Monday, August 31, 2009

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.


Wednesday, August 26, 2009

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.


Monday, August 24, 2009


“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?

Saturday, August 22, 2009

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.


Wednesday, August 19, 2009


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.


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

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?


Friday, August 14, 2009

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.)

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


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 purĂ©e 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.


Monday, August 10, 2009 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.

Friday, August 7, 2009

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.

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.


Wednesday, August 5, 2009

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.


Saturday, August 1, 2009

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.