emotionally exhausted is where your place in the world exists.
It infuriates me that the moment Michelle shoots out another baby, that baby becomes the responsibility of one of the girls. Those girls have their own baby carriers. Baby carriers! So, that they can carry their sibling around on their chest all day, giving them the ability to work on their other passions: laundry, cooking, cleaning and such.
They're also home schooled. I'm sure to keep their little brain-washed minds clear of anything poisonous that might interfere with their ability to become a subservient baby vessel for their Jim-Bob husbands and the Lord.
I just hope and pray that little Jinger or baby Johanna rebel and find out that there is more to life than birthing for Jesus. I think they're up for it. They both have that little glimmer in their eye.
And then there's the whole, no dating thing.
The oldest, Josh, just got married. And like his phallic father before him, he has already impregnated his young wife. Mother and daughter-in-law, pregnant at the same time. How cozy!
Josh never went on a date with his intended. They met at a home schooling for huge families convention and "fell in love". After meeting her like, twice, he decided he wanted to marry her.
Wouldn't you? The kid was 18 years old and had never kissed anyone, much less held hands. His hormones had to be an out-of-control wildfire.
It was awkward, really, watching the two of them during the engagement. They still weren't allowed to kiss each other, only hold hands. I almost felt like I was watching a porn movie for hands. They were grooving on each other's hands like nothing I've ever seen, constantly, CONSTANTLY. They needed to take a cold shower and give their hands a much-needed break. I'm sure it would be the first time someone got carpal-tunnel syndrome from hand groovin'.
Another thing that really bothers me about this whole, creepy situation is, how on earth do they know these children? How can they give them their time, meet each one's individual needs? How can they be proper parents to a pack of that size?
I know of what I speak.
I am one of seven.
Our house was fun and loud and loving and the place where every kid in the town wanted to hang out. But, I won't lie and say there weren't times I felt a little alone in my big brood. It happens when there are so many little people to take care of, that you just need everyone to line up in a row and do what is expected of them. My parents were the bomb, but they had seven of us. And every once and awhile, someone was overlooked.
And the Duggar's have pretty close to three of those families. I am certain they all get overlooked all the time.
I have trouble with three. A few weeks ago, my Victoria asked me on a Saturday what the plans were for Monday. And I was all, "Why do we need plans for a Monday? Mondays should be killed and buried, that's how awful Mondays are."
And she was like, "Uh, Mom, Monday's my birthday."
See! And I have three.
Here's my advice to Michelle. First of all, go to the salon with Kate and get a hair makeover. Then buy yourself some Spanx and a little red dress, because everyone looks great in a little red dress. Throw away Jim Bob's Aqua Net and if you have to, put that horny toad on a schedule. Then, start watching the Food Network. I would suggest Giada and Barefoot Contessa. They use a concept new to you: Fresh Food.
Let those girls wear some sundresses and go to real school with real girls who are fierce warriors on the soccer and the baseball field, computer whizzes, writers, science geniuses, astronaut wannabees, budding doctors, artists, girls with political aspirations, girls with business minds, and all the other magnificent possibilities that woman have fought for generations to have. Let your daughters become who they want to be, not your dangerous, insipid ideal of what defines a woman. This is not the Middle East, Mullet Lady.
But, most of all, get thyself a hysterectomy. That uterus probably is hanging by a thread, anyway. Take it from me, you'll be dancing the slap-clapping, happy jig the minute that worn out organ is taken from you.
That's all I'm sayin'.
Today's Do It Download: The just, damn fabulous Kings of Leon, "Sex on Fire" for Jim-Bob and his plastic hair.