Tag Archives: celebrities

July 12, 2012 · 4:44 pm

Gwyneth Paltrow’s Bathroom

The problem is, I think, that Gwyneth Paltrow does not have anyone to talk to, at least not anyone who feels that it pays enough to be one of the people who has to listen to every little thing she thinks about spaghetti and lampshades and vases, just to be able to say you’re friends with Gwyneth Paltrow.

Yesterday I got sucked into her GOOP newsletter for about a million hours while I was supposed to be working. I was SO bored and I figured oh hey, there might be some stuff to make fun of there. Probably. I bet I can find some stuff to laugh at and then–  and that’s about as far as my thoughts went, because I was not talking to anyone on gchat during one of those rare moments when my friends and my sister are either off work or are dutifully completing their work like LOSERS and I have nobody to share things with to make fun of them. Anyway, so I’m sitting there reading words written about life by Gwyneth Paltrow and placed under the masthead of a name that is the phonetic spelling of the sound of slapping the last scoop of the plain organic fat-free sugar-free Greek yogurt into the foot bed of your Rag & Bone ankle boots.

So I guess I’M the loser…okay, yes. I am the loser for looking at GOOP instead of working. I blamed it on a caffeine deficiency at the end of my day.

In perusing the GOOP newsletter, I got to thinking about how none of it is news, and you can only really call it a “letter” because Gwyneth writes the intro to every post and follows it with “Love, gp“. It’s all stuff you’d tell someone if you really had no filter in your brain for how much or how little people may care what type of soap you use on your butt, what outfit you’re planning to wear out to dinner and drinks with your friends, or who the fuck your friends are in the first place. But Gwyneth just opens her damn mouth and lets all this go on the internet, KNOWING someone will read it and that probably a lot of someones will buy it, and they ARE buying it, because there’s all kinds of product tie-ins with hyperlinks leading you to garish, flashing pages screaming THE HAIRDRYER CHOSEN BY GOOP and FROM GOOP TOP 500 PRODUCTS LIST! There’s even a bunch of designer tie-ins that you’re supposed to buy through the site (the GOOP bikini! the GOOP workout! the GOOP hydrangea room freshener!). But it all started with Gwyneth Paltrow being such an awful person that she has no friends.

Or maybe she just has awful people as friends. Because I can only think of two scenarios in which people will sit across from you and let you say things like “I like to wear black leggings, a no-nonsense tank, and a smart blazer on a long flight. The blazer keeps you warm and you can take it off if you get too warm. The leggings are comfortable and the black color keeps you looking smart.” I mean, who says that? And who says “It’s great to revamp your house with floral arrangements. I usually go to this special place in London when we’re living in the UK. I get all of the freshest seasonal flowers. Here is how to arrange them in any size vase…” Would you just be sitting there like, uhhhhhhh what? Because I would! Also I’d be wondering why I was friends with Gwyneth Paltrow if “friends” means someone who listens to you and cares about your life and isn’t always trying to sell you $75 hair oils and telling you what you could do to update your look or what you should make for dinner after you go to “the market.”

That reminds me, I need lemons. From the GROCERY STORE.  And I don’t give a FUCK if they’re organic or not.

There’s another possibility, which is that her friends are all trying to scrape some of the fame off the bottom of her stinking glamour tub. She seems to know what’s up, because she politely mentions all of them (and they all happen to be hairdressers to the stars, doctors to the stars, chefs to the stars, designers to the starrrrs) and links to their products and highly recommends their books about baking and raw cleanses and postpartum depression. I mean, she’s nice enough to keep up her end of the deal. But can you imagine going out for a drink with someone just because they run your favorite cheese shop in London? Really? All we have in common is that I like to eat it and you like to sell it. Let me get my striped  Alexander Wang bodycon dress on and pair it with a black leather jacket and black heels and we’ll go out for drinks at my FAVORITE place to have drinks owned by my friend the celebrity chef and we’ll talk and oh look at the time I have to go because I’ve got to get out of bed at 5am and do 45 minutes of dance cardio aerobics created by my friend and trainer-to-the-stars and then drink a glass of kale juice before I make bulgur wheat pancakes for my kids and turkey wraps for their lunches (cut up to make it fun to eat) and take them to school, then I have like, all these meetings and stuff, plus I have to make some phone calls. Ugh. WORK. Then I have to plan our next vacation to a private villa in Italy. Also I have to pick up the kids, I mean, I COULD have someone do that for me except I’m a good mom and stuff. So yeah, I guess you could say I’ve got a pretty full plate! Anyway, thanks for listening to me talk about the lotions and diets I found while I was in Greece last winter. I’d say we’re pretty much friends now. Do me a favor and email my assistant with some pictures of my favorite cheeses for a custom cheese board. THAAAAAAANKS.

Maybe the loneliest place in the world is Gwyneth Paltrow’s bathroom when she realizes that nobody genuinely cares what she’s slathering on her elbows before she goes to bed. Maybe she is just all business all the time, though, and never has time to be sad, because she’s busy building her GOOP empire and who cares if it’s fake or not? It’s still THERE for you when you need to be doing something, when you need to be saying you have friends. Maybe Gwyneth sits down on her energy friendly toilet with sparkling gold bidet and takes a poop and wonders if there is anything she can say on GOOP about poop. She stands and looks at it lovingly, thoughtfully, for just a moment, wondering how she could turn the size and color of her turds into a GOOP topic. Would I place it under Make, Go, or Do? Maybe I will bring it with me to dinner and drinks and ask my friends (the owner of Babycakes bakery, a couture denim designer, and the owner of a record label) what they think. I will put it in a small drawstring bag made of organic cotton, sold by Jessica Alba in her Honest Products online store! I will take it out if there comes a moment in which the conversation is not about me and I will say, “Look, friends. Look at my turd. As you can see, I had a Classic Margherita Pizza with fresh buffalo mozzarella last night. I made it in the brick oven in our backyard. As a home cook, it’s very important to me to have authentic and tasty foods to feed my guests. Here’s the ingredients that you’ll need for the pizza: Fresh roma tomatoes, fresh basil leaves straight from the garden…”

This all makes me wonder if there are any Gwyneth Paltrow superfans out there. Like, I’m sure there are people who are like “she’s my favorite actrezz omahgah Sliding Doors was mah fahvret moviiiie”, but I’m talkin bout real freaks, like one step away from stalking her. I bet GOOP is their wet dream. It’s like she’s talking to them! Directly to them! And you can BUY THINGS she recommends and personally uses! So if you ever met her she’d be like “Oh you have that eye cream too” and you could be like YAZ I DO. And the great thing about it is that she NEVER STOPS TALKING! She’s like a friend that won’t leave you! Remember that time you spent $600 on that GOOP cleanse kit and you were SO hungry on day 4 that you started to think weird things and maybe get a little sad? And then you ate 3 slices of your brother’s bacon cheeseburger pizza and then you felt bad so you threw up and felt worse…and then, just then, your inbox lit up because you’d subscribed to the GOOP newsletter and…yay! New newsletter! It’s like she was listening and she knew you needed her. Well, like, knew you needed her to talk about summer pastas.

Actually. Maybe I’ve found someone who would do that.

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November 3, 2011 · 1:08 pm

Indie Graveyard

So the Indie Interweb is shrouded in thrift store finds and plodding down to the indie graveyard in their limited edition Toms cordones and Anthropologie dresses to begin their mourning period. Because Zooey Deschanel, America’s sugar tit, is getting a deevorce! And people who refuse to identify themselves as “indie” or “hipster” are trying to distance themselves from it, like “I don’t really care because I don’t really like her singing?  I haven’t really listened to the last Death Cab albummmm?  Also I don’t wear black shoes with black tights?  But like what does this say about the future of marriage?!  That is something I totally care about because I watch TV so I know for a fact that divorce sucks and is horrifying and life-changing and also bad for America.”

Here’s some examples:

In which some poorly paid intern at MTV has pieced together a playlist and analyzed the lyrics as morose warnings of the failed marriage.

In which someone with really awesome Photoshop skills has illustrated what a breakup looks like, inserted a bunch of shots of Glam Zooey, and a couple paragraphs about depression over the divorce of two total strangers.

In which a bunch of losers from the u-bend of the Internet toilet (message boards…yes, people still post to those) basically repeat what everyone in the rest of the world is saying, “She’s so pretty/she’s so annoying/he’s so ugly/it’s so saaaaad.”

I broke down this morning and got all philosophical on some indie chick’s ass and commented on this.  I realize it’s totally futile to even bother talking to anyone who thinks their feelings on celebrity marriage and divorce are actually feelings about The Future Of Marriage and not really a reflection of their fears about their own life/relationship direction.  I know that.  But since I started reading and commenting on Stephanie’s blog and Facebook, I’ve become less of a drive-by “Fuck you, you dumb bitch!” commenter and more of a thoughtful “I respect your opinion, and here’s what I think, you dumb bitch” commenter.  That is, I think, a bit of an improvement.  Here’s what I said:

I read something once about how it’s a tactic of Scientology to recruit as many famous people as possible because, as a culture, we are so focused on them that our brains immediately make the connection that if SO MANY famous people are scientologists, then, naturally, SO MANY normal people must be, too, since famous people only make up a tiny bit of the population. Right? RIGHT? I think the same line of thinking may be employed here with the “…everyone gets divorced. Especially famous people!” line.

It’s been suggested that loving, tender feelings between partners tend to go downhill after about 4-6 years. Incidentally, that happens to be about the amount of time it takes to raise a child to the point of being able to fend for itself. I found that really interesting in consideration of all of the short relationships and marriages I’ve heard about. It may just be our human nature that causes our feelings to change the way they do. We’re just big mammals, after all. And I’m sure it’s the more human side of our human nature that keeps us trying to find ways to compromise and stay together with our mate if that is what we want.

But why does it have to be sad if that’s not what we want? What makes you sad about Zooey and Ben? Why does the time a couple has spent together have to be considered a failure if they divorce amicably? Assuming that they didn’t take the Kardashian route and set up an elaborate scheme to boost their publicity, which I do not think they did, what I see are two people who probably loved each other very much, then decided that they didn’t want to be bound together for the rest of their lives. I don’t see that as a failure at all. I think it would have been a failure if they gritted their teeth, stayed together though neither wanted to, grew to resent one another, and brought up a couple of celebrity kids in that tense atmosphere. A relationship that doesn’t work out isn’t a failure: if you learned something about yourself and about the other person, and both parties can walk away changed for the better and happy about who they are, I’d say that’s a success.

We tend to project ourselves, our own fears about our own lives, onto celebrities, and the characters they portray. My friend told me about seeing the first Sex and the City movie and hearing a girl say, near the end, “Oh no! It can’t be over, I don’t want Carrie to be ALONE!” There was real fear in her voice. Because, for her, that meant something very real and very scary about the future: “If someone as great as Carrie can’t get a man…”

So we need to stop glamorizing celebrity relationships, especially those that are marketed to us as cute and innocent, like Zooey and Ben’s. We need to look at why we really feel what we do about news like this: what does it mean for us?

But overall I think Zooey Deschanel can suck it.

It took me an hour to make this. Not one lesson!


Speaking of drive-by comments, my blog has been getting over 200 hits per day because of this post.  Within this post, I discuss the weirdness of a certain popular set of dolls that are made up to look like, uhh, something that rhymes with “blonsters” and go to a school that is the opposite of low…the one you go to after middle school…I’m trying really hard not to mention it again because apparently droves of tweens Google the name every single day and land on my blog.  I don’t want to be held responsible for their disappointment.  Oh, hell, I guess I could say it like Snoop Dogg: Mizz-onster Hizz-igh.  Yeah.  They’re creepy.  Anyways, go away, Tweens!  Go read these.

And let me be clear: the misdirected tween hits are the ONLY misdirected hits I want to cut down on.  Perverts with racing heartbeats who Google something obscene and land here, only to find nothing but WORDS! DAMMIT!, who then leave me another “you must be fat/ugly” comment, typing with one hand because their sweaty dick’s in the other, well, I want you guys to stay.  Keep it coming.  HEY-OHHHH!!!

dork love

Yesterday on the train, I spotted a couple of major thirtysomething nerds.  Like dorky in the way that it was beyond dorky, the dorks who don’t even know how majorly dorky they are, they think everything is fine and they don’t try at all to be anything but what they are.  The Superdork of dorkdom.  They were standing, facing one another, in the little vestibule just inside the train doors.  I only noticed them when I got up and walked to the vestibule because my stop was next.  And I’m sorry that I had to get off the train so soon, because their conversation was SO AWESOME.

One dork was wearing a sweatshirt with a wolf on it.  A WOLF.  AND NOT IN AN IRONIC WAY.  Also, it was a sweatshirt.  As in, not a hoodie.  No zipper.  Just a good old-fashioned Hanes pullover sweatshirt that had been washed so many times, the majestic wolf and the pale moon behind him were flaking away.  The dork’s stonewashed, off-brand jeans bagged around his waist and might as well have been tucked into his white hi-tops.  The other dork, also wearing stonewashed jeans, was covered up top in a fully buttoned green army jacket.  Both dorks carried sensible, cheap backpacks, the RIGHT way (a strap over each shoulder, none of this cavalier, tossed-over-one-shoulder-Andrew-McCarthy-in-Pretty-In-Pink crap), with brand names like “Rock Tarp” and “Downs Sport.”  Dork #2 had cut himself right above his upper lip somehow, and was sporting a thin flesh-colored Band-Aid there, so close to his lip it looked like a part of his actual lip.  The blood from the cut had seeped through the gauze part of the Band-Aid and looked like a giant scab in the middle of it.  The Wolf Dork had a skinny black mustache tracing his upper lip, patchy, scraggly hair that seemed to have forgotten to grow in a couple of places.

And here is what was said:

Wolf Dork:  “I believe in you.”

Band-Aid Dork:  “…”  Looks at floor.

Wolf Dork:  “I just don’t think that you believe in you.  You have to believe in yourself.”

Band-Aid Dork:  “…”  Scratches at edge of lip Band-Aid.

Wolf Dork: Reaches out and awkwardly pats Band-Aid Dork’s shoulder with his fingertips.

It was pretty much the most awesome thing I saw all day.  I couldn’t even bring myself to laugh at them, they were so heartfelt in their dorkery.  I will forever wonder what challenge was facing Band-Aid Dork for which he needed a pep talk from Wolf Dork.  Perhaps he was going to give shaving another try?  Oh, that was mean.  But seriously, I wonder.

Nasty Self

The Pants and myself are moving in together in May.  Which is cool because he’s a good boy and he gives me a boner and doesn’t kick too much in his sleep.  Also our relationship is of the age where we’ve each pretty much acknowledged that we both poop and we share the coffee-making duties and we don’t bug each other too much.  So it’s all romantic and shit.  Also we’re both pretty into puppies and the idea of raising one together, like as a puppy team, and if that doesn’t make you want to vomit everywhere and then eat it, I don’t know what will.

Part of me isn’t scared because hey, I’m on drugs!  And it makes me not scared of anything!  I ride my bike real fast without a helmet on!  I spend too much money on leggings!  I’ve been driving a CAR, regardless of all of the horrifying car accident scenes that flash through my mind when I do it!  WHO CARES.  But, of course, part of me (Nasty Self) thinks I should be scared, so maybe I’ll sit down and devote 20 minutes to every day to be scared about moving in together.  That part of me goes “Ohhhh remember LAST TIME you did this?  And it didn’t work out?  And he brought home a 12-pack of Bud Light every night and turned his cap around backwards and drank it all on the couch then drunk-emailed all the girls he thought were hot then barfed for an hour then fell asleep on the bathroom floor??  Remember that?!  Remember how you couldn’t EVER get your hairbrush out of the bottom drawer in the morning because his head was always in the way!?!?”  Well.  Yes, Nasty Self, I remember that, but I really don’t think that’s going to happen this time.  The Pants is a social drinker and doesn’t wear caps and sleeps in a bed.

“WELL.  WELL.  What about…okay, what about other stuff you failed at, you failing failure!?  Know how you don’t write anything anymore?  WHAT ABOUT THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT??”

You can't hide.

You can't run.

Sometimes Nasty Self is just a tailgating cocksucker.

But.  The Pants would like to live with me, me and Nasty Self both!  Score!  And I would like to live with him but no so much with Nasty Self.  But what are you gonna do?  I mean, the prescription interference makes Nasty Self shut up and cool the fuck out at least enough to let me stop crying all the time and asking “Why don’t you hug me while I’m sleeping?!  You don’t love meeeeeeeeee!”  Also it’s kind of nice not to have to budget an hour of my time each day to lie on the bottom of the shower sobbing about nothing and using up all the hot water.

I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna keep buying vintage Pyrex from Etsy like it’s going out of–well, like it went out of style in the 70s.
Because that shit is the best when it comes to pie crusts and cupcake batters, both of which I come up with like every single day because I’m actually kind of domestic.  I’m going to make an honest effort to come up with names for our puppy-child that aren’t appliances (“Microwave”), foods (“Cheddar”), or just weird made-up hybrids that you’d forget how to say before you had a chance to teach the dog to respond to it (“Snofflebugs McGilliwubbles”).

“Yeah, well you’re going to FAIL.  I mean, how can you even expect to be able to have a SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP when Zooey Deschanel is getting divorced?!  ANSWER ME THAT, KNOWITALL.”

Wait, what???  Zooey D. is getting D’d?

Shit.  I quit, then.  I quit at life.

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October 20, 2011 · 12:22 pm

The Wonky Almond

Why is it that I am doing something embarrassing or just weird every single time someone walks by my desk?  I guess it speaks to the amount of times during my work day when my brain is just fucking off and obviously not doing what it’s being paid to do.  Like yesterday I was rummaging through my purse and found a fork at the bottom.  I didn’t recognize the fork, so I sat there kind of staring at it for a minute.  OF COURSE somebody walked in with something I needed to fill out or sign or God knows what, and I’m sitting at my desk staring at a fork.

Or last week when I had this handful of almonds I was chomping on (one at a time, for once) and I thought they smelled weird.  Still almondy but kind of like maybe one of them was going to be all soft and squishy–almond gone bad!  So I’m smelling all of the almonds.  Then I find the wonky one and I think I wonder how long I can hold this wonky almond on my nostril by sucking in my breath? and THAT’S what I’m doing when the head of circulation pops in to ask if I watched Project Runway last night.  Sitting there sucking an almond to my face.

On Monday I wore a circle skirt with a button down shirt.  The button down shirt is kind of weird because it’s large, but fitted because they put this placket of buttons in the back that you button together to make the shirt fitted for a lady.  It’s some kind of weird Banana Republic extra fabric experiment that was on clearance so I could afford it.  Anyway, because of this extra fabric, the shirt tends to bunch up in the front and the back.  And the circle skirt was doing nothing to help it.  So from time to time I needed to reach up under the front of the skirt and yank down the bottom of the shirt…so it didn’t look like I had a big poofy pregnant belly from the shirt sticking out in front.  That’s what I’m doing when someone peeks in the door.  And it looks like I’m digging at my crotch.

Also I get caught a LOT sitting at my desk red-faced, eyes streaming tears, because I’m trying not to laugh at this.  Then someone walks in and I click furiously to get a boring spreadsheet or something onto the screen in front of me real quick…and it looks like I’m crying or having some kind of heart condition event because of a SWOT analysis or something equally as devoid of meaning.

There have been other incidents, which have shamed me and made me kick myself, because this is a new job.  And I told myself as I packed up my shit at the last job in preparation for this one that things would be different!  I will not be a weirdo anymore!  Kind of like how when you are a month away from going into 7th grade you tell yourself that this is YOUR year, everyone’s gonna LOVE you!  Things are gonna be different!  I’ll have an IDENTITY, starting NOW!  Then your mom takes you school shopping at the factory outlet on Rte. 110 for cheap irregular Lee jeans and white socks with extra heels.  And you realize it’s not gonna be any different.

SIGH.

Oh well.  I’m not the only weirdo in this booklearnin’ profession.  It’s notorious for its weirdos.  But I definitely think that there are weirdos who see right through me and do not like me.  Know how I know?  A software representative left me a million highlighters with the company’s name all over them.  They’re actually pretty great highlighters.  Know what else?!  They come with those page marking flags in the butt end: you twist the end of the highlighter and you get a whole stack of those little sticky flags that you put on stuff when you want to remember it.  So I offered one of these highlighters to a certain weirdo, and she just stared at it, and was like, “Ummm…yeah…I don’t really use those.”  So I just sort of skulked away, holding together the tattered shreds of my dignity.  It’s a fucking free highlighter, bitch!  TAKE IT.

IT’S GOT FLAGS! ARE YOU A FLAG HATER?!

 

Something Awful

I watched a really bad movie the other night, it’s Netflix’s fault, though.  I thought maybe I’d stop putting so much effort into trying to find something good to watch, something that would help my brain cells grow.  So I chose a total chick flick, you know, one of those movies that obsesses endlessly over meeting the right guyyy and getting maaaarried and OH MY GOD I’M THIRTY and high heels and poplin shirts and working too much and HIJINKS!

Yeah.  That’s about all I had the brain cells for.  But this movie was unlike any other movie I’ve ever seen that I’ve known was going to be bad.  It was actually worse than bad, like the filmmakers and writers were sitting around a table going “How bad can we make this?  Can we make it SO bad that people will miss the worst of the bad and think it’s kind of good?”

First of all, you were supposed to believe that Kate Hudson was 29.  I know she’s only in her thirties and her legs are like little sinewy quail drum sticks, but she’s had more facial surgery than any 29-year-old would ever be able to pay for.  Also she has no job and a house in the Hamptons.  Because that’s how it is in New York, okayyyy?

Next, you have to believe that this girl is “the ugly one”:

Eww what a total dog, huh?

It makes total sense because, as Tina Fey pointed out in her book, the brown haired girl is always the smart one nobody wants to fuck, and the blonde is fun and everyone wants to fuck her.  But this movie turns that on its head, dear readers!  Because it turns out EVERYBODY wants to fuck Ms. LonelyTitties!  Including her best friend’s fiance.  And of course, he’s the captain of the U.S. Olympic Douche Team, and his name is Dex.  I am so serious about that.  His name is Dex, and someone’s Gay Best Friend (TM) made that up, you know he did, he made that name up as a “sexy guy name,” and suggested it to the woman who wrote the book this was based on.  Before he suggested Dex he threw out names like “Thad” and “Tre.”  Probably also names like “Golden Dick McFuckme” too, but those didn’t make it to the final round.

The proper uniform for any Team Douche hopeful.

So on the night of Ugly Brunette’s birthday (HER THIRTIETH! OMG START THE COUNTDOWN), her dearest friend since birth has kindly removed the tubing from her fake nose that allows her to breathe through the faux-holes the doctors drilled in there, and thrown her a birthday party.  It’s really just a good chance for Bestest Friend to flap her golden hair around and talk about herself, and also a good chance for Kate Hudson to showcase the fact that she has never actually been drunk, but instead was always one of those girls who was too scared in high school to actually drink, so she’d have like two sips of a beer and carry the same can around for the rest of the night, pretending really badly to be hammered out of her mind and hoping that nobody would notice.   So Bestest Friend says a lot of shit that’s actually pretty mean, poops all over her friend and her birthday party, takes all the credit for everything EVER, then goes home with Team Douche.  Team Douche later returns to look for her $2,000 handbag, which she has naturally left under a table while pretending to be wasted.  That’s how he runs into Ugly Brunette and they decide to fuck after a really awkward scene in a bar where a girl in stretchy pants and a napkin for a shirt gives her dirty looks because, as Ugly Brunette reasons, “Nobody can believe I’m here with you, Team Douche, you’re too gorgeous for me.”  Weep weep weep!

Yeah, so, they fuck.  Then it’s all weird because the group all still hangs out every weekend in the Hamptons.  And Team Douche is still fucking the shit out of his fiancee in the next bedroom, all loud and annoying.  Ugly Brunette just lays there in bed trying to drown it out and pretending she doesn’t want to have a nice little vacation wank.  Then he tells Ugly Brunette that he loves her and wants to be with her, but she waffles like “But she’s my best frieeeennd.”  In the meantime, he is reluctant to call off the wedding because hey, even though he doesn’t love his fiancee at all, which he makes clear, and is actually totally annoyed by how much of a total self-obsessed asshole she is, he’s still going to go ahead and marry her unless Ugly Brunette asks him not to.  WHAT A FUCKING GUY.

In the meantime, Bestest Friend is a complete asshole.  She does nothing but demand things from Ugly Brunette and act like an airhead and insult her and basically make her feel like shit through the entire movie.  Still the film keeps trying to explain that they’ve been friends foreeeeverrrr, and that means you don’t just tell someone to stop treating you like shit and being abusive to you, okay?  It’s all evidenced in the below dance clip:

The fact that they did this together in junior high is mentioned like 1,287,972 times in the movie, until you’re like JUST FUCKING DO THE DANCE ALREADY  because you know they want to, you know they do.  And the dance scene slows down at the end (if you can make it that far) and they’re both just laughing and having a great time, and this part is supposed to show you that even if someone is a compulsive liar, makes you feel awful about yourself and your appearance and basically fucks up your life every chance they get, giving absolutely nothing positive to the relationship at all, ever, if you can perform a choreographed dance to Salt N’ Pepa with them, all the shit and unhappiness is totally worth it.

Well.  Ugly Brunette finally decides to put her foot down and tell Captain von Douchington III that she wants him to end it with her bestest friend.  Because, see, she says it’s HER FAULT that the two of them didn’t get together before he hooked up with her friend.  “I should have said something back then,” she wails.  “I just let her haaaave you.”

(If I were a man, this movie would piss me off more.  It is evidence that men have no dicks.  They have no say in who they marry: they just go where they’re told.  Clearly, von Douchington was only doing his best with what he was given: the girl he loved didn’t TELL him what to do in the beginning.  Also she is kinda ugly so clearly he’s going to climb up a big blonde tree first chance he gets.  Because nobody told him not to!)

Spoiler alert: the movie is a piece of shit.  Also spoiler: von Douchington breaks up with the blonde girl and comes straight to Ugly Brunette’s ridiculously huge and fancy New York apartment.  He’s like, “See, I did it.  Let’s you and me get married now.”  Bestest Friend is close behind because she wants to reveal to Ugly Brunette that she cheated on von Douchington and is having the other guy’s baby.  That’s when you’re just like, what the fucking hell is wrong with these people?  This is like top shelf Maury Povich: still Maury Povich, but nobody’s wearing clothes they got at Marshall’s.  And of course von Douchington is hiding somewhere in the apartment and she finds him and they all fight and it gets really confusing because Bestest Friend has the balls to tell Ugly Brunette she hates her because of the cheating.  I got confused there because it seems like it worked out pretty good for all parties involved.  Like, couldn’t they sit down and be like “We’re fucking now and you’re knocked up and fucking someone else anyway so who wants a drink?”  No.  No, that did not happen.

Instead Ugly Brunette is walking down the street 2 months later, smiling her big dumb face off and dressed like Hilary fucking Clinton for some goddamn reason.  She has, of course, an armload of men’s clothing fresh from the dry cleaner’s.  Because a man without a penis cannot pick up his own clothing, okay?  So she runs into Bestest Friend who looks weird and pregnant and sad and Bestest Friend is all “I bought him those shirts, whore” and Ugly is like “I’m sorry, not sorry I fucked him behind your back but sorry I hurt you,” then Bestest Friend is like “Whatever I’m having a baby!  I’m happy and I don’t care.”  Ugly Brunette nods and smiles in that really ugly patronizing way that nurses smile when you hand them a cup of your pee.  Then she meets her man around the corner and they walk off into the sunset together.

The moral of the story is that when someone treats you like crap, hang around and let them do it for as long as it takes for them to get engaged.  Then swoop in and fuck whoever they’re going to marry.  It’s not morally wrong because THEY’RE the asshole, see?  The only thing you’re going to have trouble with is figuring out how to fuck a guy without a dick.

The book this movie was based on became an international bestseller.  Wikipedia says that it “addresses the stigma against single women in their thirties and the pressure that society places on them to get married.”  One reviewer described the book’s plot as “a realistic situation that women face in today’s society.”  Then the movie went and got an overwhelmingly negative review.

Really this book addresses that stigma and does nothing to diminish it, and everything to make it more powerful.  Also I’ll give you $50 if you’ve ever been in any of the situations in this book/movie.  Wait–no I won’t.  Because you’ll probably use it to buy the sequel.

The Donger Need Food

An email thread of which I was a part was featured on the last Dongtini Podcast!  If you don’t already listen to this, you should start now.  Stephanie and Simone are who I want to be when I grow up and get more funny.  Go get them off iTunes and join them on Facebook or just have a good old listen-and-a-comment here.

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February 11, 2010 · 2:50 pm

Stevie Nicks and Mayer Dicks

I’m kind of awesome, ladies.

I mean, I get it.  I know that in order to be happy and comfortable, lots and lots of boys and men out there need to think, no, believe, that your idea of the most beautiful thing in the world is what they blast on the side of your face (and maybe a  little bit into your hair) and get all over your sheets.  I think there’s a bit of that to every dude, because hey, that’s part of human sexuality.  And sure, baby, if you’re happy, I’m happy.

But holy dong juice do I fucking hate John Mayer all of a sudden.  I’ve never even considered him before, and I couldn’t name a single John Mayer song if you asked me to, because I don’t listen to the radio, at all, ever, or read about music, or watch the music parts of Saturday Night Live, even.  But I do get bored at work, and clicking here and there brought me to what’s now been officially labeled a “controversial” interview with this motherfucker that was released by Playboy yesterday.  In it, the guy fucking brandishes his own cock like it’s the goddamn Power Sword and talks about women like they’re the occasional sock that gets stuck inside your pants in the dryer.

Fuck this asshole, if I had a He-Man sized cock, I’d slap him in the face with it until his pretty little puss had a big red cock welt on it.

Here’s why:

PLAYBOY: At this point, what’s your ideal relationship?

MAYER: Here’s what I really want to do at 32: fuck a girl and then, as she’s sleeping in bed, make breakfast for her. So she’s like, “What? You gave me five vaginal orgasms last night, and you’re making me a spinach omelet? You are the shit!” So she says, “I love this guy.” I say, “I love this girl loving me.” And then we have a problem. Because that entails instant relationship. I’m already playing house. And when I lose interest she’s going to say, “Why would you do that if you didn’t want to stick with me?”

PLAYBOY: Why do you do it?

MAYER: Because I want to show her I’m not like every other guy. Because I hate other men. When I’m fucking you, I’m trying to fuck every man who’s ever fucked you, but in his ass, so you’ll say “No one’s ever done that to me in bed.”

I don’t think John Mayer realizes how fucking typical he is.  I think I’ve slept with two or three John Mayers and definitely dated one for a couple of months.  These are the boys who fuck you and immediately ask you how it was.  I mean, I’m put off by that question to begin with.  You may as well hand me a printed score card from the stack on the table next to your bed, and one of those little half-assed pencils they let you use at the library to fill it out with.  But the real issue with this question is that, when you’re fucking a John Mayer, it don’t matter what you say, baby.  All he’s going to hear is that it was the best time you’ve ever had, and when he tells someone else what you said, he’ll describe how you were actually so hot for his dick that your face exploded, and when he tells two more people, he’ll talk about how you had four heads that were all just begging him to fuck you.  Just the fact that this particular John Mayer is going ahead and reporting to Playboy and its readers that he feels he is capable of giving a girl “five vaginal orgasms” (expressly pointing out that they’re “vaginal,” you know, the real kind, I’m the kind of guy who knows about stuff like this so mehh) is so totally ICKY.

(Besides.  I’m of the opinion, now that I’ve thoroughly studied the Ray-J and Kim Kardashian sex tape, that celebrities and their bedmates have the most fake sex in the entire universe.  You got old skinny-dick catfish-mustache Ray-J up there jabbing away at the realm beneath this girl’s enormous ass mound, and she’s practically whining into a pillow about how hard she’s coming, oh baby, yeah, uh huh, I reeeeeeally aaaaaam.  And he’s just like Yeah.  You are.  Baby.  What a fucking snore fest.)

And what’s with wanting to fuck other men in the ass while he fucks you?  I swear.  Sometimes all it takes to get a John Mayer hard is to talk about a crappy ex-boyfriend.  And it’s not like showing that ex-boyfriend up has anything to do with you.  It has everything to do with how tiny they feel, until they see an easy opportunity to at least be better than someone you think is crap.  Apparently the real John Mayer would like to use the women of the world as a big old jizz can to stand on and talk about how much better he is than other men.  Fuck you, I hope your jizz can falls over and spills everywhere and everyone laughs at you, stupid.  Don’t you dare stand on me, I’ll snap your dick off.

Then he goes on, after listing all the things he considers to be amazing about himself and his treatment of the women he dips his cock in, that the problem is an instant relationship.  He lures the little birdies in with a plate of hot sex and an organic omelet, then slams the fucking window on them.  Whoa, hey, I really love the way I feel about how you feel about me, but can we just be friends?  So that I can continue to get what I need from you?

“Look, I know I’m awesome, I know because I try to be.  I know I’m like, wayyyy better than other dudes.  What I need you to do is lay there and make me feel like that, okay?  So can you just love me and not expect anything from me?  God.  Sometimes it just hits me how wonderfully I treat you.  Come here.”

Oh, then he loses interest.  As some boys do when they feel like you might actually want them around.

Yeah, one of these douchewads used to make me breakfast.  For some reason, the John Mayers of the world fail to realize that all they’re doing is aligning with this Sensitive Man image, this bullshit fucking dating website cliche.  Which is why I always left before breakfast.  99% of the time the John Mayers of the world are just setting a mid-morning bear trap.  If you’re not stupid, you realize they’re just trying to get you to fall in so you’ll freak out when they dump you and they’ll soar on that high for weeks.  If you are stupid, you’ll hang around and play the game after you’ve figured it out.

Yeah, these are John Mayer cupcakes. Whoever made them needs to be Taken Care Of.

I guess Playboy is the perfect place to go if you want to talk about the incredibly hot women you’ve fucked and your resistance to “settling down.”  But I’m seriously going to puke if I have to read one more article about how some dude isn’t ready to be “tied down.”  No fucking shit, of course you’re not, you’re full of more hot cum than the trash can by my gay anorexic Evangelical cousin’s bed.  But is it so fucking hard for people to understand each other?  I mean come on.  I had a John Mayer buying me presents and making me free range eggs with olive oil and chicken sandwiches with little star-shaped cucumber slices from his faggy little porch garden, but if I were to say, I don’t know, “Want to come to a party at my friend’s house this weekend?” he’d be all “OH MY GOD I NEED SOME SPACE.  I’M ONLY 29.  I DON’T WANT THIS RIGHT NOW.”

At the time, I would banter about this with Agent Girl Detective.  We would laugh our asses off at the twats we were “seeing.”  Hers actually said “I don’t want a relationship right now.”  So she says, “Good, me neither.”  And he says, “Actually….I do want a relationship right now.”

What do you bet that this would have just gone on and on forever?  OMG JOHN MAYER INFINITY.  “I’m 32!  I’m only 32!  I don’t want to settle down!  I’m 32!!!”  Kind of frustrating if you have enough intelligence to look at dating someone as the opposite of the end of the road.  And, fuck, the point is: I don’t want to settle down either!  Why are the John Mayers of the world so convinced that their magnetic cocks have the fucking Midas touch when it comes to making women want to nest?  I am so so so SO tired of dipshit boys acting like they’re running for their lives around the Battle Royale island of the sexes, and women are these sad, bloodthirsty beasts who they feel “really bad” about depriving of their food.

Ugh.

I’m sorry.

But I’m going to have to show you what happens next:

PLAYBOY: Do you do something different in bed than other guys?

MAYER: It’s all about geometry. I’m sort of a scientist; it’s about being obtuse with an angle. It’s sort of this weird up-and-over thing. You gotta think “up and over.”

I sure am happy that this information has been made public, finally.  I hope every dude in the universe gets a chance to read it.  Because, as you know, every woman in the universe has the exact same anatomy, to which the exact same “geometry” has to be applied.

Something I also hate:

“I’m sort of a scientist.”

Self-aware pieces of shit who can do nothing but talk and write about The Things They Know They Are.  “Like, I know I’m really great at art and stuff, and I knowww I’m going to be really famous someday, but…”

This son of a bitch might as well be saying that he’s just reeeeaal good at sex and knows it.  And I think anyone who knows they’re good at anything is actually not very good at all.  If you *know* it, well, you’re doomed to suckage, my friend.

Also, what the fuck is up with these dudes wanting points for getting women off?  It’s like when they put a tip jar out at Starbucks.  You’re supposed to take my order for this six dollar cup of shit, so fucking take my order.  I don’t want to hear another word about it.  Stick your tip jar up your ass.

Fuck you, John Mayer(s).  I am so sad that you’re smart enough to talk.

Every time I think about the Buckingham/Nicks breakup, I smirk to myself that Stevie’s song about it was soooo wayyy fucking better than Lindsey’s.  Go your own way, dickhole, I ain’t gonna stop ya.

Yeah!  Stick it to em, you hot bitch!

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November 19, 2009 · 4:53 pm

Banana Cream Panties

I hate it.

I don’t know why the hell George Lopez is so important, or how he got to be where he is today, or who put him there.  I don’t get it.  I’ve only ever seen him yell things, like “WHO’S READY TO PARTY” and “LATE NIGHT IS FUN AGAIN” and “GEORGE IS HOME.”  Where the shit did he come from?  Why won’t he go back?  How do people get their own sitcoms when you’ve never heard of them?  And when that sitcom fails, how do they get ANOTHER show named after them?

You are not fooling me, George Lopez.

Oh, wipe that shit eating face off your head.

He always looks like someone colored him with crayons.  The bad crayons.  The ones at the bottom of the coffee can they pass around at youth group in the church basement…the broken ones in peach and orange that have been used to color over black and brown so they’re all smudgy.

Speaking of George Lopez, why does Keira Knightley always talk like she’s got a load of tobacco in her mouth?  Is her underbite that serious that she can’t speak properly?  If so, how the fuck did she get to be an actress?  Why do they pay her the big money to stand around and make that underbite face?

Exshhcuushe me?

Has anyone ever realized that in the movie Beethoven, the bad guy basically plans and plots for months just to fool a family into giving him their St. Bernard so he can shoot it in the head.  So that he can test a new kind of bullet.  To see like, what it does to a dog brain.

Sometimes I wonder why it couldn’t be ANY type of large dog.  Or why it couldn’t be ANY St. Bernard.  Why did it HAAAVE to be Beethoven?

I mean, you could argue that it’s because Beethoven got away from him when he was a puppy.  You could argue that, but that would be stupid.  How would anyone know which dog it was when the dog was full grown?

So anyway, obviously it HAD to be Beethoven.  Crazy Mad Scientist Bad Guy did not want to test the brain-exploders on any other dog.  So he spends several months, at least (because Beethoven’s all grown up when he comes collectin’) getting shit together to get Beethoven’s family to hand him over.  He masquerades as a veterinarian and somehow gets set up with his own vet’s office.

Another thing that bothers me is when people who are near pregnant women just CANNOT STOP bringing up the fact that there is a fetus in the room.

My Polish office-mate is knocked up, and hates it, and says to me every day “Theenk ov dis bevore you lie down wiz a man” before puking in her trash can.  She’s so negative and weird, and apart from the projectile vomit, I couldn’t ask for a better person to share my office.

So anyway, she’s been working on this project with this whore from Alumni Relations.  This fiftysomething cunt comes down to our office every single day and talks to her really loud, like she’s deaf because she’s Polish.  And then there’s the pregnancy thing.  She brings it up every chance she gets.  “Oh, if there’s wine at the event, I’ll need to have a glass or two!  But YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY, CAN YOU!?  NO, you CAN’T!”  Or she’ll take a stack of papers out of my office-mate’s hands and say “This is WAY too heavy for a pregnant lady!”

She uses entirely too much hair spray.  Her hair looks like some kind of fuzzy hat, like she takes it off a stand and screws it into a hole in her skull every morning.  She wears pantsuits in neutral colors with smart button down shirts and a little understated cross necklace.

Today she announced four times (the amount of times different people entered and exited our office) that she was going to remove the jacket segment of Sensible Neutral-Colored Pantsuit because she was “burning up.”  Every time she said this, she went on to say “It’ll happen to you someday!  It will!  I won’t go into detail!”  Most women chuckle out of politeness, but when she directed this at me I played stupid.  No, really.  I mean, you want to talk about every fucking stage of the life cycle of human female sexuality so bad, go ahead.  Tell me everything, you goddamn creep.  Want to do a demonstration on douching next?

She also sits at the study carrel in front of my desk and talks to the computer while she uses it.

“Now that’s not what I want!”

“OOOOH I didn’t mean to click there!”

“Wait…where is the…hmmm…OH!  Found it!  Hahahhaaha!”

If I needed a safe-sex reminder before putting my knees in the air, it would be this bitch.  If I got knocked up, she’d be in my face every day, trying to poison me with a cloud of aerosol hair products so she could slice me open with her raptor talon and eat my unborn child.

I like it, sort of.

Speaking of safe sex, Species and Species II are probably the best movies ever made.  Probably, but then again, probably not.  There are probably better movies, for better reasons.  Actually, nevermind.  You should watch them, though, if your boyfriend falls asleep and you’re in an uncomfortable position but you don’t want to wake him up by getting up to get the remote.  Yeah, in that case, watch them both, back to back, then watch a little bit of the beginning of the first one again.

Now that we’re on the subject of the things I do like, the things that are worth my time, we should talk about Yoplait.  Are you aware of how good it is?  Do you understand how they make yogurt taste like some kind of pie dessert, only it’s yogurt?  I don’t get it, but it’s good.  Pineapple Upside Down Cake?  Pina Colada?  Boston Cream Pie?  Are you shitting me?

Dear Yoplait,

Banana cream pie makes me banana cream my panties.

Love,

Bananacreamery

It’s just good, y’all.  You should try it.  Plus it’s LIGHT so you don’t have to worry about all those extra calories.

(Not that I do…yesterday at about this time I was dipping a shard of Crunch bar into a Mr. Pibb on a dare.)

(I dared myself.)

Okay, I also think that this is pretty fabulous:

It is a customizable cupcake go-kart.  You even get a hat to wear while you drive it, which is the top of the cupcake.  And Neiman Marcus is only charging $25,000 for it.  I’m starting a collection so I can afford one.  Not so much an official “collection” as a jar on my desk with a sign on it alluding to the fact that my 97 year old grandmother can’t afford the chemo she so desperately needs.  And a really sad look on my face.  Even though my granny ain’t 97 and she don’t got cancer, and when she dies it won’t be from anything but the piss and vinegar mixture she drinks every morning.

Pussy Crisis

There is a crazy receptionist on my floor.  She works across the hall from me and is older than shit and somehow finds something to cry about every single day.  Nobody puts up with her crap anymore, so anytime there’s a new person in the office who’s not used to her bullshit, who hasn’t yet had the chance to report her to HR,  she preys on their attention like it’s free hot bacon or something.  Because that new person doesn’t know any better and is usually trying to fit in.  She gets one whiff of someone who’s just trying to be polite and goes apeshit for it.

Oh, and by the way, she’s totally the type who fills garbage bags with any kind of free food left lying around for everyone to enjoy, to bring it home to her fatass husband.

She’s also the type who probably pushed her children down the stairs when they were little, or put mashed up heart medication in their food so they’d end up in the emergency room, and she’d get to sit at the nurse’s station and feed on everyone’s sympathy.

Anyway.

She called in on Monday.  As if that wasn’t enough, as if everyone would miss her SO BADLY and be SO WORRIED about her absence that they couldn’t carry on with their day, she had an email sent around to let everyone know that she wasn’ t sick, she was out because her cat needed to be put to sleep.

On Tuesday, someone in her department, someone who had worked there for a mere 3 years, resigned to work for PBR.  (HR at PBR…PBRHR?)

So since I am that unfortunate new person who still has to prove to her that I won’t take her bullshit, she shuffled over to my desk in her tiny little witch boots when she got the news on Tuesday afternoon.  “Did you hear?” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.  “Did you hear about Kaitlyn?”

I did.

“Oh, I’m just beside myself,” she sobbed.  “First my cat, now this?”

Uh huh.

“Well,” she sniffed, drying it up.  “When I’m feeling a bit more…you know, stable…do you think you could show me how to use my Blackberry?”

This, this right here, is what I refer to as a “suicide pig.”  It’s anyone who gets some kind of thrill out of sadness or loss or a big change.  Anyone who uses it as a chance to advertise themselves and their feelings to the entire world.

I came up with this phrase when I still worked at the fucktard writing studio.  A woman had, unfortunately, shared a story she wrote about her brother’s suicide, or a story that in some way mentioned her brother’s suicide.  Before the next class meeting, I overheard this other tubby cunt going over and over with the instructor the fact that she had been “inspired” by the story shared last week, and had changed her ideas, and then sat down and wrote an entire story about, what the fuck do you know, suicide!  “And I just, you know, I don’t want to be insensitive, I don’t want to, you know, like, make Diana uncomfortable, so I mean, could you just read my story and let me know if it’s acceptable?”  She was so excited, she could hardly get her poorly-chosen words to flap out of her big wet fish mouth fast enough.  The instructor assured her that whatever she’d written would be fine.  “Okay, because I think, you know, that maybe the three of us, you, me, and Diana, should maybe sit down together and discuss how I don’t mean to hurt her feelings by writing about a suicide…”

Then on the class break, the original Suicide Pig cornered Diana by the teapot and struck up another conversation about it.  “OH I was just so nerrrrvous that you’d be offended!  I really hope you didn’t take my story the wrong way!”  Diana assured her that it was nothing to be worried about, her brother’s suicide had happened a long time ago and she didn’t have any problem talking about suicide.  “Oh thank goodness!  Well, do you, um, mind if I ask what happened exactly?”  Diana shared that her brother had hung himself.  “Oh gosh!  That must have been so awwwful!”  And the look on her face, the candy-sweetness in her voice, her giant wet mouth…one of the most gruesomely sick things I’ve ever seen.  If you’d told her there was fresh blood dripping from the ceiling she would have looked up and opened her mouth as wide as she could.

I am so tired of people’s plastic emotions, worn around the arm like Gucci purses.  I’m so tired of people processing death and sadness like it’s a fucking McGriddle.

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October 15, 2009 · 3:33 pm

Glitter Turds & Sweet Tarts

yah-okeh

I like my job for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I meet a lot of interesting people.  This university attracts students from all walks of life, from across the globe, which is pretty awesome if you like celebrities and foreign people, which I do!  And even though everybody’s got their panties in a bunch because Tom Hanks’ son is doing his undergrad here, I couldn’t care less because I just had the pleasure of meeting a very famous singer.  I swear I’d helped her find three books and two websites on finance interview preparation, none of which pleased her, before she revealed that she had, in fact, WON ASIAN IDOL TWO YEARS AGO.

She didn’t give me a chance to say, “Of course!  I knew I recognized you from somewhere!  You are the most talented Asian I know!  What are you doing at a business school in Illinois, U.S.A.?!”  She immediately and without any hesitation revealed to me that her passion is SINGING.  That evil Mommy-san and Daddy forced her to go to B-school, even after her triumphant victory over every other singing Asian in greater Asia, even after her tour of Asia with Asian Idol.  “It’s not like-a I even wanta to BE HERE,” she said, and slammed a book back onto the shelf in the wrong place.

Then she got mad that I wouldn’t let her use my computer to check her Gmail.  I guess you can’t have it all.

Minor Inconvenience

I was fifteen minutes to work today, which isn’t a big deal or anything.  My boss is pretty busy walking around the office telling everyone how hard I work, anyway, so she doesn’t usually notice or care when I step in a couple minutes late.  Unfortunately, there are some people who are really really put out of sorts when the train is late.

Today the train was late because of an accident involving a fall (or a jump, which is usually reported as a fall for a couple of days).  The point is that some poor jerk made contact with the filthy, wet, stinky, and highly electrified tracks in the gloom below the platform, which is a shitty way to start your morning.  The trains all had to share whatever tracks they could get, as power was shut off so the poor jerk could be peeled off the tracks and sent to the hospital to be pronounced one way or the other.  Everything was slow, and running behind, and basically not where anyone expected it to be.  When my train finally came, the stuttering conductor saw fit to let us all know that the reason for his lack of punctuality was “a accident involvin’ somebody jumpin’ on the tracks” downtown.  So naturally, the entire car erupted with gasps and everybody started telling everybody else exactly what they thought about mass transit suicide.  That’s when the lady behind me piped up to anyone who would listen:

“Why people always gotta kill theyselves durin’ rush hour? I know thangs is bad, but they ain’t THAT bad you cain’t wait until lunch time. Lawd.”

She proceeded to call all of her friends and let them know just how inconsiderate she thought it was to kill yourself during rush hour.  She revealed during all three of these phone calls (on her pink Razr with BabyPhat charms dangling from it) that she had actually found out about the suicide only a couple minutes after it had happened, on her alarm clock radio, which is when she decided to roll over and sleep a little longer because the trains were going to be “all messed up and shit anyway.”

Ahahahahha!  Total cunt.

It’s easy.

Basically all you’ve got to do is a Google image search for “cutest cupcakes ever.”

Are you serious? You can't be. You are, though.

Are you serious? You can't be. You are, though.

If you happen to be in Japan, you should do a Google image search for “cutest cupcakes ever,” only in Japanese.  And you’ll get this:

HIYOOOHHHHHH!!!

HIYOOOHHHHHH!!! Hihihihihihihihihihihihi!!!

Someday I will build a cupcake library, in which I will preserve one of every type of cupcake ever made, along with metadata to help future cupcake artists with their research.

I can do this kind of thing because we live on a fantastic planet, and it is covered with stuff that’s cute as shit.

God DAMN I wanna eat that tiny toast made of frosting SO BAD.

Feliz Naviblog

My best best friend friend Patrese has started a blog about how much she loves Christmas, and Christmastime, and pretty much all things Christmas-y.  I support her endeavor because I am a good friend (thanks, thank you…stop it!) and because starting in October it’s really cute to watch her get all ramped up for the birth of little baby Jesus and then celebrate it by buying every little baby Jesus she can find and gluing it to her front door.

OK well, so she hasn’t done that yet, but I think this might be the year.

Anyway, I think Patrese likes Christmas so much because her family always made it into a big sparkly happy soiree full of love and Sunday gravy. Which is so cute I want to poop glitter turds and Sweet Tarts!

I’m indifferent to Christmas because my stepdad celebrated by screaming at me to get the fuck out of the Goddamn tree before I fucking ruined everything.  Then my grandma took too many pills and had a meltdown because some bitch at church wore heels she didn’t agree with in the Christmas cantata, and my cousins cried while they watched us open our presents because my aunt loved God too much to buy things at the end of December.  Then they told us we’d probably be going to Hell because of the Play-Doh Snack Shop.

Shit.  If I’m going to Hell for a toy, it’d better fucking be the baby blue plastic four-door ’59 Caddy my slut of a Barbie used to roll around the living room in.  That would be worth it.

Today.

I finally figured out a way to spill Arizona green tea in my hair and make it look like I meant to do it.  Holy hell, I smell like the stairway to Heaven.  Or Arizona.

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September 10, 2009 · 1:20 pm

Swine Stew

So now every day I go and play Librarian.  It is great.  Now that I don’t work in the basement for a shoe company, I no longer have to wear the season’s hot sneakers and t-shirts with names like “Number One Logo Tee” and “Favorite Logo Tee.”  (Honestly, nobody wants to meet anyone who has a “favorite logo tee,” you know why?  Because those people are useless to society.  Useless.)

Now I have to go buy Working Lady clothes, and though I try not to shop at the places where the real Working Ladies shop, I keep finding the same shit.  And I would kind of like to know why every women’s shirt has to have a goddamn ruffle running down the front.  It’s like, Here are my tits.  They are like a giant cake.  A giant, frilly cake.

If I had it my way, I’d be able to find the perfect sweater vest, and I’d wear a tie every day.

There is dried coffee all over my computer today because yesterday the train driver decided to brake hard and sudden for a rat or something to run across the track.  So, naturally, whatever was in my cup was suddenly shot into the air.  When it landed, it splattered all over my face, hair, computer, and new sweater.  I’d like to find the son of a bitch that did it and kill his dog.  I’d wipe my knife on my pants and say “A dog for a rat, man.”

(I wouldn’t wipe dog blood on my Working Lady pants.  Those are good ass pants.)

Dear Jon

One of the mini headlines on the paper today is “Can Obama revive an ailing health plan?”  I don’t know if you want to call it conditioning or what, but I immediately thought “YES HE CAN!”

I don’t get all the ass crap over this health plan.  Is there a problem with taking care of everyone?  Maybe I just don’t understand politics, but that one time when they kept playing that clip on the news of the lady going “SOCIALIST!  SOCIALIST!  SOCIALIIIIIIST!” all up in O-Bomb’s face, I was like…what’s wrong with that?  I mean, okay, communism and Nazism are taking it a little far.  But Socialism is a-ok, USA!  Get on it!

Really, though.  People are all kinds of worked up and crying and angry about all this healthcare dog shit.  And O-Bomb is up 24 hours a day, trying to knock America’s dick out of the dirt.  I feel bad for him.  And I’m happy he keeps getting up in the morning.

If anyone shoots him, I’m going to be really mad.

It’s funny to think that I have family mixed in with that pack of healthcare protest assholes down in the Batshit Crazy States.  I mean, my aunt would throw a gay baby out the window of a moving car, then sodomize a Planned Parenthood worker with a rifle just to prove a point.  What point?  I don’t know, something about the right to have a rifle.

There’s so much political bullshit to work out, and Jon Stewart is on vacation.  He should not be allowed to take vacations.

Moutharrhea

Office Banter: I kind of love it.  I’m very, very good at it, too.  It’s like magic!

Like when I walk by Cheryl’s desk in the morning, I know that when we’re done with the good morning how are you’s, I’m supposed to say something like “Just getting my coffee…ugh!  Big day!  Big day, Cheryl!”

I do need a bit of practice with Office Eating, though.  At the rare times when I have to eat at my desk, I need to learn how to take smaller office-appropriate bites.  My problem with food is that it is SO GOOD that I see it and I grab it and I go NGARRRRRR!!! whilst shoving it into my face hole.  No, really, I make that noise.  Then, when someone asks me a question or begins to engage me in some Office Banter, I’ve got to hack up a Nutra Grain bar whole, and shoot a bag of pita chips out of my nose just so I can answer.

What’s weird about this job is that my former boss was an epic champion at the Office Banter…except hers was more like office oral diarrhea.  And you could tell she not only didn’t give a fuck what your response was, she was kind of hoping you would die of spontaneous combustion while you were answering her, so she could roast a vegetarian hotdog on your corpse.  She would ask you the same mundane questions about the same mundane things every single mundane day, and then tell you later that you had a “clipped tone” when you answered her about what you were eating for lunch/reading/wearing.  Absolutely insane.  I mean, I couldn’t even get a piece of mail at work without that dickshit woman screeeeeaming to anyone who would listen, “OHHHH MY GOD!!!  WHAT DID YOU GET?  DID YOU GET SOME MAIL?  WHAT IS IT?  WHAT’D YA GET???”

Where I work now, nobody has time to sit and analyze exactly what people said and how they said it and write to HR and worry about the fact that said person might see through their fake-ass corporate bullshit and maybe that’s why she had a TONE…eeeeeeekkk I don’t knowwww.  Nobody cares.  And I can honestly say that nobody has asked me ONCE what I am eating for lunch.  And the other day, the real test happened:  I got an envelope from FedEx for personal reasons, and NOBODY SAID A WORD.

You know why?  Because nobody gives a flying fuck.

Because, lunch?  Mail?  Yeah, they happen every day.  Like, around the same time.  No big deal, dog.

Sub Woofer

Anyone remember that Snoop Dogg show?  Doggy Fizzle Televizzle?

It was this show where Snoop Dogg walked around with his penis hanging out of his pants, dragging on the ground.  He would go to the studio and listen to some fly ass beats and then go count some money and give quarters to teenage girls to blow him.  And MTV or somebody similar filmed it all and put it on TV.  It was kind of cool, I guess.  He did that “izzle dizzle nizzle” shit a lot, which got old pretty fast, but I think he realized that.  Which is probably why the focus of his next show was his bitch-ass wife, who had so many Asian women on her housekeeping staff, she just didn’t know what to do with herself and so always complained about having to clean her house.

Oh, and you were supposed to think of Snoop as this big old pussywhipped Father-Knows-Best type of dad…you were supposed to forget that time he taped a bunch of college girls eating each other out for that Girls Gone Wild idiot.

Whatever happened to that guy?

sick piggy party

OK SO it’s officially only the fourth day that students are back at This Place Where I Work Now That Might Be A Major University…and there’s ALREADY a campus alert because somebody has a confirmed case of H1N1.  And every orientation session I’ve sat in on has been filled with nothing but the sound of coughing fits and sneezing and nose-blowing.  It’s ridiculous.  Some of these people are wearing goddamn surgical masks, and others are reaching across desks to grab an unwrapped piece of candy off someone’s notebook.

And, of course, about half of these douchebaggy B-school dudes just walk around coughing blatantly into the air in front of them without even an attempt to cover.

I’m not saying that smart people don’t get sick, I know that’s not true, because I get sick and I’m smart as shit.  I’m just saying I think it’s weird that these people could build complex business models to measure and forecast all kinds of things I can’t even pronounce or understand, yet they seem unable to grasp the notion that you shouldn’t lick your finger after it’s been in someone’s asshole.

Especially if that someone has SWIIINE FLUUUU.  HelLO?

Scab Artist

We were leaving our apartment, Agent Big Guns and I, and what walked to the door but this thing I think we’re supposed to consider Our Neighbor.  He had scabby looking blonde dreadlocks, dirty Nike high tops, ripped cargo shorts, a reprinted (to LOOK worn out) Joy Division t-shirt, a sweatband, and hot pink sunglasses.  AHhahahhahahah it’s too great!  He’s probably a sidewalk chalk artist!  Or a photographer who likes to take a bunch of pictures of his girlfriend’s arm or his bike chain or his dog’s turds.  Ahahahhahahahhahahhahahaoowwwch!

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