I like to think that most of my time is spent in productive ways. This may be a bit of an overestimation, but let’s say that 90% of my minutes are spent doing things that I will look back on later and be glad that I did; working, sleeping, brushing my teeth, and the like. But I manage to fill the other fraction with some worthless, worthless endeavors.
Exhibit A will be the two hours I’ve spent in the last week watching Ochocinco: The Ultimate Catch. Because despite he on and off field theatrics, our little friend Chad is just missing out in the love department. What better way to remedy this lack of romance than by filling a mansion with Botox, silicone, and lycra blends?
I know nothing about the Bengels, I know minimal about the NFL, but I know dating shows. And this show has all the elements of being extremely entertaining. Let me introduce you to a few of the characters we’re working with…
First on the list is Jasmine (a.k.a. Rainbow-cat-claw-fingernails.) On a dinner double date with Chad and some other biddy, she talks up her ability to take care of him. She doesn’t mention that she could use her talons to dig a moat around his house, which is clearly a possibility judging by the shovels on the ends of her fingers. When dinner is winding down, Jasmine senses the need for a closing argument and pulls out the big guns, the fact that she is willing to get dirty with his children and teach them how to do the stanky leg.
…and crickets.
The next gem is Candace. T.O. comes to the party to screen some of the girls and check them out for his friend Chad. (Terrell definitely doesn’t have enough reality TV in his life with just The T.O. Show to keep him occupied, so it makes sense that he would want to step in.) Candace makes the ol’ “my-parents-are-black-I-was-adopted” joke. ‘Cuz how funny is that? Like she’s bleach blond, so ya know, it’s funny.
…and crickets.
And then there’s all the random ladies whose names all end in ‘i’ teetering around the cocktail party dropping pearls of conversational hilarity all night long.
One self-described Tom boy explains that she is unique because she's "really kick back, hella chill, but when it comes time I can be a pussycat.”
Or my favorite, the cyclical conversation that went a little something like this:
“You’re sexy.”
“No, you’re sexy.”
“No, you’re sexy.”
"No, you're sexy."
Swoon.
And lastly, there’s Ochocinco (that’s 85 in American,) who is a stellar bachelor. He is calm, collected, tattooed, and never afraid to call these ladies out when they step out of line. After one pussycat said she was on the show without her father’s permission, Chad responded with the appropriate, “flag on the field, illegal procedure” call.
Tell ‘em Ocho.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Lessons from the Road: Don't Approach the Bison
When I was younger my mom took us to this farm in the country where goats climbed into tree houses. (I wish that sentence made me sound less like a Teva-wearing flower child, but alas…) It was a wonderful place filled with talented livestock and we ended up coming home with a bunny. To keep the story short, the chronology of Aurora Thumper’s life with us went something like this...
she came, got got fat, she ran away, our neighbors found her two days later, and we offered to let them keep her, they did. The end.
For the two days that Miss Thumper was hopping her obese bunny body around the neighborhood, she was the wildest animal that had graced our part of the city. I live in a place where deer are exotic and when a rabid raccoon falls out of a tree foaming at the mouth, my first instinct is to go over and say hi to the wittle fella. So embarking on a road trip that takes me through the wild western wilderness might as well have been a safari.
I committed to keeping a strict catalog of each animal that we saw along the way. But if the Squirrel Incident of 2001 was any indication, I have absolutely no idea how to interact with wild animals. Hind sight tells me that I have more in common with the people who lose limbs from trying to pet alligators than with Sacajawea. But the best thing about hind sight is that it allows me to look back, reflect, ponder, analyze, muse, stew, ruminate, contemplate, mull...and I digress.
My findings:
Buffalo should be left alone. They can run 30 miles per hour form a dead stop and their horns are not small. So if one sees a buffalo on the road, one should probably not get out of the car and try get a close-up of its flaring nostrils.
Prarie dogs, cute little guys who look a lot like Timone’s chubby younger siblings, should not be picked up and adopted as pets. Not unless you want to catch a modern strain of the BUBONIC PLAGUE. (Hey, modern medicine, I have a question. How the hell is this disease still around? I get that it’s affecting small, ground-dwelling rodents, but stillll. This is the twenty-first century and I, for one, like to think that I can go about my day without worrying about things like the black plague, scurvy, and getting raided by pirates.) So ignore their coquettish looks when they poke their little heads out of their holes. Don’t be fooled by their cute, furry bodies that look like they would fit perfectly in the crook of your arm. They are infected little demons just waiting for a chance to spread a global epidemic.
Six days into my trip and I’m pretty thrilled to be alive. Thrilled to not have a trampled body or a deadly bacteria growing inside of me. So there's that.
she came, got got fat, she ran away, our neighbors found her two days later, and we offered to let them keep her, they did. The end.
For the two days that Miss Thumper was hopping her obese bunny body around the neighborhood, she was the wildest animal that had graced our part of the city. I live in a place where deer are exotic and when a rabid raccoon falls out of a tree foaming at the mouth, my first instinct is to go over and say hi to the wittle fella. So embarking on a road trip that takes me through the wild western wilderness might as well have been a safari.
I committed to keeping a strict catalog of each animal that we saw along the way. But if the Squirrel Incident of 2001 was any indication, I have absolutely no idea how to interact with wild animals. Hind sight tells me that I have more in common with the people who lose limbs from trying to pet alligators than with Sacajawea. But the best thing about hind sight is that it allows me to look back, reflect, ponder, analyze, muse, stew, ruminate, contemplate, mull...and I digress.
My findings:
Buffalo should be left alone. They can run 30 miles per hour form a dead stop and their horns are not small. So if one sees a buffalo on the road, one should probably not get out of the car and try get a close-up of its flaring nostrils.
Prarie dogs, cute little guys who look a lot like Timone’s chubby younger siblings, should not be picked up and adopted as pets. Not unless you want to catch a modern strain of the BUBONIC PLAGUE. (Hey, modern medicine, I have a question. How the hell is this disease still around? I get that it’s affecting small, ground-dwelling rodents, but stillll. This is the twenty-first century and I, for one, like to think that I can go about my day without worrying about things like the black plague, scurvy, and getting raided by pirates.) So ignore their coquettish looks when they poke their little heads out of their holes. Don’t be fooled by their cute, furry bodies that look like they would fit perfectly in the crook of your arm. They are infected little demons just waiting for a chance to spread a global epidemic.
Six days into my trip and I’m pretty thrilled to be alive. Thrilled to not have a trampled body or a deadly bacteria growing inside of me. So there's that.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Blame it on the feh, feh, feh, feh, feh, feminism
Just the other day back in 2002 I was riding in the car with my older brother and his friends and ‘Wannabe’ came on the radio. One of his friends, in a moment of epiphany and star alignment, said, “This is where all this girl power stuff started, the Spice Girls. God damnit.”
As pimple-faced freshmen in high school, these boys weren’t exactly the voice of the American male, but nonetheless, their opinions have been echoed by academics across the country. A new field of academic study is growing in popularity and notoriety; Male Studies. Apparently, us females, with all of our ‘You Go Girl’-ing and our bra burning, and our higher wage earning have been making men feel less manly. Thus they must combat this with a look into history to uncover all the great things men have done in an attempt to reaffirm their masculinity. Great things like discover new lands, fight wars, build governments from the ground up, make laws, rape, pillage, oppress marginalized groups, and star in action films.
And it’s not just the men in dusty classrooms who are feeling the pressure to grab their proverbial balls and unleash some aggression. Men are shying away from the pretty boy look and glam ideal in favor of a more dominant, husky image. Take pop culture for example, Entourage is now being played on Spike . Which can mean only one thing; the boys from Brooklyn are no longer something to be idolized. (Because lord knows anything sandwiched between episodes of CSI: New York and WWF: Smackdown is no longer in the limelight.) Vince’s chill demeanor and Drama’s tight T’s and manscaping seem a little soft. Instead the new stud on screen is Don Draper of Mad Men. Don doesn’t cry, he rarely even emotes. He says things like “Mourning is just extended self-pity,” and has extra-marital affairs. He wears suits and rules a successful, misogynistic advertising firm. Now, that is the kind of man our men should want to be.
So out with the skinny jeans, man-purses, Zac Efron-esque hair dos and dudes who are whipped by their girlfriends.
And in with the suits and ties, superiority complexes, un-sculpted facial hair, and men who know what they want.
In the words of Don Draper, “If you don’t like what’s being said, change the conversation.”
And in the words of Colonel Sanders, “I’m too drunk to taste this chicken.”
As pimple-faced freshmen in high school, these boys weren’t exactly the voice of the American male, but nonetheless, their opinions have been echoed by academics across the country. A new field of academic study is growing in popularity and notoriety; Male Studies. Apparently, us females, with all of our ‘You Go Girl’-ing and our bra burning, and our higher wage earning have been making men feel less manly. Thus they must combat this with a look into history to uncover all the great things men have done in an attempt to reaffirm their masculinity. Great things like discover new lands, fight wars, build governments from the ground up, make laws, rape, pillage, oppress marginalized groups, and star in action films.
And it’s not just the men in dusty classrooms who are feeling the pressure to grab their proverbial balls and unleash some aggression. Men are shying away from the pretty boy look and glam ideal in favor of a more dominant, husky image. Take pop culture for example, Entourage is now being played on Spike . Which can mean only one thing; the boys from Brooklyn are no longer something to be idolized. (Because lord knows anything sandwiched between episodes of CSI: New York and WWF: Smackdown is no longer in the limelight.) Vince’s chill demeanor and Drama’s tight T’s and manscaping seem a little soft. Instead the new stud on screen is Don Draper of Mad Men. Don doesn’t cry, he rarely even emotes. He says things like “Mourning is just extended self-pity,” and has extra-marital affairs. He wears suits and rules a successful, misogynistic advertising firm. Now, that is the kind of man our men should want to be.
So out with the skinny jeans, man-purses, Zac Efron-esque hair dos and dudes who are whipped by their girlfriends.
And in with the suits and ties, superiority complexes, un-sculpted facial hair, and men who know what they want.
In the words of Don Draper, “If you don’t like what’s being said, change the conversation.”
And in the words of Colonel Sanders, “I’m too drunk to taste this chicken.”
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Diversity is the shit.
My university is diverse. To take a cue from SJP in the Family Stone, “We love the gays.” Our school loves talking about the 16% of us who aren’t US citizens. We’ve got every kind of alliance you can think of; gay-stright alliance, Asian heritage alliance, Christian-Catholic alliances, amputee-people-with-two-legs-alliance. (Ok, I made that last one up…)
Last Friday I walked in on an event in a campus building called “Hillelol”, as in the combination of a Jewish organization and Laugh Out Loud. Five minutes and three small penis jokes later I made my exit, but I was impressed nonetheless. I may not be Jewish or have a small penis but thank god someone at my school does. I love diversity.
One alliance that has received a lot of press lately is the Student- Janitor Alliance. Yes, don’t forget the little people. And in this case the little people are those who clean the toilets after the dining hall whips up a extra spicy batch of buffalo chili, and cleans the halls after Johnny Froshie has one Natty-Ice too many and splatter paints the wall with his upchuck. I’d say they deserve some support and representation.
When I lived in student housing I tried to be respectful and make their jobs easier when I could. But I wasn’t perfect. I remember one time, the Cockroach Incident of ‘07, where I may have done more harm than good. I came home from a party one Saturday night my freshman year and found a cockroach squashed on the bathroom floor. Did I clean up the mess and retire quietly to bed? Did I leave the cockroach where it was and wait for someone else to clean it up? Did I run away screaming? No, my friends, I did not. My mind started reeling; maybe that cockroach was pregnant and there were eggs inside of it when it was killed. Maybe the eggs were still alive and could hatch at any time and an army of roaches could come down the hall and attack me in my bed. So I took the most toxic thing I had in my dorm room, nail polish remover, and poured the entire bottle on the cockroach, killing every last one of those potential baby roaches.
Hindsight is 20/20. And my hindsight tells me that the chances of a pregnant cockroach breeding an army of post-mortem roach children on my bathroom floor are pretty slim. But I’m not a scientist.
Either way, the next day I averted my eyes awkwardly when Susanna was cleaning the explosion of nature and nail care, and I’ve felt bad about it ever since.
So while we’re talking diversity… if there are students advocating for Janitor rights, there are probably some kids who want to do everything they can to make the janitors’ lives hell.
An article in our school paper last week talked about a case of seriel vandalism in Carmichael Hall. A girls bathroom is being repeatedly smeared with excrement. That’s right, POOP.
I just. Don’t. Understand.
How does the university that fosters a alliance between well-intentioned collegians and under-appreciated janitors also house serial shit smearers?
Diversity. That’s how.
Last Friday I walked in on an event in a campus building called “Hillelol”, as in the combination of a Jewish organization and Laugh Out Loud. Five minutes and three small penis jokes later I made my exit, but I was impressed nonetheless. I may not be Jewish or have a small penis but thank god someone at my school does. I love diversity.
One alliance that has received a lot of press lately is the Student- Janitor Alliance. Yes, don’t forget the little people. And in this case the little people are those who clean the toilets after the dining hall whips up a extra spicy batch of buffalo chili, and cleans the halls after Johnny Froshie has one Natty-Ice too many and splatter paints the wall with his upchuck. I’d say they deserve some support and representation.
When I lived in student housing I tried to be respectful and make their jobs easier when I could. But I wasn’t perfect. I remember one time, the Cockroach Incident of ‘07, where I may have done more harm than good. I came home from a party one Saturday night my freshman year and found a cockroach squashed on the bathroom floor. Did I clean up the mess and retire quietly to bed? Did I leave the cockroach where it was and wait for someone else to clean it up? Did I run away screaming? No, my friends, I did not. My mind started reeling; maybe that cockroach was pregnant and there were eggs inside of it when it was killed. Maybe the eggs were still alive and could hatch at any time and an army of roaches could come down the hall and attack me in my bed. So I took the most toxic thing I had in my dorm room, nail polish remover, and poured the entire bottle on the cockroach, killing every last one of those potential baby roaches.
Hindsight is 20/20. And my hindsight tells me that the chances of a pregnant cockroach breeding an army of post-mortem roach children on my bathroom floor are pretty slim. But I’m not a scientist.
Either way, the next day I averted my eyes awkwardly when Susanna was cleaning the explosion of nature and nail care, and I’ve felt bad about it ever since.
So while we’re talking diversity… if there are students advocating for Janitor rights, there are probably some kids who want to do everything they can to make the janitors’ lives hell.
An article in our school paper last week talked about a case of seriel vandalism in Carmichael Hall. A girls bathroom is being repeatedly smeared with excrement. That’s right, POOP.
I just. Don’t. Understand.
How does the university that fosters a alliance between well-intentioned collegians and under-appreciated janitors also house serial shit smearers?
Diversity. That’s how.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Trade ya!
You would not believe what the athiests are up to these days. Porn. Shocking, right? At the University of Texas a student group called the Athiest Agenda set up shop on campus offering to trade porn for Bibles.
This immediately reminded me of the man who stood across the street from my high school and tried to convince us to trade our sinful lifestyles for his Jesus themed comic books. Sometimes I took the comic books, although I politely declined his offer to “burn in the fires of eternal hell” when I flipped through it for a moment and then tossed it in the trash.
I don’t understand why every has to be aggressive, be, be aggressive. Can’t the God-less porn lovers live peacefully alongside people with Bibles in their rolling backpacks? It’s a little unfair to pose the Book of Genesis vs. raunchy intercourse question on college campuses. Unless you’re a student at the evangelist Liberty University, there’s no way that Genesis would win that battle of majority opinion.
Imagine you’re at an AA meeting, making a conscious effort to avoid the liquid devil that has robbed you of healthy life.
“Hi, my name is Frank and I’ve been sober for two weeks.”
“Hi, Frank.”
And then someone walks in with a blender full of Margaritas. Shit’s messed up.
If you see someone wearing a Nicorette patch you’re not going to offer them a cigarette. So some students at UT are trying to do right by the Lord, avoid temptation and foot fetishes. That doesn’t mean that they’re asking for the wrath of the pornography industry forced upon them. And let’s be real, just because they have a Bible, doesn’t mean they live under a rock. Any Tom, Dick, or Harry with a search engine has his pick of pornographic treats, the Athiest Agenda isn’t exactly bringing a rare specimen to the college crowd.
This immediately reminded me of the man who stood across the street from my high school and tried to convince us to trade our sinful lifestyles for his Jesus themed comic books. Sometimes I took the comic books, although I politely declined his offer to “burn in the fires of eternal hell” when I flipped through it for a moment and then tossed it in the trash.
I don’t understand why every has to be aggressive, be, be aggressive. Can’t the God-less porn lovers live peacefully alongside people with Bibles in their rolling backpacks? It’s a little unfair to pose the Book of Genesis vs. raunchy intercourse question on college campuses. Unless you’re a student at the evangelist Liberty University, there’s no way that Genesis would win that battle of majority opinion.
Imagine you’re at an AA meeting, making a conscious effort to avoid the liquid devil that has robbed you of healthy life.
“Hi, my name is Frank and I’ve been sober for two weeks.”
“Hi, Frank.”
And then someone walks in with a blender full of Margaritas. Shit’s messed up.
If you see someone wearing a Nicorette patch you’re not going to offer them a cigarette. So some students at UT are trying to do right by the Lord, avoid temptation and foot fetishes. That doesn’t mean that they’re asking for the wrath of the pornography industry forced upon them. And let’s be real, just because they have a Bible, doesn’t mean they live under a rock. Any Tom, Dick, or Harry with a search engine has his pick of pornographic treats, the Athiest Agenda isn’t exactly bringing a rare specimen to the college crowd.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Cuz I got locked up, they won't let me out.
Tell your dog to mark his calendar, March 7th is a big day. Switzerland will put a bill to the vote to decide if animals can be represented in a court of law. Thus in cases of alleged abuse or neglect, the animal can get a fair trial.
Ok, “abuse and neglect,” whatever. What about all those other animals that should be sitting in the defendants chair, huh? What about Sea World’s very own serial killer, Tilikum the whale? I want to see the big guy held responsible! I mean, Sea World isn’t exactly taking the reins on this one. According to their experts Tilikum was just “playing.” According to a visitor, a unrelated third-party, Tilikum was thrashing the trainer around in the water.
“Playing” my ass. I say let’s send the blubbery bastard to the stand.
Maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe I’m bitter. Maybe once I was bit by a squirrel and felt that the furry little demon never got what he deserved. I’m pretty sure if I would’ve shown photo evidence of the blood gushing out of my mangled digit the jury would’ve been decidedly in my favor. You know what my bushy-tailed little friend, I think there is such a thing as 25 to life, cuz I’m pretty sure you don’t have the cash to pay for Cochran. And I don’t think he’d take a down payment in acorns.
But as the saying goes, there are two sides to every story. The other side to my story is that my cat pearl, bought for me when I was still in Pull-ups, probably could have made a pretty strong case against me. If Pearl accused me of dragging her around by her front paws, dressing her up in my doll clothes, strapping her into a stroller, brushing her teeth with my toothbrush or forcing her to “be friends” with my dog, I would sadly have to plead the Fifth.
As it turns out, Pearl will never get the chance to prosecute me for my crimes. In a mid-life crisis triggered by my family’s adoption of a few chickens and a rabbit, Pearl hit the road. And shortly after she hit the road, she probably literally hit the road as a feline pancake. She wasn’t the most slim or agile in her old age.
My personal guilt aside, I stand firm. Just because it has fur or fins doesn’t mean it can get away with murder. Unless it provides thousands of dollars in revenues as a major tourist attraction, then, of course, it can.
Ok, “abuse and neglect,” whatever. What about all those other animals that should be sitting in the defendants chair, huh? What about Sea World’s very own serial killer, Tilikum the whale? I want to see the big guy held responsible! I mean, Sea World isn’t exactly taking the reins on this one. According to their experts Tilikum was just “playing.” According to a visitor, a unrelated third-party, Tilikum was thrashing the trainer around in the water.
“Playing” my ass. I say let’s send the blubbery bastard to the stand.
Maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe I’m bitter. Maybe once I was bit by a squirrel and felt that the furry little demon never got what he deserved. I’m pretty sure if I would’ve shown photo evidence of the blood gushing out of my mangled digit the jury would’ve been decidedly in my favor. You know what my bushy-tailed little friend, I think there is such a thing as 25 to life, cuz I’m pretty sure you don’t have the cash to pay for Cochran. And I don’t think he’d take a down payment in acorns.
But as the saying goes, there are two sides to every story. The other side to my story is that my cat pearl, bought for me when I was still in Pull-ups, probably could have made a pretty strong case against me. If Pearl accused me of dragging her around by her front paws, dressing her up in my doll clothes, strapping her into a stroller, brushing her teeth with my toothbrush or forcing her to “be friends” with my dog, I would sadly have to plead the Fifth.
As it turns out, Pearl will never get the chance to prosecute me for my crimes. In a mid-life crisis triggered by my family’s adoption of a few chickens and a rabbit, Pearl hit the road. And shortly after she hit the road, she probably literally hit the road as a feline pancake. She wasn’t the most slim or agile in her old age.
My personal guilt aside, I stand firm. Just because it has fur or fins doesn’t mean it can get away with murder. Unless it provides thousands of dollars in revenues as a major tourist attraction, then, of course, it can.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
One fish, two fish, red fish, Michael Phelps.
I have one question and one question only: exactly what is the circumference of Bode Miller’s upper leg? I don’t mean this in a creepy ‘check-out-those-gams’ way, but more in a ‘where’s-the-lightning-because-HOLY-HELL-I-SEE-THE-THUNDER-THIGHS’ way. Don’t even try to tell me you haven’t looked at them and been like ‘Sweet Jesus them thangs are biggggg.’ Where does he buy his pants? Joe’s Jeans has ‘the honey’ fit for us curvy ladies, (I hear Nelly likes those thicky thick girls…) but do they have these styles for men? Then again, all I’ve seen Bode wear are colorful lycra racing suits, so maybe that’s just not an issue for him.
I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that Bode, a thoroughly blinged Olympian, would have a body type that’s different than that of your average man, skier even. Two years ago it was Michael Phelps’ body on display. I remember watching Bob Costas give the break down of Michael’s anatomy (ow owwww) and explain why he is more akin to a fish than a human being.
And on the other end of the spectrum we have none other than Shawn Johnson, or ‘Smidge-of-midge’. This gymnast looks exactly like what would happen if a normal girl was forced to live in a U-Haul box for 5 years until she formed into a perfect rectangle. A tiny, tiny rectangle. But again, she is the perfect athlete: massive muscles to propel all 48 inches of her into the air, and a body so short that the triple-spinning-double-flipping-piked-dismount is an N.B.D.
Now, what I really want to see is a combined summer and winter Olympics, (what do you say we hold it in autumn?) where Bode, Michael, and Shawn can all compete in a test of strength, agility, endurance, on snow, water and land. So I don’t really know where I was going with this, but let’s just call it a triathalon with a snow sport thrown in there somewhere. Maybe sledding just to keep things even. And some skeet shooting just to mix things up. But Shawn’s arms may not be long enough to hold the gun…
I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that Bode, a thoroughly blinged Olympian, would have a body type that’s different than that of your average man, skier even. Two years ago it was Michael Phelps’ body on display. I remember watching Bob Costas give the break down of Michael’s anatomy (ow owwww) and explain why he is more akin to a fish than a human being.
And on the other end of the spectrum we have none other than Shawn Johnson, or ‘Smidge-of-midge’. This gymnast looks exactly like what would happen if a normal girl was forced to live in a U-Haul box for 5 years until she formed into a perfect rectangle. A tiny, tiny rectangle. But again, she is the perfect athlete: massive muscles to propel all 48 inches of her into the air, and a body so short that the triple-spinning-double-flipping-piked-dismount is an N.B.D.
Now, what I really want to see is a combined summer and winter Olympics, (what do you say we hold it in autumn?) where Bode, Michael, and Shawn can all compete in a test of strength, agility, endurance, on snow, water and land. So I don’t really know where I was going with this, but let’s just call it a triathalon with a snow sport thrown in there somewhere. Maybe sledding just to keep things even. And some skeet shooting just to mix things up. But Shawn’s arms may not be long enough to hold the gun…
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Baby, it's really freaking cold outside.
I’m cold. When I step outside in the morning, when I leave the gym, when I’m sitting at my desk. My place of living is the sorriest excuse for a house I have ever seen. Yesterday I opened a cabinet door in my bathroom and broke it in half like it was a saltine cracker. No, I don’t have a blackbelt, it was just that easy. Our house somehow manages to be even colder than the air outside. Which is an absolute tragedy considering my current latitude.
One may think that I, someone who can freeze flames with just a mere touch of my perpetually ice-cubed fingers, would be looking for any reason to warm up my life. I was, until I read about a new service being offered in London hotels. Because of the cold weather in Britain, one hotel chain is employing human bed warmers to bring the guests’ beds up to the proper temperature. The explanation states that people would dress in a body-covering fleece onesie and snuggle up for however long it took to get the bed nice and toasty. The chain also doesn’t have a comment about whether or not they require the human warmers to be showered, but they do ensure that their heads are covered. Next to expensive mini-bars, this is the worst idea a hotel has ever come up with. I have spent the last hour trying to think of something creepier than coming back to my hotel room and finding a questionably dirty British man wearing a shower cap and a Snuggie in my bed. I’ve got nothing.
I know I’m not a scientist, but I have an idea about how to warm up a bed without employing someone. It may be a tad ambitious, but it’s worth a shot….
GET IN THE GODDAMN BED YOURSELF. Christ, people.
What about double beds? I wonder if they just thrown two human warmers in the thing. Because if Johnny and Susie Bed-Warmer were both working room 106, they could be creating a whole different kind of heat, a kind that you definitely wouldn’t want to snuggle into later, or find smeared on your PJ’s.
Suddenly the idea of being “just a warm body” has a whole new meaning.
One may think that I, someone who can freeze flames with just a mere touch of my perpetually ice-cubed fingers, would be looking for any reason to warm up my life. I was, until I read about a new service being offered in London hotels. Because of the cold weather in Britain, one hotel chain is employing human bed warmers to bring the guests’ beds up to the proper temperature. The explanation states that people would dress in a body-covering fleece onesie and snuggle up for however long it took to get the bed nice and toasty. The chain also doesn’t have a comment about whether or not they require the human warmers to be showered, but they do ensure that their heads are covered. Next to expensive mini-bars, this is the worst idea a hotel has ever come up with. I have spent the last hour trying to think of something creepier than coming back to my hotel room and finding a questionably dirty British man wearing a shower cap and a Snuggie in my bed. I’ve got nothing.
I know I’m not a scientist, but I have an idea about how to warm up a bed without employing someone. It may be a tad ambitious, but it’s worth a shot….
GET IN THE GODDAMN BED YOURSELF. Christ, people.
What about double beds? I wonder if they just thrown two human warmers in the thing. Because if Johnny and Susie Bed-Warmer were both working room 106, they could be creating a whole different kind of heat, a kind that you definitely wouldn’t want to snuggle into later, or find smeared on your PJ’s.
Suddenly the idea of being “just a warm body” has a whole new meaning.
Friday, January 22, 2010
What comes around, comes around again...
Bust out your scrunchies and get yourself a bowl cut, the Babysitter’s Club is back in action. The popular teen series from the 80’s is being ‘rewritten’ and remarketed to fit today’s teens. It all started with Kristy, an entrepreneurial teen who was always dressed to the nines in her finest day-glo colors. Then it moved on to Karen, the sassy little sister. Two hundred and ninety-seven books later (I wish that was an exaggeration) and Ann M. Martin finally ran out of plot lines.
ALAS. Never fear, BSC (Babysitter’s Club, obv. Keep up, the world is a fast place,) fans, the girls are back! Don’t worry, all the old drama will still be there, the trouble with training bras and Johnny the quarterback are pillars of BSC life too rich to eliminate. Only now they google, and sext, and tweet all about it.
Speaking of future Pulitzers…Lauren Conrad (LC of Laguna, The Hills) released a book recently titled L.A. Candy. It’s not about Lauren though, it’s just a book about a girl named Jane in L.A. who is on reality shows, unsuccessfully tries to tame wild party-boy heirs, and has back-stabbing friends.
…ya. It is easier to face the truths in your own life when you pretend it’s someone else’s. But generally that theory is best actualized through therapy, not a book deal. It’s okay, I’m sure everything will work out for this “Jane” (winky emoticon.)
I just don’t really understand why people can’t just stick to one profession in Hollywood. I mean, LC clearly had a good gig going, getting paid to go on dates and look confused. And I doubt anyone was really dying to tap into her literary genius. Steve Martin, who is not only great at being type-cast as the goofy, lovable father but also can bring down the house with a banjo in his hands, is the exception. If we’ve learned anything from watching Glitter it’s that someone should have told Mariah to stick to what she knows, (high notes and low cut tops.) This should also include people who aren’t famous for ANYTHING. Demonstrated perfectly in the new diet pill commercial featuring the Kardashians. Kim, ok, she dated Reggie Bush, so that’s legit. But what else have the other ones done to deserve this sort of publicity? Also, if we can all think back to the time that Khloe Kardash was called a tranny we will see the obvious flaws in her promotion of diet pill X.
The ad ends with one of the Kardashkas sauntering through a room full of drapes and whispering in a bedroom voice, “Live the dream.”
…Uh huh.
ALAS. Never fear, BSC (Babysitter’s Club, obv. Keep up, the world is a fast place,) fans, the girls are back! Don’t worry, all the old drama will still be there, the trouble with training bras and Johnny the quarterback are pillars of BSC life too rich to eliminate. Only now they google, and sext, and tweet all about it.
Speaking of future Pulitzers…Lauren Conrad (LC of Laguna, The Hills) released a book recently titled L.A. Candy. It’s not about Lauren though, it’s just a book about a girl named Jane in L.A. who is on reality shows, unsuccessfully tries to tame wild party-boy heirs, and has back-stabbing friends.
…ya. It is easier to face the truths in your own life when you pretend it’s someone else’s. But generally that theory is best actualized through therapy, not a book deal. It’s okay, I’m sure everything will work out for this “Jane” (winky emoticon.)
I just don’t really understand why people can’t just stick to one profession in Hollywood. I mean, LC clearly had a good gig going, getting paid to go on dates and look confused. And I doubt anyone was really dying to tap into her literary genius. Steve Martin, who is not only great at being type-cast as the goofy, lovable father but also can bring down the house with a banjo in his hands, is the exception. If we’ve learned anything from watching Glitter it’s that someone should have told Mariah to stick to what she knows, (high notes and low cut tops.) This should also include people who aren’t famous for ANYTHING. Demonstrated perfectly in the new diet pill commercial featuring the Kardashians. Kim, ok, she dated Reggie Bush, so that’s legit. But what else have the other ones done to deserve this sort of publicity? Also, if we can all think back to the time that Khloe Kardash was called a tranny we will see the obvious flaws in her promotion of diet pill X.
The ad ends with one of the Kardashkas sauntering through a room full of drapes and whispering in a bedroom voice, “Live the dream.”
…Uh huh.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Shot at Love 3: Pet Adoption
I’m a serious blogger. Very serious, very competitive. So I was surfin’ the old WWW and came upon Tila Tequila’s blog. I found this link because of the whole broo-ha-ha surrounding the death of her fiance, Casey Johnson. So I spent a period of time comparing my blog to Tila’s. Mine is seriously lacking in a) graphics, most of which look like replicas of tramp stamps and other generic tattoo patterns, b) followers with myspace-esque pictures showing extreme boobage, c) fights with my readers and d) photos of me in a mesh bathing suit to send to your phone. I ceased my comparison. Most of these differences hinge on the facts that I’m not a international sex-symbol and most of my readers are related to me, I’ll just have to deal.
Tila has been quite busy lately since Casey’s death. First there were the allegations that Tila’s chaotic lifestyle had a bad influence on Casey. Tila defends herself and their relationship to the bone on her blog and twitter account. Because there is no life more devoid of danger than Tila’s, someone who parties, drinks, poses naked, and hooks up in murky hot tubs for a living.
Next, there was the whole Nicky Hilton/dog debacle. Nickster and her friend Bijou (wtf? Is that a cheese?) came to rescue Casey’s dogs and clothes from Tila’s house. Nicky and Bijou (HA) apparently didn’t trust Tila with the Casey’s property or pets, (everyone knows sluts don’t know proper animal care.) Anywho, there’s some great footage of this encounter online. But in short, the cops were there, Nicky was looking skinny. Bijou looked confused. Tila cried and was the most covered up she’s been since being swaddled as a new born infant.
Get some.
Tila has been quite busy lately since Casey’s death. First there were the allegations that Tila’s chaotic lifestyle had a bad influence on Casey. Tila defends herself and their relationship to the bone on her blog and twitter account. Because there is no life more devoid of danger than Tila’s, someone who parties, drinks, poses naked, and hooks up in murky hot tubs for a living.
Next, there was the whole Nicky Hilton/dog debacle. Nickster and her friend Bijou (wtf? Is that a cheese?) came to rescue Casey’s dogs and clothes from Tila’s house. Nicky and Bijou (HA) apparently didn’t trust Tila with the Casey’s property or pets, (everyone knows sluts don’t know proper animal care.) Anywho, there’s some great footage of this encounter online. But in short, the cops were there, Nicky was looking skinny. Bijou looked confused. Tila cried and was the most covered up she’s been since being swaddled as a new born infant.
Get some.
Friday, January 8, 2010
New Year's 2010: Is that Snoop Dogg's Uncle?
We’re all ushering in a new year. Zae’lyn, the first baby of the new year in my city, rang it in with a gala of latex, crying, and amniotic fluid. Just a few miles away, I was attending a different sort of celebration. I, Whitey McPasty-as-hell, was busy sticking out like a tranny in mass. My parents, my dad’s high school friends, a few of my friends, and I attended a 70’s funk concert hosted by a former Caveliers player and BMOC around my hood. One man was taken aback by me and my three friends, he counted us off as we walked by. Yes, sir, there are four white girls in the building, and yes, we all came together. Three bands and four hours later my ear drums were ringing and I was a convert. My mom is stuck in a musical time-warp that keeps her perpetually in the 70’s, and for a night I time traveled with her and enjoyed myself greatly.
First of all, the music was incredible. The strong belief that I need to be a soulful black woman so I can sing out all my pain and anguish was reaffirmed.
Secondly, I realized immediately that I was underdressed. I had somehow forgotten to wear my fuzzy fedora and red pimp suit. The two guys who took the cake, (and also happened to be related to Snoop Dogg, demonstrating the F-list type of celebrities my city attracts) were dressed in black and white snake skin suits and capes. My sequined tank was rookie shit.
And of course there was dancing. Give my dad a beer, turn on the tunes, wait five minutes, and the ‘twist’ ala Chubby Checker appears. It’s magic. My friends and I gigged up close to the stage, although not close enough to get the champagne the band members and entourage were pouring into the audience.
After we had our fill of dancing, playing with anti-climactic New Year’s noise makers, and getting hit on by Snoop Dogg’s uncle, we rolled out.
I thought of my friends spread all across the U.S. and felt tiny pangs of longing to be joining them for toasts with strawberry Andre and kisses (again, anti-climactic.) But that thought was fleeting. My New Year’s was hard to beat. Also, hard to replicate.
First of all, the music was incredible. The strong belief that I need to be a soulful black woman so I can sing out all my pain and anguish was reaffirmed.
Secondly, I realized immediately that I was underdressed. I had somehow forgotten to wear my fuzzy fedora and red pimp suit. The two guys who took the cake, (and also happened to be related to Snoop Dogg, demonstrating the F-list type of celebrities my city attracts) were dressed in black and white snake skin suits and capes. My sequined tank was rookie shit.
And of course there was dancing. Give my dad a beer, turn on the tunes, wait five minutes, and the ‘twist’ ala Chubby Checker appears. It’s magic. My friends and I gigged up close to the stage, although not close enough to get the champagne the band members and entourage were pouring into the audience.
After we had our fill of dancing, playing with anti-climactic New Year’s noise makers, and getting hit on by Snoop Dogg’s uncle, we rolled out.
I thought of my friends spread all across the U.S. and felt tiny pangs of longing to be joining them for toasts with strawberry Andre and kisses (again, anti-climactic.) But that thought was fleeting. My New Year’s was hard to beat. Also, hard to replicate.
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