Tyra’s tutorials

“There’s a way of being a corpse while still having life in your eyes. It’s the difference between THIS (blank dead fish stare) and THIS (squinty dead fish stare). Do you see the difference?”

Oh, Professor Banks, you’re so wise! If only there was a Nobel Prize for FIERCENESS, you'd be picking up your medal in Stockholm.

A longtime fan of ANTM, I’m always amused by the number of times during panel this preacher teacher schools a fucktard on how to work her face. It reminds me of the opthalmologist’s office. “Which is better? A or B? A or B?” Um, is this a trick question? Are you playing a Helen Keller joke on me? They’re both exactly the same!

Tyra, where would we be without your deep insights into the industry? We’d show up at go-sees without our heels. We’d mouth off to the photographer. We’d ask the designer to give us his clothing samples. We’d miss shoots because of a little case of swine flu. But most tragic of all, we’d never learn how to smile with our eyes…and we’d have to pack our bags and go home.

Before we go, in the event you need a refresher course, let me pull out a dead fish and slap your money-maker with it. This is what a punched-in-the-face face looks like. This is what a punched-in-the-face face looks with smiling eyes. See the difference?

(photo: fourfour.typepad.com)

Miracle Whip

Even as a kid, I had a discriminating palette. If I bit into a BLT or ham sandwich that was advertised as containing mayonnaise and tasted even a hint of Miracle Whip, I’d spit that shit out and pitch a fit. Listen up, Chef Annoyme: Mayo and Miracle Whip are NOT interchangeable.

Clearly, I was an asshole at nine years old. Not much has changed. Perhaps it was one Miracle Whip bait and switch too many that sent me off on a bologna-and-ketchup binge for all of fourth grade. I was obviously deeply traumatized by Miracle Dip shit.

This sugary spooge is a crime against nature and my taste buds.
I can tell if it’s in potato or egg salad. I can sniff that slop out the way a pig roots out truffles. It's time to kick this "salad dressing" out of the condiment clubhouse. All the execs at Kraft should be forced to enter a Miracle Whip-eating contest. Let’s see just how much you can put down before you suffer a serious reversal of fortune and yack up that pearl jam. Methinks it won't be long…unless there's a miracle.

(photo: blogs.myspace.com/klepster)

Sweeping around me while I’m eating

I admit it. I hit McDonalds and other fast-food restaurants with some regularity. The frequency rises when I’m traveling. Truth is, I love me some greasy vittles. But nothing ruins a meal in a bag quite like an employee who suddenly decides to make himself useful right at the moment I’m dipping my fry into a ketchup pond or biting into a Big Mac.

He begins by sweeping the floor a few feet away, moving closer and closer to me and my grub. A shark in a grimy visor, he circles me, kicking up dust, airborne viruses, and God knows what into my nose, my gob, and most importantly, my food.

Excuse me, annoyee of the month, could you perhaps wait until I leave? Could you sweep over there by the empty booths?

If not, I’m going to have it my way. I’m going to flip your broom and shove the handle up your bum, turning you into a mystery-meat puppet who I can point in the direction of the deep-fat fryer so you can fetch me a chicken pot pie, or at least a fresh order of fries. Hold the dust.

(photo: blog.myspace.com/17529263)

Stripper brows

I really have to draw the line. Pencil-thin brows and sperm brows don’t belong on the face. Put those sad things in a sterile cup where they belong.

I admit it: I plucked the fuck out of my eyebrows in 7th grade in an unfortunate experiment during a boring weekend. It was around the same time that I tried cutting my own bangs. Add to that a bad perm and you’ve got a whole lot of not-pretty going on. I tried to take some arty shots and since they were a bit out of focus, I looked a bit like Marlene Dietrich. Oh, who am I kidding? I looked like nine miles of bad road.

I digress.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been letting the brows grow in while simultaneously watching a whole lot of reality TV. Invariably the skank shows (i.e. Rock of Love) are riddled with crippled eyebrows. Some are drawn on in a thin line (see Pam Anderson or John Waters’ mustache).

Then there are the cock-tweezers trying to rock sperm brows. You know the kind: they start out sort of full and then they quickly taper to a thin tadpole tail. Is this an announcement that their hoo hah is open for business? And if the sperm shape isn’t bad enough, the overplucked brows often start somewhere over the pupil instead of the inside corner of the eye, so these dumbasses already look punched in the face and vaguely surprised.

What's the deal? Are these brow-challenged chicks OCD and can’t leave them alone? Do they have trichotillomania, working out their issues by pulling out their brows? Are they a living tribute to the comma?

Rather than punching these douchettes in their already damaged faces, I think a bit of hot wax is in order. Avoiding the eyebrow area, I think I’m going to treat you to a full facial wax since you clearly like depilation so fucking much. And FYI, the standard tip for services rendered is 15 to 20 percent.

What celebrity brows do you think need a do-over?

(Photo: VH1)

Unidentifiable kitchen odors

It sounds like the premise of a joke: A girl walks into her kitchen and smells something strange… But it’s no laughing matter. As soon as I approach my kitchen, my cilia—the first line of defense—start vibrating. Then the smell hits my olfactory sense and I recoil from the stink punch to my face.

Extreme measures must be taken. This invisible but foul foe must be hunted down, rubbed out, and replaced with a scent I can stomach.

Where do I start? Is it the sink, trashcan, recycling bins, fridge, or perhaps the innocent-looking sponge? Where the eff is it coming from? It smells like Matthew McConaughey’s pits mingled with my grandma’s bathroom, laced with a soupçon of sour dairy, a nasty nasal cocktail to be sure. Is there a putrid poltergeist squatting in my kitchen? Am I trapped in a moody Japanese horror film? Is the new trashcan liner ass-scented? Is an alligator decomposing in my pipes? The old hard-boiled Easter eggs and sour milk were chucked days ago; could their aura live on? And I shudder to think about what could be lying in the cupboard behind the Honeycombs box.

Kitchen, what the smell is your problem? Why you gotta be all mysterious and shit? You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a leftover burrito, and it’s time to wake up and smell the hoses. If you don't come clean, I'm going to scrub you raw and drown you in bleach. Suck on that, you reeking punk-ass airborne bitch.

(photo: lifehacker.com/355264)

Sunglasses at night

Is your future so bright that you’ve gotta wear shades? Newsflash, Corey Hart, you don’t look cool. In fact, can you look at all?

Are you almost famous? Are you Bono? Jack Nicholson at the Oscars? No, then take those goddamn Top Gun aviators off. It’s not 1986 and you’re not Iceman. Even pilots take their sunglasses off after dark. If you don’t remove them, I’m going to take your breath away…literally. My fist feels the need, the need to speed toward your face.

Can you even make your way through a trendy nightclub when wearing your Oliver Peoples or your BluBlockers? I suppose they could be special superspy glasses that give you night vision or crazy tracking abilities.

But I suspect not.

More likely, they are a fashion crutch intended to lend you an air of L.A. hipness. Allow me to shed some light on the situation—you don’t look cool, you look like a tool in a graphic tee wearing too much hair product. In other words, you're trying way too hard. Since you seem to enjoy low lighting, let me do you a favor and make that a permanent condition by blinding you permanently with the bow of your Ray-Bans. Harsh, yes, but so is the cold light of day on your delicate eyes.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/tharrin/3187721828)

Renaissance faires

As the weather warms up, my thoughts naturally turn to sunscreen, outdoor cinema, beach vacations… Unfortunately, I also think of Renaissance faires. From meadow to wood, these traveling minstrel shows set up shoppe for a few days of costumed frivolity. Celebrating the age of the Bard, RenFaires provide a balm to the spirit, a respite from the modern storm, a step back in time, a rare opportunity to rub starched linen elbows with the occasional jongleur…

In other words, these most rare and precious of gatherings are a time to inflict some serious old-school torture.

Ye Olde Newsflashe: If you’re carrying a lute, you clay-witted codpiece, you’re gonna get your ass kicked. The Dark Ages may be over but I’m still going to make your world go black. To aid me in my quest, I call upon my noble and true hand puppet. With mini club in hand, Punch can swing away in the direction of your jingly jester hat. With a heavy tankard, he can swipe at wenches and whelps in kind.

Prithee, bend over so that my good friend can more easily kick you in the breeches with his wee leather boots or vigorously jab you with his jousting lance (sadly, not a metaphor). My dude’s got mad skills. After all, he’s a Renaissance man.

Verily.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/lulusfishtank/230118658/)

Seat hogs

After suffering through planes, trains, and automobiles for nigh on a week, I’ve had it with all the greedy fucks who ooze over several seats. At the airport, businessmen ignore the masses at the jam-packed gate and set up shop with their computer and carry-on to one side, meal to the other, and cords snaking out and plugging up all the available outlets.

On the bus, selfish hosebeasts sit on the aisle, cock blocking the empty window seat next to them by dumping a backpack on it, or simply ignoring my presence behind sun-blocking shades.

When my friend and I scrambled onto the Amtrak regional train bound for New York, we found ourselves in a free-for-all of epic proportions while trying to score two seats together. This might have been easier had the asswipes not come out in force, draping themselves over two seats and feigning sleep.

Move your fat faker ass, and your little dog too!

If you insist on being a waste of space, I’m afraid I have no choice but to assume the seat of power and hand your ass to you on a silver platter. You'll feel the earth move under your feet as I herd you to a standing-room only area for the duration of your trip. If you covet your neighbor's seat again, I'm going to gather up your belongings, pile them in your lap, and wrap you in yellow "POLICE—DO NOT CROSS" tape. That should contain you nicely while I punch your greedy gob. Awake now? No? Then you won't feel it when I smother you with your travel pillow.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/joekerstef/2882501714)

Scrappy Doo

When thinking about characters that single-handedly torpedoed a TV show, yippy Scrappy Don’t tops the list (Cousin Oliver, I'm gunning for you next). What the fuck were Hanna and Barbera smoking when they introduced this punk-ass bitch into the pack? Even Cesar Millan would lose his shit after watching you for one episode.

The Scooby gang was handling their mysteries just fine when Scooby’s Great Lame nephew arrived on the scene. Puppy power my ass. Freddy should take off his porn star kerchief and strangle Crappy Doo. Shaggy could get hopped up on Scooby snacks, get behind the wheel of the Mystery Machine, and run down Scrappy Poo. Velma should fit him with a choke chain and dump this cocky little canine in pound prison; I'm sure a few older pooches would be happy to take him in hand and make him their bitch. Maybe one of the geezer ghosts could haunt Scrappy Doo Doo for all of eternity, the way this shrill pill haunts my Saturday-morning nightmares. The beat-down possibilities are endless, but the ultimate responsibility lies with family. Uncle Scooby needs to suck it up, ball up a paw, and thrash this whippersnapper within an inch of his short life.

I’ve got two words for you, Yappy Doo. Rut roh.

(photo: newsfromme.com/images8/scrappy1.jpg)

Cross-pollinated food

Some things, like peanut butter and chocolate or mac and cheese, are a match made in epicurean heaven. Then there’s the cheeseburger pizza. Contrary to popular Pillsbury belief, it’s not the best of both worlds. It's neither a cheeseburger nor a pizza. Discuss.

While I can tuck into a tater tot casserole like nobody’s business, certain foods have no business commingling. Pick a lane, taco pie. Stop waffling, Dunkin Donuts waffle sandwich. Pizza and lasagna are beautiful things on their own; why did Rachel Ray have to jump the shark with pizzagna? And McRib, you’re just McWrong. I gotta hand it to McDonalds for having the ’nads to introduce a boneless, seemingly meatless McRib sandwich.

What’s next? Chocolate chicken wings? A sausage-link latte? Tilapia crème brûlée? It’s time to order up a large fist with a side of ire, and rain Pepto-Bismo-laced punches down on these taco-flavored misses.

What’s the grossest food combination you’ve ever popped in your piehole?

(photo: flickr.com/photos/gorillasushi/3280933881/)

PT Cruisers

Drive one of these and you’re basically PT crusin for a bruisin. Trying to recapture the flavor of the American Graffiti era (or a ZZ Top video), this wannabe retro ride looks more like a clown car worthy of PT Barnum. As Billy Joel once put it, the good old days weren’t always good.

I don’t know about you, but back in the day, cruising the Fairplain Plaza in my hometown was a sign we had pretty much given up. Cruising was not an activity to be remembered fondly; it was boredom in motion. Whether in a sweet-ass low-rider or a shitbox caboose, we were on a road to nowhere. Some still are.

A lot of rental agencies are handing out PT Cruisers to unsuspecting travelers. Slide those keys back across the counter, my sharp-dressed man, even if it means driving a crapass beater. Every time I spy one of these—usually in a pussy color like plum—I start to overheat. In a PT Loser, you’re asking to get rear-ended, and not in a good way. If you insist on bopping around town in this moving violation, get ready for a head-on collision with my fist.

This abomination looks like the bizarre love child of a VW bug and mini-van. Natural selection will eventually weed these mutations out of the automotive food chain, but I’m going to lend a helping hand. With a tire iron, I will wipe that stupid smile off the grill and hood. Since you're so effing sweet, I'm sure you won't mind if I pour some sugar in your gas tank. And now that you've made me so nostalgic, I'm going to unleash my inner bored teenager and plaster your exterior with a few dozen eggs. I've got eggs, and I know how to use them.

(photo: infomotori.com)

TYPING E-MAILS IN ALL CAPS

When you rip off an e-mail to me using only capital letters, I reckon that you’re pissed, lazy, or both. You’re pretty much passive-aggressively shouting at me. I’m certainly screaming inside my head reading your rant.

STOP IT.

I’M NOT KIDDING. CUT IT THE FUCK OUT.

I’m a big believer in proper grammar and punctuation, and I feel there's a perfect word or phrase to express a thought or feeling. You don’t need to resort to all caps to get your point across. I GET IT!

I also get that you’re a monster A-hole who's in serious need of an etiquette class. I don’t care that you’re rushed, I don’t want to hear that your pinkies can’t operate the shift key properly, and I really don’t give a shit that your shit is irked. If you want to communicate with me, I’d better see some ascenders and descenders coming at me through my in-box. If there’s no x-height to be found, you can bet money that I’m going to seriously font you up and put a cap in your ass, where it belongs.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/deepfriedkudzu)

Utilikilts

Is a Tolkien convention in town, or are the Highland Games looming? Sorry to be a Utilipill, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, these man-skirts are fecking dumb. Unless you’re heading to a Gathering in your clan's tartan, back away from the Utilikilt. Scotsman Alan Cumming can pull off a kilt when hanging at a gay bar or anywhere else. Gerald Butler can sure as hell make it work. You can’t.

What’s that, you say? You’re hot? Wear some cargo shorts (just stay away from the jorts). Edgy? Get a tat. Lord of the Rings fan? Move back to the shire, or at least New Zealand. Need a place to stick your tools? I can suggest a few alternatives.

If you insist on never giving up your freedom, I'm going to give you some serious Maclovin'. I'll wrap my arms around your waist and reach for your big tool—namely, your ballpein hammer. Cue the bagpipes, MacDeath, and get ready for a Braveheart-worthy beatdown. And if you persist in your questionable fashion choices, I’ll have no choice but to pull out a dirk and go for the Utilikill.

And no, I don’t want to see what you've got going on under there.

(photo: uncrate.com)

People who never carry cash

I understand the appeal of the debit or credit card. It’s a lot easier to track on Quicken. You can travel light. Believe me, I get it. I use my debit card…a lot. But there’s a time and a place to whip it out, and it’s not when you’re splitting a bar tab ten ways. If you know you’re going out with a large group of people, for the love of all things holy, stuff a wad of bills down your pants.

And believe it or not, there are still a few places that only accept cash and checks. I choke back my two cents every time I find myself at one of these joints with someone who doesn’t have a lick of cash on them. My choices are few: I wait for them to go to an ATM or I float them the cash and then I wind up looking like a dick three weeks later when I ask for the money back and they don’t remember—and they still don’t have any coin on them. Asking for the third or fourth time, I sound like a tightwad tool. And more often than not, I forget that I loaned them money and I’m just hosed.

The only thing to do is to gather up my change in a sock and float one last loan. Just let me know where on your body you’d like me to deposit this hefty sum. And don't worry about repayment. This one's free of charge.

(photo: baserinstincts.com)

Peeps

In honor of Good Friday, I thought I’d smack down the most loathsome of Easter candy: Peeps. (Tunafish casserole placed a close second as a TIWTPITF today.)

When used in an art project, I can stomach the Peep (I particularly love Wynn Rankin’s Hobo Peep, above). As a tasty treat, not so much. I once dated a dude who left his Peeps out for months so the outside would get really crusty. Then he’d go at them, snapping off the brittle head and working his way down. (Draw your own conclusions about our short-lived relationship.) When I was a little girl down on the farm, I didn’t fancy watching a chicken with its head cut off. Looking at the headless Peep, however, I am filled with a sick satisfaction. These marshmassholes deserve a slow and painful death.

Peeps are too effing sweet, and I’m not just talking about taste. Their pleasingly plump shape is all style and no substance. Pop one down the hatch and instead of a taste explosion, you get the food equivalent of the limp handshake.

This fox wants to slink into the henhouse and lay waste to these yambags. I don’t want to eat them or create a diorama or art installation out of their treacly little bodies. Nope, I want to bust out a flamethrower, torch the whole cloying coop, and give new meaning to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

KFC, now that’s what I’m talking about. If only I could eat meat today…

(On the flip side, I can’t wait for the Cadbury Eggs to go on sale Monday. Mmm, fondant yolk.)

Check out this Peeptacular contest the Seattle Times ran a couple of years ago.

(photo: Wynn Rankin)

Patchouli

Damn you, patchouli! I cannot stomach your musky stink one minute longer. Much like peach schnapps (a long story involving a pint bottle, a frat party, and an acid-wash jean skirt), a whiff of you makes me throw up a little in my mouth. While this isn't a good thing in any situation, it's especially bad, since I really need to breathe through my mouth to avoid you as much as possible.

I was recently on a plane and a couple of old-school hippies were seated next to me. They were ripe. While they ordered up milk and nibbled on the fruit they brought along, I aimed the vent right at my nose and tried my best to sleep. But my puny olfactory sense is no match for your mighty stench. What's worse, if I brush against anything with you on it, your funk spams itself all over me and I can't get it off. Can you imagine my nausea-laced mortification when I bumped into someone doused in patchouli right before an important meeting? It didn't take long for Eau de Woodstock to assault the senses. I was trying to impress and I smelled like Haight-Ashbury during a heat wave.

To those fans of ratchouli, let me just say that dabbing on an overpowering fragrance in lieu of bathing only works for the French. Do you really think you can cover up your stank with this horrid scent? Do you think smelling like Matthew McKindamusk will reel in the ladies? Are you trying to brand yourself as a free spirit, an anti-establishment hippie? Newsflash, Sunshine Rainbow Quinoa, you're trying to fit in by wearing comfort sandals and reeking of patchoupee, just as much as if you were wearing the latest trend or spritzing yourself with a designer fragrance.

What to do? The answer is blowin' in the wind—downwind, that is.

I think a full-body glycolic peel—the more chemicals the better—is in order to exfoliate that shit down the drain. Perhaps I'll follow up with a tomato juice bath to neutralize any lingering skunk. Then I'll douse you with the latest Prada cologne and stuff you into a suit and pointy-toed shoes. Now that you're presentable, prepare for punishment. My daisy-fresh friends and I will form a circle around you and pummel you with hacky sacks, while alternately spraying aerosol deodorant and room freshener in your general direction.

(photo: Chronicle/Deanne Fitzmaurice)

Celebrity baby names

Pop quiz: Which of these are actual Hollywood baby names?
a. Ikhyd
b. Reign Beau
c. Audio Science
d. Pilot Inspektor
e. All of the above

You guessed it, being smart and shit, that the answer is “all of the above.”

I don’t hate the players, I just hate the name. I’m happy to have these kids grow up and join my posse. Kal-El (Superman’s Kryptonian name) and Moxie Crimefighter can knock down my haters. Hermes is destined to be my personal shopper, and Reign Beau my nutritionist.

Kids have enough problems without insecure yet narcissistic parents saddling them with a nutbar name. Why not let them discover who they are, rather than assigning them a name that’s sure to seal their fate? In Neverlandish, Blanket translates as “your father is koo koo crazy.” Ikhyd sounds like an exotic animal that can roam the plains alongside an okapi. Jermajesty and Banjo are gonna get their asses kicked up and down the playground. And even I feel fucked just thinking about Audio Science.

For shits and giggles, let’s change your names and see how you like it. From here on out, Kal-El’s daddy Nic Cage is going to be called Lex Loser. Rachel Griffith (Banjo’s mom) is hereby dubbed Accordion Fold. Ving Rhames sired Reign Beau so I think it’s more fitting to change his name to Pot O. Gold. Audio Science mom Shannyn Sossamon can be tagged as “Exhibit A” and be used as a test subject in a research experiment.

And, finally, Robert Rodriguez, since you are a repeat offender (Rebel, Racer, Rocket, Rogue, ridiculous), I’m going to give you a special moniker; I'm thinking "Rectum" or "Reduce Reuse Recycle."

What names do you want to stick these asshats with?
What baby names make you want to claw your face off?

(photo of Jason Lee with wife and son Pilot Inspektor: almirgv.blogger.ba)

Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker

I waited almost thirty years to see Anakin get his Vader on. Instead, I was subjected to Christensen’s whiney little bitch with bad hair and a slightly congested voice. If being jealous and misguided were enough to turn someone to the Dark Side, we’d all be lousy with the Force.

Anakin wasn’t supposed to be Emo, he was supposed to be fucking E-V-I-L. Slink off to Tatooine, keep a dream journal, front a band, stop washing your hair. Torture the Republic with your music if you have to, but get over yourself, Little Orphan Ani. You’re no more than Chancellor Palpatine’s butt boy

The only satisfying thing about Revenge of the Sith was seeing you lying there without arms or legs as the magma inched closer. Since the lava flow and Obi-Wan didn’t quite finish you off, you pissy wet noodle with light saber envy, let me inflict some additional pain in exchange for the 140-minutes of cinematic torture I endured. Let the Death Star that is my fist rain fury on your respirator, and may the Force be with me.

(photo: www.talk.ph)

A date with Bret Michaels

When Bret "Mystic Tan" Michaels says, “I have an awesome date planned,” I want to believe like Fox Mulder. I get giddy as if I’m actually on the Rock of Love Bus, eating Doritos and waiting with my stripper brows and acrylic French manicure to be swept away to a romantic dinner for two.

Then reality (TV) smacks me in the face.

Instead of an intimate tête à tête on the beach at sunset, Bret takes the ladies on a group date to one of his favorite places. His ranch? A 4-star restaurant? The plastic surgeon's office? Nope. In one episode, it is a strip club where he wants the contestants to work the pole with the pros. Instead of his heart, they are apparently supposed to vie for his chubby.

It has just gotten worse.

This week, Bret “Don’t touch my hair extensions” Michaels takes the final three ladies to Miami, where they have very special gifts awaiting them. Specifically, skimpy sequined Carnivale outfits, complete with headdresses. I guess every rose has its porn.

Mindy rebelled.

Bret was displeased. “You have to be able to roll and have fun…She’s just gone mad.”

Actually, I think she just went sort of normal. She doesn’t like the color peach. And she doesn’t fancy dressing up like a drag queen stripper and sitting on a couch or chair in a sequined thong.

Hey, I have an idea, Bret "Juvederm" Michaels. Put on some tight tearaway pants, French cuffs, and a bow tie, and grind it out to “Nothin’ but a Good Time.” Then we'll see about busting out the "cruise ship chorus meets Princess Leia in Return of the Jedi" gear.

Bret, I've got an awesome date planned. How about you, me, and my fist get together for a threesome? I'll bring along a few toys and accoutrements for added pleasure. A well-placed whack with a stripper shoe will momentarily stun you—you know you like it—and allow me to remove your beat-ass bandanna and tie you to a stripper pole. Then I can shear your flame-retardant Barbie hair and power wash off the self-tanner. My fist will now get it on with you by introducing its own version of the unskinny bop until your pain level is off the charts. How's that for a killer date?

(photo: evilbeetgossip.film.com)

Packing tape

I’m evolved. I have opposable thumbs. My motor reflexes are good. I feel pretty high on the food chain.

Until I pull out a tape gun.

Suddenly, I’m a single-cell organism. One of three things happens: 1) I work the tape gun properly but the tape crinkles and folds up on itself when I try to affix it to a box, 2) the tape retracts on itself and I can’t find where the start of it is, or 3) the tape gets caught in the jackass teeth and is mangled and shredded beyond use.

Then a fourth thing happens: I go ape shit and throw down the dick tape gun in disgust. It doesn’t matter if the tape is of the super-thick Scotch variety, the stuff I'm forced to buy at the post office because I forgot to bring tape along and they won't tape my packages shut any longer, or whisper-thin crap from the corner store. It all blows monkey. I waste a buttload of tape and that chaps my blue-collar hide.

To exact my revenge, I'm going to box up my rolls of tape, staple the flaps shut, and send that shit off to Bjork so she can make her next red-carpet dress. Give the fashion police my regards, 3M.

(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/chrisinplymouth)

Sneezy

Word around the cottage is that you're irking everyone's shit. Snow White's too much of a pussy to say anything so I thought I'd spell it out for you.

Quit stopping to smell the roses. Every fucking time you do, you start sneezing. When are you going to catch a ride on a clue bus? You have allergies, you immune-challenged twit. Frankly, I'm tired of asking if you have a cold only to be told, "I don't know what it is. I've never had allergies before but it seems like something in the air has been bothering me over the past couple of years."

Duh. Are you Dopey?

Your nose is red and chapped, your eyes are watering, you're running through Kleenex, and you're giving Grumpy a run for his whiney money. I'm starting to think you like the attention.

Quit trying to steal the thunder with your thunderous eruptions. Down some Claritin, rock a neti pot (I bet you could borrow one from Doc, who I understand is dabbling in homeopathic treatments these days after concocting an herbal poultice that was quite effective in leeching poison out of Snow White), and get a humidifier. And for the love of whatever god you worship in the forest, please stop the sweeping; dirt floors are not exactly ideal for someone of your delicate disposition.

If this continues, I'm going to have no choice but to go boy-in-the-plastic-bubble on your wee ass and stick you in a dust-free sphere, away from your peeps. If this sneezing continues, you can call me Punchy as I break your nose and hope the blocked nasal passage stops the sniveling. Or maybe I'll just put us all out of the misery by smothering you with a hypoallergenic pillow. Sneeze on that, bitch.

(photo: disney2go.disneyfansites.com)

Long fingernails on men

Long fingernails: a fashion for some young men
Originally uploaded by Big Bottom Bob

While I’m not keen on long Florence Griffith-Joyner nails on chicks, I really get goosebumps when I see long talons growing out of a dude’s nailbed.

What’s that, you say? You need them to play the guitar? Grow some calluses; they don’t need to be as long as a butter knife. Your pinky nail helps transport coke to your right nostril? Get a dollar bill and let it snow Bret Easton Ellis-style. You display them in your drag show? Press-on nails have come a long way, baby. You just don’t see the big deal about constant grooming? You’re going to be a man of constant sorrow if you don’t trim, file, or chew those claws down to a reasonable length.

If you insist on using your fingernails as chopsticks, be prepared for your nails and the hands they are attached to (and the arms the hands are attached to and the body the arms are attached to…) to get a massive scratch-down from my very functional active-length nails. And when I'm done, I'll sprinkle a healthy dose of nail polish remover over the raw areas, just because I'm thoughtful that way. If you can't take the tough love, next time, cut yourself to the quick, so I don't have to.

(photo: www.flickr.com/photos/bob_harlow/2767710828/)