Wednesday, September 30, 2009

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.

Monday, September 28, 2009


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.


Tuesday, September 22, 2009

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!)

Saturday, September 19, 2009

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.


Thursday, September 17, 2009

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.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Back-handed compliments

I can’t get over how good you look.
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?


Thursday, September 10, 2009

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).


Monday, September 7, 2009

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.


Wednesday, September 2, 2009


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…