New Year’s Eve

My “top” New Year’s Eves:

• 1970-something: Mom and dad went to some party at the Holiday Inn—the motel where mom waited tables—and left me at home with my two older brothers. My Mrs. Beasley doll was decapitated that night, a harbinger of the tragic NYEs that were to come.
• 1987: Me, Lois, and Chris in Chris’s basement drinking Jager and playing euchre while wearing U-M boxer shorts. This would have been fine except for my inability to hold my hooch. I think I hurled around the time Weird Al was explaining his secret hangover recipe to Joe Piscopo on MTV. Poor timing, indeed.
• 1989: I was freshly heartbroken and covering the Rose Bowl for the yearbook, so I was in L.A. with the staff photographer. We wound up at a giant alumni party in the Valley on New Year's Eve, where I ran into my ex-boyfriend with his new girlfriend. I spent the night walking around the party with a 12-pack, dispensing beers to people who had a reason to live. I then sped back to the hotel on one of the freeways in a fugue state, stayed up all night, and then downed gallons of black coffee in the Rose Bowl press box…where I was seated next to my ex-boyfriend, a sports editor for the Michigan Daily. Oh, and Michigan lost that year.
  
• 1994: Me, my boyfriend, and a giant party at the Washington Hilton—the hotel where Reagan was plugged—with a few thousand of our closest strangers. We left in short order. The highlight of the night was getting a lift from one of the idling limos, which were acting as gypsy cabs while waiting for clients.
• 2004: Got stoned with my best friend while teaching her to knit and watching Gigli. This officially marked my march into spinsterdom.
• 2008: Me, a sorta boyfriend (who drank too much and eventually passed out), and two gay bears sat on the couch and watched Mythbusters. Holla. Oh yeah, he broke things off the next week via IM. This really set the tone for the massive suck that has been 2009.
• Tie for first/worst: 1990 & 2003: 1990 found me in Detroit, partying it up with my college friends at a party at the top of the RenCen. I wish I could say I was drunk, but I was just dumb-ass stupid. I went up a down elevator…or tried to. After a scary ambulance ride to Detroit Receiving with a driver who resembled Large Marge, I spent five hours getting my Frankenknee stitched up while hiking up my Ann Taylor skirt to avoid bloodshed and eyeballing the motley crew around me. One poor woman sat in a chair, holding her face because her boyfriend hit her with a bat. A dude in red briefs was shot in the thigh at a nightclub and bloody rags surrounded his gurney. And a guy was chained to his bed because he was caught stealing a Rolex; his head was swathed in bandages like he was a Dickens’ character with a really bad toothache. He didn’t have a toothache; the po po beat him. I couldn’t bend my knee for two weeks, which made driving a bit of a challenge. Fast forward a decade and change, and you’d find me at Bob & Barbara’s, a dope dive bar in Philly, watching my boyfriend kiss a guy in front of me. I walked out and left him behind. I wish I had the sense to ditch New Year’s Eve as well.

I've wised up and punched this holiday in its festive fucking façade. Should New Year’s Eve be forgot and never brought to mind? Hells, yeah. If I want to stay alive, I’m now finally ignoring this most ignoble of days.

What was your worst NYE experience?

(photo: cheapoairbuzz.wordpress.com)

Blabbing on red-eyes

You’ve made your connection, and he’s in the aisle seat. It’s like some sort of dreamy Sofia Coppola movie and you’re the romantic lead. You’re enjoying pillow talk with a sexy stranger who may be your true love, or at least your ticket into the mile-high club. Sorry to interrupt, but can you do me a favor?

Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

I don’t care what time zone we are currently flying over—my internal clock and my wristwatch say it’s 3:30 in the morning. I took this flight and an Ambien because I’m good at sleeping on planes. I have my rituals: I don’t drink caffeine, I listen to Joni Mitchell laced with Sufjan Stevens, I wrap myself in my giant knitted shawl.

All I ask is that a bratty toddler not kick my seat and that you Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

Even with headphones on, I can hear you yammering away with your life story and relationship history (which, from the sounds of it, you might want to keep to yourself until the third date; just a thought).

When I ask if you could lower your voices because every other single person on the plane is trying to sleep (as evidenced by the pitch-black cabin and profusion of navy blankets, sleep masks, and earbuds), you stare at me as if I just killed your dog. I explain that of course you have the right to talk but that I’m just asking for some courtesy of your fellow travelers. Bring the volume down or I’m going to descend into madness and punch you in the face. Forget about true love’s kiss from Prince Charming in 18C. Your kiss is on my fist when they turn out the lights.

What passengers have you wanted to kick the crap out of during a flight?

(photo: flickr.com/photos/wenzday01/3357083325/)

Pajamas as outerwear

While I’d like to think of life as one big pillow fight, it’s not. It’s not a slumber party, and the frozen food section is not Maria Greene’s basement, as much as I sometimes wish it were. So why are you wearing pajamas and slippers as you’re reaching for those Totino’s Pizza Rolls? Put them back and put some clothes on. I think you can find some in aisle 10.

Dressing has become more and more casual as we slip on flip-flops and pull on fleece hoodies for all sorts of occasions. But nightgowns, flannel PJs, and bathrobes cross the Casual Friday line and step into crazy, depressed, or another state of mind that might demand medication or, at the very least, light therapy.

Admit it: you’ve thrown in the towel. You might as well just curl up in the fetal position under a Snuggie and give up. I won’t kick you while you’re down but do me a favor and keep your crazy behind closed (perhaps locked) doors. If you don’t, I’m going to surprise you in the bedding aisle and whack you with a big-ass pillow until you wake the fuck up and change out of your crib clothes.

(photo: reidaboutit.com)

Erotic asphyxiation

I don’t know about you, but I want to be conscious when something feels gasp-out-loud good. Like many mountain climbers, I don’t want to be oxygen-deprived during life's seminal moments. I saw Rising Sun and took it as a cautionary tale. Don’t have sex on the boardroom table during an office party (that’s what supply closets are for, natch) and don’t allow yourself to be choked during the act. (And don't ever question Sean Connery when he's sporting a beard, but that's another story.)

Even if you don’t die, you could lose consciousness and then be susceptible to death or other indignities. Do you really want to go out as Gasper the Friendly Ghost or a Darwin Award nominee? While they left behind impressive bodies of work, the late David Carradine and Michael Hutchence will always have the taint of autoerotic asphyxiation hanging over their heads.

Honestly, isn’t a cock ring or a playful slap-and-tickle enough? If you keep experimenting with ropes, shoelaces, and such, I’m going to have to punch you in the neck. I can help you lose consciousness, and it will be anything but erotic.

(photo: mortonbranding.com.au/)

Mash-ups

I like to think that some things are greater than the sum of their parts. For instance, each TIWTPITF post is pretty rad in and of itself. But when seen in total, it’s mind-blowingly awesome. But then there are mash-ups, video, literary, and musical medleys that are pretty much pastiches of crap. Crap + crap = huge steaming pile of crap.

I never really like medleys at awards shows. They always seem disjointed and rarely flow from one song to another with any finesse. But musical mashups actually are released as singles, as though they are a new, interesting creation.

Guess what? They’re not.

Then there is the current literary trend toward mashups. Take Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, for example. I had an open mind, and not the kind that gives zombies access to my brains. But this new interpretation of one of my most beloved books is a monstrosity, and not in a good way. The co-“author” just took Jane Austen’s public domain text and sprinkled zombie shenanigans around key scenes. As I read it, I just kept thinking that the zombie text was getting in the way of Austen’s elegant, biting prose. I wanted to get back to the meat of the story, which has nothing to do with the undead or Charlotte Lucas’s increasingly gray pallor. The concept was admittedly genius (I love me some Quirk Books) but I want substance with my style, not a hackneyed attempt to ride on the coattails of a literary giant like Jane Austen.

If you uninspired leeches continue to co-opt legitimate works of art and bleed them of their brilliance, I’m going to have to bring about some bloodshed of my own. And no, it doesn’t involve snacking on the undeveloped right side of your cerebrum.

Shoeless households

Increasingly, when I enter someone's home, I’m shoehorned into a foyer lined with shoes and instructed to add mine to the pile.

Um, I came for a party, not for a pedicure.

I get that folks don’t want their hardwoods scratched and scuffed by my stilettos. I understand that paranoid parents are afraid of the germs that I’m tracking in on the soles of my shoes.

Call me a heel, but I don’t want to walk around in my socks or bare feet. My shoes deserve to be seen as God and Manolo Blahnik intended: on my foot. And without the boost of the heel I am never without, my jeans sweep the floor. From my POV, this has only one bright side: My friends’ floors never need to be mopped. My pant legs and socks do it for them.

If people keep demanding that I kick off rather than kick up my heels, I am going to kick them in the face—right after I shuffle around their house with 80-grade sandpaper taped to my feet.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/26714560@N00/84600731/)

Katie Couric’s eyelashes

If eyes are the window to the soul, then Katie’s eyelashes are big-ass vertical blinds. She has so much mascara gooped on them that it looks as if she has three black-brown spikes over each eye, which makes it impossible for Sarah Palin or anyone else to see eye-to-eye with this anc-her.

Comb your hair, please, even if it’s the sparse ones over your peepers. Those clumps make me want to lash out, and perhaps give you another kind of black eye. I like you, Katie, I really do, but your eyelashes, which were once a Today No, are now a CBMess.

Jennifer Love Hewitt’s Ghost Whisperer fake lashes are on deck.

(Photo: cartoonstock.com)

Group e-mail forwards

Tis the season…to forward e-mails. Therefore, it’s also the season that makes me want to punch my computer screen in the face.

Apparently I belong to a lot of folks’ e-mail groups. And apparently those folks suck, because they hex me with chain letters I don’t forward to 10 people (I actually like my friends), clog my in-box with e-mails that dance and twinkle with snowman and heavenly images of Christ our lord and savior, push their political agendas, and otherwise shower me with cyber presents I have no interest in regifting.

I’m as hopeful as the next person but please don’t send me an e-mail telling me that I’ll win a Macy’s gift card or an iPod by filling out a survey. I’m pretty confident I’ll see a unicorn before I see one of these mythical gifts. The best gift you could give me would be to remove me from all e-mail groups. Like Groucho Marx said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member."

What's the most irksome e-mail forward you've received lately?

(Phot0: girl-woman-beauty-brains-blog.com)

Paper cuts

Matt Damon did some damage with a magazine in one of those Bourne movies. No shit. Paper can kill, yo, or at least slice through your fingers. Seemingly innocuous, this sneaky pulp affliction is evil. Much like Ray Romano, come to think of it. It sneaks into your house and then lies in wait for a chance to strike. Unlike Ray Romano, you can’t kick paper out of the house by simply turning off the TV. It’s everywhere.

And it’s out to get us.

Call me crazy but I think the move to a paperless society is seriously pissing it off. The ream of paper on my shelf is giving me stinkeye and my new roll of wrapping paper is spoiling for a fight and looking for a reason to slice my index finger. I think a certain brown paper grocery bag might try to go for the jugular.

The best thing to do is make paper feel wanted, necessary in this crazy, mixed-up world. I know what you’re thinking—paper needs to grow a pair and suck it up. It’s not like paper is the only thing out of a job these days. You may be right. Nevertheless, let’s try to show a little compassion during this holiday season. A little ego stroking goes a long way. Just make sure to avoid the edges.

(Photo: flickr.com/photos/agriffith/355462419/)

Kids’ songs

“Baaaaackpack, backpack!”

“Hot dog! I’ve got the rhythm in my head.” 


“There were ten in the bed and the little one said, ‘Roll over, roll over.’”

Clearly, there are many problems with the above scenario (TEN in the bed? Are we in a Dickens’ novel?); however, the biggest beef I have is that I can’t get the mother-lovin’ song out of my head.

As much as I tried to sing “Doncha wish your baby was hot like me?” to my goddaughter, it’s the wheels on the bus that go round and round in my head. A friend once instructed me to hum the Entertainment Tonight theme whenever I got stuck in an endless loop of song suckage. Happily, this worked for wrong songs from Sisqó, the Baha Men, and a musician ex-boyfriend, but kids’ songs are more insidious. They appear innocent on the surface, which makes them all the more sinister (think of what happened to baby-faced Anakin Skywalker if you need a cautionary tale).

This will not do.

Since shouting some 2 Live Crew or other material offensive to Tipper Gore’s ears might stunt a toddler’s growth, I propose that for every one Wiggles or Little Einstein song we have to jazz hands our way through, they get to suffer the decidedly non-hummable sounds of early American Idol auditions. That’s some aural poop that will never get stuck in anyone’s cerebral sandbox.

Concert ticket prices


I’m looking into seeing some Jovi. Things aren’t looking good. Sure, you live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got. What I don’t got is the 75 clams for a shitbox seat behind the stage that should come with an oxygen tank. Oh, I could get better seats…if I coughed up $670. Maybe I could cough up a lung and sell my organs to pay for a ticket.

I have loved JBJ ever since I saw him and his tousled hair swing over me in Cobo Arena during the Slippery When Wet tour. The last time I saw Bon Jovi (the Crush tour), I prolly forked over $100 or so for my ticket, when all was said and done. But I don’t know if JBJ and the boys are worth two months of health insurance, which I’ll need after I harvest my organs. If I actually plunk down my card for the ticket and 83 miscellaneous service and handling fees, I will be kicking my uninsured dumbass from here to Key Arena, which isn’t a MENSA-worthy idea. So I’ll pass and turn up my iPod instead, because, truth be told, I’m a little sick of livin’ on a prayer.

What’s the most you’ve ever shelled out for a concert? Was it worth it?

Black Friday

I realize today has been called Black Friday for a few years but I don’t remember stores marketing the hell out of it like they have this holiday season. "Black Friday" evokes some sort of horrific tragedy, such as a massacre or deadly plague or the end of days. And yet, people are risking exposure to H1N1 and women who will cut you with their coupon if given a chance. Just for the sake of an extra 15-percent off.

Am I the only one who thinks this scenario is absoloonly nuts?

My friend Charyn calls this excruciating day “retail S&M.” If I want a little slap and tickle, I sure as shit am not going to look for it in the aisles of Wal-Mart on Whack Friday. Have you seen what’s lurking there? God invented the Internet so we can avoid hot strip-mall messes and crowded parking lots in favor of leftovers and online shopping. Duh.

While surfing the web, check out one of the websites devoted to Black Buyday and think about all the chumps who are breathing in stale air at the mall.

(Photo: walkwithlight.wordpress.com)

Express lane hogs

Really? Are you really going to try to pass off your Thanksgiving shopping for a family of eleven and, by the looks of it, several pets, as a modest express lane basket? Really? The stuffing ingredients alone exceed the limit, which, in case you forgot your glasses or can’t read, is 12.

And just because you’re not making eye contact with me doesn’t mean I’m not here or that you’ve suddenly rendered your overflowing cart invisible. I can see you, your party bags of Ruffles, and string-bean casserole ingredients. And you’re all making me sick. Instead of being thankful for my good fortune and the peppermint ice cream in my basket, I’m stewing over your gross misconduct.


Let me talk turkey: you blow. And I bet your spinach dip does, too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for a few things: my impending tryptophan coma, for example, when I can forget all about you and your shoddy holiday behavior. It’s not called Thankstaking now, is it?

(Photo: static.pixelpipe.com)

Old-guy ponytails

Dude, don’t you know that size—or in this case, length—doesn’t matter?

When I see someone sporting a tired, scraggly ponytail, I have to muster every bit of self-control not to whip out some scissors and cut off that last stand of I don’t know what. More frayed than a jute rope and with more split ends than Courtney Love 11 days into a psychotic break, I don’t get the point. Mullets at least have that “business in the front, party in the back” thing going on (but believe me, they are punchworthy too, which just goes to show how far down on the follicular food chain these limp locks are). What can you say about a man with a mangy ponyfail? Hippie in the front, dying hippie in the back? Often, the ponytail accompanies a balding pate, which, guess what?, isn’t fooling anyone. No amount of length on your last 134 strands will compensate for the loss of hair everywhere else on your dome.

Trust me, trust anyone other than your misguided, insecure sense of style and chop that napeworm off. You will look hip, not hippie, as though you exist on this side of the Millennium. And if you don’t tame the beast, I might not be so kind next time I happen upon you.

Fad diets

Say what you will about Richard Simmons but dude knows his stuff. I met with him once and he lamented dumbass diets and the Olive Gardenization of America. As he knows, the way to permanent weight loss is through exercise and portion control.

That’s it.

There’s no secret combination. There’s no herbal supplement magic bullet. Much like Richard, the solution isn’t sexy or hip like South Beach on a Friday night. Cabbage soup isn’t involved. Eating buttloads of bacon, macadamia nuts, and other fatty foods isn’t the way to lose the back fat (believe me, I tried). I got nothin’ bad to say about flaxseed oil and cranberry juice, but you also need to downsize from a trough to a bowl. Just a thought.

And while you’re at it, pull on your big-boy nutters and start sweatin’ to the oldies. It won’t be long before you’re in the zone. If you need to lose weight fast, however, you can always give the amputation diet a go.

(Photo: efmnutrition.com)

Fennel

I didn’t like black licorice when my grandpa offered it to me those many years ago, I don’t fancy ouzo, pastis and absinthe as much as I long to be a sophisticated broad abroad, and I don’t like fennel in my food now or anytime soon.

I don’t want to be an herb hater, I really don’t, so I recently gave it a another go. Like I do every now and again with cole slaw and endive, I thought I’d give it a second chance. I thought that maybe my palate had changed, maybe I’d suddenly develop an affinity for anise flavor. Yeah, no. Chewing on a fennel seed just made me want to wash my mouth out with coriander. Fennel may taste like anise, but it also tastes like ass.

Tom’s of Maine makes a fennel toothpaste, which must really fly off the shelves. Why doesn’t dude and his hippie helpers just make some scat or guano toothpaste while they're at it? Brushing my teeth with the very flavor I’m trying to scrub out of my mouth seems a bit absurd, even to me.

I’m going to take my mortar and pestle to this nasty piece of work and crush it completely before chucking it in the dustbin. Finally, a way to stomach fennel without it leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

(Photo: australherbs.com.au)

Impatient bus drivers

Don't pretend you don't see me running up to the door. And in case you are visually impaired (always a bonus in a person responsible for the safety of the masses), you’ve got to hear me pounding on the side of the bus and yelling at you to freakin’ stop.

What did I ever do to you?

Someone once told me, “Never run for a bus.” Maybe I read it in a fortune cookie. Regardless, wise words these. When I disregarded this advice and wiped out on the pavement in front of a busload of people as I was sprinting to the bus stop, I prayed that the driver would, as usual, just keep on truckin’. Oh no. This mutant driver actually stopped, opened the door, and asked if I was okay. Yeah, except that my road rage has now been joined by road rash, and I look like a walking HAZMAT area.

The upshot of all this is that at least I know the secret to getting you to step on the brakes when you see me coming. But even maiming myself for a bus ride is a crapshoot. I can’t really punch you in the face since you keep driving away but you’d better watch your rear-view mirrors. I might just decide to run for a bus. Your bus.

(Photo: seacat.files.wordpress.com)

Windsocks

Your windsock stays on my mind. In fact, it’s burned into my retina. I’ve tried to consider the lilies of the field, really I have, but I can’t. Because your giant rainbow windsock is spoiling, spinning, and polluting my view.

I already knew you were a Notre Dame fan, thanks to the bumper sticker, license plate frame, and leprechaun antenna ball on your PT Snoozer. I don’t need to be reminded of your misguided love, because frankly, I could care less. And like your unfathomable affection for the Fightin’ Irish, I also don’t give a rat’s ass about your penchant for pirates, whales, or snowmen. Why do you feel the need to clog up your yard, porch, stoop, or front door with these garbage bags?

Do you keep your seasonal or themed windsocks in the garage next to the extra lawn gnomes, gazing balls, and inflatable snow globes? Since your windsocks are most likely flame-retardant, I think the best way to clean house is to sew these polyester air condoms together, fill them with helium, and create a hot-air balloon that can transport these back to hell, or at least to the local landfill.

(Photo: piratecorner.ca)

Excessive punctuation

[Sorry for the short hiatus, folks. I was traveling and moving but not to worry, I'm back and as cranky as ever.]

I get it!!! I really do!!! Srsly!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know you’re excited or scared or confused or slumped over the keyboard so your ear keeps hitting the question mark key. There’s no need to drive home the point by slapping me in the face with punctuation marks or poking me in the eye with those goddamn extraneous exclamation points.

I’m a big advocate of everything in moderation and yep, that applies to my semicolons. Ever since high school, I figured there was a perfect way to express anything through words. Words. Not punctuation. Spend more time conveying what you mean through language, please, and leave those poor, defenseless exclamation marks alone. What did they ever do to you?

F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “Cut out all those exclamation marks. An exclamation mark is like laughing at your own jokes.” Word, Fitz, word. Can you imagine the difference it would make if he had thrown in one or several exclamation points to his otherwise gorgeous WASPy text, such as when Gatsby describes Daisy?

The original: “Her voice is full of money.”
The icky: “Her voice is full of money!!!”

A beautiful observation becomes the sort of squawking, self-congratulatory promise that a Billy Mays ad delivers. Less is more. Period.

(Art: collectingtokens.wordpress.com)

Celebrity fashion lines

Lindsay Lohan recently collaborated with Ungaro for a train wreck of a fashion show. Why would a venerable Paris fashion house trust its reputation and scissors to a girl whose nickname is “Firecrotch?” She certainly hasn’t set the world on fire with her style, which lately has involved a lot of leggings. They weren’t a good idea in the 80s and they aren’t now.

But LiLo isn’t the only celeb I have a beef with. I pretty much loathe every actress or singer who thinks that, because she got a thumbs-up on the red carpet from the TV Guide Channel, she should develop a clothing line. Hilary Duff and Lauren Conrad (who sort of went to school for fashion) have had lines at Kohl’s. Amanda Bynes had one at the now-defunct Steve & Barry’s. These chicks are hardly out of their teens and yet they are dictating style to middle America middle-schoolers.

Of course it’s easy for a celebutard to look good but it doesn’t mean that they should start designing sequined leotards or introducing a line of hair extensions. Plus, by and large, they aren’t designing a single sorry thing. They just lend their name and favorite color and, poof, poop is being shipped to Wal-Mart.

Like the dude in The Crucible said, in the end, all you have is your reputation and your name. Well, these rag hags will go to the grave knowing they exploited children in Southeast Asia, expended the world’s resources and for what? Snagged, damaged thneeds that are going to wind up at Goodwill next to collection of abandoned Cosby sweaters.

In a word, Firebotch.

Chai

Is it tea? Is it coffee? Is it just plain woo woo pretentious? What the fuck are you, chai?

If you’re not living in or touring India, chances are you are drinking a powdered version of this spiced milk tea, or even a bastardized chai/coffee hybrid. For instance, I just discovered that a dirty chai doesn’t involve extra olive juice, but a shot of espresso. Uh...

But it’s not just the chai itself. It’s the knobs who drink it. Somehow sipping on this strange brew, these exotic creatures feel enlightened and superior, much like I imagine Tom Cruise and his Scientology cronies feel after a good L. Ron Hubbard jamboree. Doctoring up their chai with a dollop of soy milk and a soupçon of cardamom, these wannabe Siddharthas eat, pray, and love throwing the stinkeye at my mocha choca latte and silently judging, all the while saying crap like “namaste, my friend” to my face while reaching for their heart center.

I want to punch these nirvana in a coffee cup-seeking sultans of swill in their third eye, until they're blind.

(I must admit that I do love this DIY chai recipe, if only for the illustration).

(photo: bodhileaftrading.com)

Talking about oneself in the third person

“I’m bored of Bono and I am him—I’m sick of me. I felt it was a little limiting to be in the first person,” Bono has said. I’m sad that I’m limited in the ways that I can punch him in his pompous face.

TIWTPITF’s shit is royally irked when someone starts talking about him or herself in the third person. Politicians like Bob Dole and Joe Biden, and athletes like Shaq and the Rock have been serving up illeisms for a long time. Yeah, I can smell what the Rock is cooking and it smells like dumbass. Remember that dude Suede on Project Runway? Even Michael Kors couldn’t deal with his hubris. Are you royalty? A dead celebrity?

TIWTPITF thinks the only people allowed to refer to themselves in the third person are Steven Hawking, Mr. T, and the Hulk. And oh yeah, Jesus, Buddha, and their pals. That’s it, and even then they are walking a fine line between acceptable and my fist. I have found what I'm looking for, Bono, and it's your face.

(photo: www.bigdogcomic.co.uk)

Rachel Zoe's chest

Every time I get a glimpse of stylist Rachel Zoe’s bony chest beneath a giant yeti pelt vest, I literally—or “litrally,” as she says—have to look away. I avert my eyes quickly, much like I do when that starving children commercial with Laurie Metcalf pops up during my late-night cable trolling. I have to look away like Perseus did when he took on Medusa. I too fear turning to stone, but not because of Zoe’s snake-like locks.

It’s her sternum. I’m afraid that it’s going to poke and kill a random passerby. I could play the xylophone on her breast bone and ribs. She doesn’t need to wear one of her giant-ass necklaces; she’s already sporting a bone collar. Like a cross-section of wood, you can add up the rings to determine her age. And by the number of rings jutting out of her chest, she should stop saying, “I die,” because, by my count, she should already be dead.

Zero isn’t a size, it’s a sickness. Desiccate & Emaciate is not a new design label; it's an apt description of your dried-up husk. Stop saying “bananas” and start eating them…literally.

(Photo: evilbeetgossip.film.com)

Man caves

You man, me woman. I get it. It’s not that hard to figure out our differences. You shave, I wax. You like Red Dawn, we dig Dirty Dancing. But when it comes to portioning off areas of the house, I don’t see why you XYs need your own space to watch sports or porn or whatever it is you do in there. You don’t need a separate hole to crawl into when you are discovering fire or sharpening tools. That’s what the garage is for, Encino Man.

And your male room shouldn’t be where the wagon wheel coffee table goes to die; that’s what craigslist is for, duh. Lose the threadbare recliner and put your collection of baseball caps or hockey jerseys in storage. Call me crazy, but clothing is meant to be put on the body, not hung on a wall.

I hate to break it to you, but you’re not a cave man. You’re a guy who hasn’t shaved in three days. Wash off your Pleistocene funk, turn on the light, and for god’s sake, stop grunting. If not, I'll have no choice but to whack you with a woolly mammoth bone, which is going to leave a mark, no matter how you try to cover it up with your loincloth.

(photo: www.slothcentral.com)

Dancing baby videos

Call me a cold-hearted childless bitch, but I don’t want to see a 18-month old zipping around on roller skates when I’ve never figured out how to skate backwards (which, lemme tell you, really put a dent in my 7th grade social life). I don’t want to see a sugar-filled gang of CGI diapered gang members setting old scores through the power of breakdancing. I don’t want to see all the single babies putting their hands up, dancing in unison holding onto their Cabbage Patch Kids when I can’t do a decent cabbage patch.

The dancing baby on Ally McBeal was enough to put me into the fetal position; you can only imagine what a fleet of toddlers is doing to my delicate emotional state. It’s just not right. They're not right. Seriously, they all look a little off in the face, which gives me the willies. Is it just me, or do they all look like they've had work done?

I can’t really punch the babies, animated or no, so I am just going to take away their roller skates and dancing shoes and herd them into a giant pack ’n’ play. The time has come for a timeout.

Jumpsuits

It’s tricky enough to go to the bathroom in a one-piece bathing suit. Why would you want to wear what's basically a body stocking out and about?

Think about it. If you have to take your top off to pee, you could easily drop a sleeve in the toilet…or get a chest cold. This fashion victim’s onesie needs to hustle back to where it came from—1977, to be specific. Whether it’s a strapless romper or an homage to skydiving style or that thing in the photo, chumpsuits belong on the trash heap of bad ideas (along with Utilikilts and mullets)…unless you are changing my oil.

(photo: onceuponawin.com)

Sponsors of the impossible and ridiculous

Hubris has been around since the dawn of man (Icarus, anyone?) but certain corporations and organizations are taking it to a whole new level by sponsoring ludicrous things. And Donald Trump isn’t even involved.

For instance, Intel is a proud sponsor of tomorrow. It seriously takes a pair to lay claim on the future. And who’s hiring Intel as a sponsor? God? I would have figured He’d have more on His to-do list than to solicit sponsorship for what is generally regarded as a fait accompli. As the official sponsor of birthdays, the American Cancer Society better pony up an ice cream cake and a card come June 29. And every time I have a bright idea, I have to remember to thank Mutual of Omaha (or Oprah, depending on which side of the lawsuit you fall) for my "aha!" moment.

Don't get me wrong: I’m not against corporate sponsorship, but let’s make it somewhere in the neighborhood of appropriate. Jose Cuervo, I think it only fitting that you become the official sponsor of the walk of shame. Nordstrom, I dub thee the sponsor of my overdrawn checking account. McDonalds, I think it’s fair to say that you’re the proud sponsor of my high cholesterol. Hummer, lay down some coin and sponsor small penises everywhere.

And if anyone knows someone in corporate at Everlast or Hawaiian Punch, send them my way. Things I Want to Punch in the Face is looking for sponsorship. If the 2012 apocalypse can nab a sponsor, there's no reason I can't.

(The inspiration for this post came from Jessica. Thanks!)

Kiddie pageants

I don’t know which is worse: the pageants, the parents, or the glassy-eyed kids. Wait, yes I do: it’s the parents.

How any parent can dye or highlight their little girl’s naturally preternatural locks boggles the mind. Women are forever trying to get an eight-year-old’s natural highlights and momthras are frying everything good and holy from these tiny heads. Momsters brush mascara onto baby lashes and glop up little rosebud lips with lip gloss, transforming their little rays of sunshine into Stepford toddlers. These kids can’t read Vogue yet, but they’re more high maintenance than Anna Wintour. I bet they could even teach me how to finally apply liquid eyeliner properly…

The pageants themselves are beyond low budget. They are usually held on a rickety stage with a sad backdrop that looks like it was made with a glue gun, glitter, and an asswagon of prayer. Stage mommies sit in the audience, miming their kid’s “talent” routine, while the little girl preens, dances, smiles, and jazz hands her way through a treacly patriotic number.

The ragtag judges eat this shit up. I want to beat this shit up. I want to deprogram the little spray-tanned ventriloquist dummies by herding them into a lil’ miss protection program. Here, in a home with no television or tiaras, their hair will return to a color in the neighborhood of what Mother Nature intended. They will play with crayons, not lip pencils, and draw outside the lines. They will sing along to Baby Einstein, rather than “(Hit Me) Baby One More Time.” The only Barbies in the house will be the ones manufactured by Mattel, not a mom from hell. And the mommies dearest, the ones who continue to maintain that they are just helping their daughters realize their dreams, will be beaten with a sack of those very same Barbie dolls while being forced to sing Aqua's "Barbie Girl" in a leotard. Being plastic isn't always fantastic.

(photo: berkshirefinearts.com)

Toilet seat sprinkles

This one is mostly for the ladies, I’m guessing. Without fail, if I’m traveling, running around town, or moving through my day where a public restroom crosses my path, I see drops on the pot. Why, why, why? Do you have a sprinkler head screwed to your urethra? Are you marking your territory in this shithole? Are you blind or just a pissant?

This wet peeve sends me over the edge. As I’m wiping down your golden shower and building a paper barrier between me and your pee spree, I imagine all sorts of retripootion, ranging from forcing you to hose down a Honey Bucket to punching your bladder in the face to an old-school swirlie. Wet blanket I may be, but damn if my seat ain’t neat.

Back-handed compliments

I can’t get over how good you look.
You’re so lucky.
If I ate like you…I’d look like a house.
You don’t look happy in that.
That sweater is…interesting.
I just think it’s a little young for you.
It’s a hat, all right.
You’re more of a “street smart” kind of guy.
You’re not the kind of girl guys date; you’re the kind of girl they marry.
You're so evolved…for a man.
You’re so real.

As a perfectly bred broad, let me be perfectly clear.

The back-handed compliment really should be called a back-handed cutdown because there’s absolutely nothing complimentary about these sort of comments. Worse than actual criticism, they drip with condescension, as though I am too thick to pick up on what you’re really saying. Oh, I get it. And it sucks. You suck.

Spit it out and say what you mean, or keep your rude trap shut. If this dress makes my skin look like a rotten cantaloupe, I’d sorta like to know. If you think I said something inane, keep it to yourself. With loads of etiquette options in front of you, don’t secretly delight in choosing the road less mannered. Don’t rationalize away the passive-aggressive comment by believing you’re refraining from saying what you really think. Instead of demonstrating tact, you’re just putting the ass in class.

And in case that was unclear in any way, that’s not a compliment.

What less-than-kind "compliment" sticks in your craw?

(photo: puntabulous.com)

Ankle bracelets

If tennis bracelets are the jewelry equivalent of the French manicure, then ankle bracelets are press-on nails. I’m not quite sure about the origins of the anklet, but it seems like a gold-plated shackle to a shitbox life hanging out at the mall.

How’s that work when putting on socks? It must chafe at the gym. It’s particularly awesome when it’s over (and sometimes under) nylons. Usually that hosiery color is “suntan” and the anklet is straight out of Things Remembered. In a word, hot.

Speaking of smokin’, I remember watching Love in the Afternoon a few years back and wondering why Audrey Hepburn chose to strap on an anklet to pose as a woman of the world. Wouldn’t red lipstick have done the trick? But now I get it. An ankle bracelet was her sign that she was open for business and believe me, Gary Cooper was buying what she was selling. The ankle bracelet wasn’t an indicator of class, but a measure of how many times around the block she had been.

I think we should string together all these chain-link offenses, lasso the women who wear them, and send them back to hell (i.e., Claire’s Boutique).

(photo: home-jewelry-business-success-tips.com)

Early birds

Whenever I have unhappily stumbled into an office or coffee shop at 7am, I see a flock of smug early birds silently congratulating each other for being such productive, rarified members of society. These chipper toolboxes are one step away from developing a secret handshake. This sort of self-satisfaction would be irksome enough, but add to that their silent disdain for anyone who sets their alarm for sometime after sunrise and they really make me want to flip my shit.

Dude, so you get to your desk at the ass-crack of dawn. You are the first one to turn off the security alarm. You regularly meet with your trainer at 5:30am. You have special alone time with the boss. Whoopadeedoo! The only thing this means is that you go to bed at 9pm. You climb under the covers before the sun goes down, which is not something to pat yourself on the back about, unless you’re a farmer.

Don't give me stinkeye when I roll in. Don’t even hint that I don’t work hard for the money. I usually toil away until I turn off the lights long after midnight, so eat my alarm clock. We have different schedules, different rhythms that suit us. It doesn’t mean that your day is any longer or more fruitful than mine. It just means that you’re a judgmental fuck who drinks decaf after 2pm.

The best part of waking up is piping hot Folgers in your face.

(photo: nicksflickpicks.com)

Staycations

This has been the summer of the “staycation,” a dumbass euphemism for being too broke to go anywhere interesting. Instead, people are encouraged to discover their own town, to go on holiday in their own backyard—literally, their own backyard. Instead of flying to a foreign country, renting a condo at the beach, or roadtripping to Wall Drug, set up a tent on your patio and sleep al fresco. What could be better?

Um, most anything.

If you are sitting on your couch for two weeks, you’re not on vacation. You’re unemployed or broke or both. Vacationing at home only makes you think about the shit you have to get done. Instead of recharging your batteries on this naycation, you’ll paint the kitchen, record your expenses into Quicken, grout the tub. Some holiday. It almost beats that time when you were 11 and you went on that cross-country family roadtrip right around the time your parents split up, doesn’t it?

Naming something annoyingly cute doesn’t make it so. Just look at Soleil Moon Frye or the critter from Gremlins. Yeah, Gizmo was adorbs…until you added water. A staycation sounds appealing…until you realize that you just reorganized your closet, waxed the floors as well as your bits and pieces, and sewed all the missing buttons on your clothing. Productive? Yes. Relaxing? Just stay no.

Don't even get me going about babymoons…

(photo: mybadpad.com)

Mariah Carey's closet

There are certain folks who would give their right tit for your wardrobe…if they had one. See, Mimi, you have one dragalicious collection of clothes. Come to think of it, drag queens would probably turn their powdered noses up at your trashy-assed closet too. Your body is bangin’, but stuffed into sequined, skintight, skimpy clothes, you look like a space-age sausage. Vision of Glove is never gonna get you on a best-dressed list. Stylists like Clinton and Stacy are always harping on proper fit, but tight is equally as bad as baggy. Rule of thumb: if you can see your belly button through a garment, ditch it.

And for God’s sake, put the girls away. We know you’ve got pipes on you…since you showcase your chest at every opportunity. Side boob, underboob, bouncing-around-like-a-sack-of-puppies cleavage… Get those things under control and out of sight. You could take out an innocent passerby, you could blind a young fan.

Paula created a diversion for a few years with her sartorial junk show but now that she’s gone from Idol, you’d best clean your shit up. Soften up your look, find some jeans with more than a 1-inch rise, look for things that allow you to sit without your bits and pieces sticking to the seat (Was “Touch My Body” an ode to your favorite chair?), and buy a fucking bra. And maybe then, I’ll only deride you for your music.

(Photo: examiner.com)

GPS addicts

“What are you doing?”
“I’m putting the restaurant we’re going to into my GPS.”
“Um…it’s a half-mile down this road.”

Shuttle and cab drivers, go crazy with the positioning systems. Maybe the route from the airport won’t be quite as circuitous (and therefore expensive) with some help from above. On a long road trip, go ahead and bust it out. See, I’m all for things that make life easier. But some geographically challenged chumps seem to be using GPS to find their own ass.

You’ve lived in this neighborhood for years, Lostco de Gama. You don’t seem as if you’ve suffered a crushing blow to the head resulting in temporary global amnesia. So why on earth do you turn to a bossy machine to get anywhere and everywhere? Why do you require assistance to drive in a straight line, Christopher Coldumbass? High school geometry must have been a real bitch. Word problems probably sent you into the fetal positioning system.

Why do you need a disembodied automaton with an Australian accent to tell you what to do? That’s what a dominatrix is for, duh. And I’m right here in the passenger seat, ready and willing to tell you where to get off, if you get my drift.

(Photo: german-way.com)

Gratitude

“Be grateful you still have a job (even if you are shouldering the work of four people.)”

“At least you have health insurance (albeit a crappy plan with a ginormous deductible.)”

“Hey, you have a roof over your head (even if you aren’t sure how to pay your rent next month.)”

“So many others are in a much worse position than you (so shut your gripe gob.)”

I’m not a hater, really I’m not. I am thankful for all sorts of things large and small. These days, however, there seems to be a general attitude that we should be happy with our state in life because others have it much, much worse. Granted, I may not be getting royally cornholed, but I’m often still getting fucked. I’m supposed to journal about how blessed I am?

Screw gratitude.

First of all, I don’t want others to be worse off than me. I like to feel superior in loads of ways, don't get me wrong, but not when it comes to reliable indoor plumbing. And I don’t want to rationalize away my sorry state of affairs by giving thanks that I have just enough banked to see me through one round of bills. When someone counts off my blessings and tells me that I should be grateful, I want to tell the goddamned Oprah acolyte that stewing in silently suffering martyr juice ain’t my style.

Write that in your gratitude journal, you sanctimonious asshat. I’d be forever grateful.

What’s the most annoying comment you’ve received lately about gratitude and/or your attitude?

Bucket lists

I’m all for living your life to the fullest (like Bon Jovi says, “I just wanna live while I’m alive”) but there’s something about putting your dreams and aspirations in a bucket that seems just plain wrong. Maybe if it was called the Silk Purse List or the Safety Deposit Box List or the Goody Drawer List, I could choke down the idea. But bucket? Can’t we find a worthier receptacle for our unfulfilled desires?

I get it. Kick the bucket and all that. Riiiiight. What does this saying even mean? When I’m in my death throes, am I expected to seize up and randomly punt a bucket that just happens to be sitting next to my deathbed? What, was I just digging up potatoes or mopping the floor? When I’m about to buy the farm, I don’t envision myself as an indentured servant.

Fuck the bucket. Live each day like you were dying. No, don’t lay in bed, don’t ask for ice chips, and don’t check crap off a list. Go out, eat your way through all the lobster in Maine, have a lot of bomb-chica-bom-bom sex, be present in every single fucking moment, and lose the suck-it list. If you don't, I'll have no choice but to fulfill my lifelong dream of clocking you nine ways ’til Sunday. It's right up there with skydiving.

(photo: www.iwatchstuff.com)

Archie

Even if you are Howdy Doody’s dopplegänger, I’ve always liked you. Loved even.

Until today.

That’s when I heard that, instead of finally realizing that Betty Cooper is the best thing since sliced bread, you proposed to that douchebaguette Veronica Lodge. Yeah, she’s loaded. And her Super Sweet 16 party was off the hook. I mean, who can forget Moose doing Jell-O shots off of Miss Grundy? And how she got Kings of Leon to perform is still a mystery. I suspect incriminating photos are in play…

But I digress. Yeah, Ronnie’s a stone-cold fox with that glossy black Megan Fox hair and Fembot body, but she is a serious pill. She treats you like her lapdog (for which I hear she paid a fancy-pants breeder a small fortune). She could have bought you a car with that money to replace that deathtrap of a jalopy you drive. Running boards are so 1935! Even a PT Cruiser would be acceptable to the hunk o’ junk you pollute the streets with.

And hello, check your papers! You’re both 17. Teen marriage is so 1835. Focus on graduating from Riverdale High and get your associate’s degree, why don’t you? If you still want to get hitched to Blair Waldorf’s role model, well then, have a good life as Mr. Veronica Lodge. If you persist in tying the noose, I mean, knot, then I'll have no choice but to hit you so hard the freckles fall off your face.

(photo: christiancomicsinternational.org)

It’s versus its

I could go on about my disdain for the wrong use of “there,” “they’re,” and “their,” or “hear” and “here,” but what really drives me batshit crazy is the improper use of “its” and “it’s.” There is no reason that it’s confusing. Seriously. If you fuck this up regularly, there is something wrong with you, you had a shitty teacher in junior high, or you just don’t care, which is almost worse. Language is sacred to me. When you mangle “it,” you figuratively shit all over my Strunk & White with your grammatical apathy.

This is all you need to remember: if you can say “it is” instead of “it’s” and it sounds right, then you should use an apostrophe. “It’s” is a contraction and should ONLY ever be used that way.

For example:
It is raining men = It’s raining men = Perfectamundo.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on it’s plain = Just plain wrong.

If you need any further help remembering this, I can go Pavlov on your remedial English ass and inflict a little conditional response with my fist every time you bungle "its" usage. That should remedy the situation, don’t you think?

(Photo: horrormovies.org)

Nicole Kidman’s forehead

Did your frontal lobe suffer a paralyzing stroke? Has your forehead been replaced by an ostrich egg? What is the deal with your forehead?

If I ever learn to ski, I hope I can skip the bunny slope and do a trial run down your noggin. It’s Satine-smooth and there’s no fear of an avalanche. If there was a tremor or earthquake in the vicinity, your forehead would remain dead calm.

I fell asleep during Eyes Wide Shut but I think it was the story of your life, since your forehead is pulling the skin so tight that you can’t close your eyes. Keith probably married you for other reasons but it can’t hurt that he can check his razored haircut in the reflecting pool on your face.

Your fashion sense may be to die for, but I have to question your penchant for Botox. Back away from the botulism, grow some bangs, and put that thing away…unless, of course, it’s how you signal to your people in space. Then of course, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

(Photo: There is a blog called "Nicole Kidman's Forehead! This photo came from it. That fact that this blog exists just made my day.)

Lentils

Lentils. Just the thought of them makes my mouth go dry. Could someone please explain these things to me? Seriously, I just don’t get why anyone would eat lentils if given the choice between them and pretty much anything else that will fit in your piehole. Lentils taste mealy and lifeless, no matter how any top chef cooks them. Reconstituted astronaut food tastes better than this legume. And they're fugly to boot. I like my share of earth-tone food—don’t get me wrong—but this drab foodstuff has the stink of sadness all over it (and I’m not talking about the gas it produces).

There are other ways to get protein. In a word, livestock. Duh. As the bumper sticker goes, if God didn’t want us to eat animals, why’d He make them out of meat? Who am I to question His judgment? If you must go against all that is good and holy and insist on being a vegetarian, graze on a garbanzo bean or go crazy with a boiled egg.

When Cliff included lentils as part of his dish for a romantic 5-course meal on season 2 of Top Chef, I knew he was sounding his own death knell. It didn’t help that he mangled Marcel, obvs, but even without the throwdown, that lentil purée was his sloppy ticket to the cheftestant compost pile. Lentils may be nutritious; sexy, they are not.

Be a daal, would you Cliff, and pack your knives. And don't forget to take the lentils with you.

(Photo: soupsong.com/rlentil7.html)

freecreditreport.com ads

Your jingles may be annoyingly catchy, but the dude singing them is just plain annoying. If I have to see your shaggy mop kicking it at a Ren Faire or entertaining the early birds at a seafood restaurant one more time, I’m going to drive my fist so far into your face that you’re going to be pushed back a hundred or so points on your crap-ass credit report.

And here’s a thought: maybe you’re living in your in-laws’ basement, not because your dream girl had bad credit, but because your emo band can’t get a gig. Put down your guitar, lose the white man’s overbite, and stop being a whiny cautionary tale. Martyrdom never made anyone serious coin.

Steff from Pretty in Pink

Dear Steff:

You think you’re such a fox. Strutting through the halls in your white Tony Montana suit and your purdy mouth, you fling contempt right and left with those lidded “I’m so bored I’m surprised I’m even alive” eyes. But then you shake that feathered hair—do I detect frosted tips?—out of your lazy eyes and light on Andie.

As if.

While she’s sure to be a firecracker in the sack, that’s not going to happen at the stable, in your sportscar, or at your nouveau riche wreck of a house. As Blaine told me in the computer lab last period, “she thinks you’re shit.” He should know. He got all up in that on prom night.

So move on, Less than Zero. Graduate with a C+ average, buy your way into Northwestern (before your dad is indicted with Michael Milken on charges of security violations), rush Alpha Epsilon Asswipe with Hardy Jenns, and watch your back. Duckie’s planning on joining ROTC at the community college and picking up some life skills. When you see him ride by on his bike, get ready to say hello to his little friend.

Sincerely,
Me (i.e. the girl with the bi-level haircut and the neon green double-wrap belt you tried to cheat off of on last week's calc test)

P.S. John Hughes, U R 2 good 2 B 4-gotten.

(Photo: listoftheday.blogspot.com)

Mushy cereal

I’ve put away a lot of cereal in my time. As a kid, I hoovered Apple Jacks, Lucky Charms, Honeycomb, and Quisp (which I’m forever sad isn’t in the cereal aisle any longer). There was King Vitaman for a faux-healthy bender, Frosted Mini-Wheats if I could get to them before my brothers, Wheaties if I was feeling sporty.

No matter the cereal, I always knocked it back as if I was in a competitive eating contest. See, I hate mushy cereal.

If they approach my cereal bowl, Cheerios, Raisin Bran, and Special K can keep on walking…or swimming as the case may be. Kissing cousins to ice cream cones that melt too quickly, these Rice Not-So-Krispies turn into mush upon contact with my 2-percent. Weak links in the breakfast food chain, these pansy-ass thorn flakes have no business calling themselves cereal. Heck, I’d rather eat gruel, Victorian-orphanage style than try to choke down this frosted foam.

Punching is futile as this crap will absorb the massive shock coming its way. Instead, let’s repurpose this stuff as insulation or packing pellets. Eat that, Helloggs.

(Photo: www.dugpa.com/fwwm_deleted_scenes_part4.php)

Quadraboob and uniboob

Any sort of ill-fitting bra on myself or anyone else chaps my hide (particularly around my chest). Just like jeans that are too small, the wrong fit will give you a muffin top up top—not a tasty look.

Quadraboob looks terrible and feels even worse. Are two breasts not enough for you? Do you need to one-up (or two-up) the rest of us by stuffing yourself into a cup size so small that your bodacious boobies spill up and over, clearly trying to escape their Lycra vise? Like wishing for unicorns or Edward Cullen, telling yourself that you’re a 34C doesn’t bring it into being.

Then there’s the uniboob, which, if you haven’t had this mammary treat thrown in your face, occurs when you stuff your junk into a tight bra bandage so that you get one lump sum across your chest. Sure, the girls will be immobilized during a workout, but this ta-ta tube will also look like you’re squirreling away a loaf of bread or a salami in your shirt. While delicious, they sure can’t compare with your luscious decolletage.

Beeline to your nearest lingerie department and get fitted, or study up at Wrong Bra Size. Yes, you may be a size larger than you thought, but if you keep smothering and smashing and shoving your breasts into a compression bandage, I'm going to have to fill an over-the-shoulder boulder holder with an actual boulder and knock some sense into you.

(Photo: www.twolia.com/.../)