Body after baby

Poor curvy Jessica Simpson. Come to find out, she's a normal person. Seven months after giving birth, she still looks Rubensque as she strollers around in tunics and hooker platforms. Happy, healthy, and maybe pregnant, I can't help but wonder if she got knocked up again so quickly just so she can bounce on her Weight Watchers deal.

I realize that not everyone's created equal. Gisele, Heidi, Miranda—these freaks of nature were bouncing their newborns off their taut tummies within the first two weeks. Kate Hudson's post-baby abs should get their own credit on Glee.

Bitches all.

I've never given birth but I feel for moms, or any woman for that matter. How are we supposed to explain our pooch—be it from a burrito baby or actual infant—when there are assholes out there showing off their six-pack with their six week old on their hip? Not cool. When celebrimoms grace the cover of US Weekly, claiming their speedy weight loss is due to breast feeding or a high metabolism or good genes, we know you're lying like a rug. You have Jillian Michaels, a nanny, a food delivery service, an impressive collection of Spanx, and possibly a wet nurse tucked away somewhere.

Please, give us a break and give us a chance. Step away from the Pilates Reformer, enjoy your baby, and let us have a moment in the spotlight with our Miraclesuits and jaunty scarves that draw the eye up.

Fuck you, Kristin Cavallari.

(photo: Jessica Alba, four months after giving birth; www.nydailynews.com)

Designer luggage

Flipping through a fancy-pants fashion mag, I happened upon an Annie Leibovitz photo of Angelina Jolie drifting down a Cambodian river, accompanied by only her Louis Vuitton travel tote. 

Bitch, please. 

Sit too close to the edge and that Alto bag is a croc’s snack bag.

I don’t care how rich you are, crazy expensive designer luggage seems as ill-advised as buying a mansion built on quicksand.

Total money pit.

At some point, darling, you’re going to have to check that shit and if history has told us anything, it’s that baggage handlers and the cargo hold are not kind to luggage. And a Louis Vuitton steamer trunk is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Those dudes are going to head straight for it and play kick the can. Sure, it’s sturdy and exquisitely made but it’s a suitcase. It’s suppose to encase your suit and protect your fabulous belongings, not be one of them.

Leave such gross excess to the likes of Karl Lagerfeld and his pets, you know, mammals we can all get behind hating. 

(photo: upscalehype.com)

Nicholas Sparks’ oeuvre

I’m a sucker for romance. Speaking of suckers, I don’t need my lovefest to be sprinkled with unrefined sugar. Romance is sweet enough on its own without the leading man—who, by the way, never remotely resembles Zac Efron in my dreams—uttering crap lines like, “You need to be kissed every day, every hour, every minute.” Even Robert James Waller would be ooked out by that. In any other universe, this soldier-turned-stalker would inspire a scary thriller. But this is Nicholas Sparks’ world, and we’re just the not-so-Lucky Ones to live in it.

His treacle makes me want to take a walk to remember…right off a cliff. I want to put a message in a bottle in hopes that someone will rescue me from Nights in Rodanthe and its ilk.

Dear John: It’s not me; it’s you. I have to stop seeing you or risk type 1 diabetes. 

(photo: freefreedownload.net)

Gwyneth Paltrow’s un-selfconsciousness

Darling girl of the flatironed hair and the clothes-hanger frame, I’ve defended you. I’ve often quite liked you as a person and an actress. I, for one, wasn’t happy to see your head gifted to Morgan Freeman in Seven. I think you are talented, chic, in tune. You even look good in a jumpsuit.

However.

No longer are you the Apple of my eye, a sartorial Moses leading us to the promised land where we vacation with Valentino, cook with Batali, and rock out with Beyoncé. What you are is delusional. You don’t have delusions of grandeur; rather, you—of the famous parents, even more famous godfather, and Spence pedigree—think you’re just like us plebs.

If only.

It started with goop, your unctuous, ooky website and e-newsletter that offers up your picks for a fabulous soup-to-nuts lifestyle. It continued with your self-congratulatory cookbook My Father’s Daughter. “We've got a wood-burning pizza oven in the garden—a luxury, I know, but it's one of the best investments I've ever made.” Fuck you and your macrobiotic, organic, Michael Pollan-approved diet. Now, you’ve launched goop city, an app of twee drawings and footage of you Julie McCoying it—in stilettos, no less—all over Manhattan.

Groucho Marx reputedly said, “I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.” Well, Gwynnie, you already assume you’re a card-carrying member of Average Joe middle America. And I think you and I both know that a woman who sleeps with a rock star in her bed and an Oscar on the mantle is not exactly a mere mortal. Go back to Mount Olympus and leave us be with our Cheez Whiz.

Old guy facelifts

It’s hard to watch any of the Kardashian divorce coverage. It’s not because Kim’s stunt disgusts me or that I think there’s no there there. It’s because of Bruce Jenner. 

I remember the ’76 Olympics. I remember Jenner taking a victory lap after winning the decathalon, fitting during a Bicentennial Year. Proud to be an American, I ate a lot of Wheaties with Jenner on the box.

Now, I sort of want to throw up my breakfast when I see Jenner doddering around the Kardashian klan. He looks like the grim reaper, the skin of his face pulled tightly over cheekbones and implants. And he’s not alone. Michael Douglas, Paul McCartney, and Steven Tyler are also part of the cryptkeeper club, not content to leave well enough alone and age gracefully, let alone move their face. These dudes are starting to look like ladies, and not in a good way. I’d punch them in the face, but I might shatter them.

(photo: celebritysmackblog.com)

Red-carpet interviews

I love watching gowns and jewels and gorgeous man candy during awards season. But I have to put the TV on mute because the brain-dead “interviewers” (cough “boxes of hair” cough) are doing anything but interviewing. You’d think that Billy Bush was assaulted by The Walking Dead. Over and over, I wait for a question, and this is what I hear:

"Your dress is amazing. It’s such a beautiful color."

"It must be amazing to work with Darren Aronofsky. I mean, he’s such a visionary."

"Your body is slammin’."

No questions are actually asked. A microphone invades the personal space of a celebrity, who is then supposed to do an impromptu stand-up routine while suffering fools in designer duds. If a question is actually posed, it’s claw-your-face-off, Seacrest-on-a-chalkboard banal. “Who are you excited to see tonight?” “Isn't James Franco just SO talented?”

Please, find your pulse and ask what we really want to know: Would you ever work a red carpet encased in an egg? To what tropical bird was your hairdresser paying homage? Did you have a colonic today to drop those last couple of pounds? Do you ever buy your own clothes or jewelry? Do you want to punch me in the face?

Super Bowl halftime shows

Props to any artist who agrees to headline the Super Bowl halftime show. Even if they are getting paid a bajillion clams, it’s a losing proposition. The concert always sucks dirty pigskin.

Surrounded by hundreds of people in matching jumpsuits who were picked, not for their dancing prowess, but because they won a local radio contest, the performers lamely move around on death trap of a stage, trying to move through a medley of their most treacly hits as they screech toward the cheap seats and mug for the cameras.

First of all, when has a medley ever been good? Second, when have the singers ever sounded good? When one of the best halftime shows includes N’Sync and Britney, well… Super Bowl halftime shows are a study in lowest-common denominator performances. Performers and their body parts are picked based on their ability to offend the fewest number of people (Janet Jackson's right ta-ta was clearly an oversight). Consequently, you get a whole lot of Black-Eyed Cheese that doesn’t actually entertain anyone.

My prediction for Super Bowl XLVI: Katy Perry in Daisy Dukes and a whole lot of fireworks. A word of advice, though: skip the whipped-cream boob gun.

(photo: honeymag.com)

Katherine Heigl's roles

Film, television, literature, and theater have long relied on stereotypes. And so does Katherine Heigl, who continually is cast as the gorge but constipated pill of a control freak.

Whether she’s wearing scrubs or her 27^th bridesmaid’s mess, The Ugly Truth is that she’s still a drag on my movie ticket. For the love of all that is good and holy, get this girl a three-dimensional role where she’s not sleeping with her Blackberry and jumbo bottle of Purell, with only a trainwreck of a man-baby possessing the ability to thaw her bland/blond sang-froid.

(photo: aceshowbiz.com)

Headbands

The age of Aquarius is over, kids. And may the 80s rest in totally rad peace. I may want to get physical, but it won’t be while wearing an Olivia Newton-John headband. These headbands—I'm talking about the dumbass, hippie-dippy, Pocahontas ones that fit across your forehead—are only useful if you are playing tennis against Björn Borg in 1976. They aren’t fashionable, they are barely functional. This leaves me scratching my head, wondering why someone would follow in the misguided footsteps of Mischa Barton and the Sisters Kardashian and strap this sparkly tourniquet around her noggin. Are you trying to cover a zit or draw attention up and away from your muffin top? Compensating for a bad haircut?

Whatever the case, pull that thing off and use it to wrap a present instead of yourself. Looking at your headband is making me itch…or maybe it’s the acrylic legwarmers I suddenly felt the urge to pull on. If only I could find my Jane Fonda Workout Betamax…

(photo: www.mystyle.com/mystyle)

Renewal of wedding vows

Thanks to everyone who submitted their punch lists. While there was some overlap, I was staggered by the variety of tasty peeves that exist, and heartened by the ginormous community of kindred malcontents. I might steal some ideas from these lists for future posts and always feel free to send in one or many things you want to punch in the face. I’m glad to showcase your many irritations.

Anyway, onto shooting fish in a barrel…

I watch the Real Housewives of New York City. In fact, I’ve updated the game of “Fuck-Marry-Kill” and instead, play “Maim-Torture-Kill” when watching this hot mess of designer insane. The crazy-eyed queen of RHONY is Ramona Singer, who after 17 years of marriage to Mario, has decided to renew her vows as part of her “renewal” theme this season. (While I know she’s using this catchphrase to hawk her Tru Renewal face cream, it instead makes me think of Logan’s Run. I really wish she’d go to Carousel and get zapped with the kind of laser that kills rather than treats broken capillaries. Needless to say, she often gets my “kill” shot.)

Anyway…the renewal of their wedding vows is irking me more than Simon’s red vinyl pants. A wedding is supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Doing it twice with the same person is just self-indulgent and frankly gross. Renewing your vows is antithetical to what the original vows are: vows. You don’t need to make them again. The original vows didn’t expire.

And renewing them is no guarantee. They have the smell of “jump the shark” desperation on them. Jon and Kate got hair plugs and a fresh baby bird haircut, respectively, when they renewed their vows in Hawaii, and we all know how well that turned out.

Or maybe all is right in your married world, and you just want to do something with that closetful of money. Here’s an idea: Throw a party, give a toast, but don’t fucking call in an officiant and don’t wear white. The gig is up. Maybe I’m reading too much into the folks who thought the wedding was so nice, they did it twice. Perhaps renewing your vows is nothing more than an excuse for dreckitude hair. Heidi Klum went with cornrows; Celine Dion went with a “Cleopatra meets Ann Boleyn by way of Valley of the Dolls” look. Last time I checked, Halloween and your wedding day are not interchangeable, unless maybe you’re Elvira.

Tell your spouse how much you love him or her, save the catering fee, and don't ask me to be a bridesmaid again, or else I'm going to have to renew my commitment to punching you in the face. Isn't a fist sandwich the appropriate gift for a 17th anniversary? No? It is now.

(photo: http://bit.ly/15GdIy, guardian.co.uk)

Justin Bieber’s Hair

Javier Bardem was a badass in No Country for Old Men despite that ridiculous hairdo. Tim Urban is hoping his mop top will distract America, if not the judges, on American Idol. Zac Efron looks prettier than Vanessa Hudgens with his ladylocks. Let’s face it: a bowl cut only looks cool on Dorothy Hamill (but then, anything would look cool on Dorothy Hamill).

Justin, dear, sweet, chipmunk-cheeked Justin, are you trying to cover your face so tween girls won’t realize that you’re an animated Disney character? Are you hiding a ginormous zit on your forehead? Did you get tired of holding up a sign that said, “Kick my ass”?

Baby, cut your hair. One time. It’s like the teenage version of a combover. I’m beginning to think “Never Let You Go” isn’t about an 8^th grader, but your bangs.

(photo: wikipedia.com)

Bob Costas’s head

In recent years, I’ve made a sport out of studying celebutards and trying to detect if they’ve had work done. I grimace at Bruce Jenner’s frozen face, even if he can’t. I want to take a pin to Nicole Kidman’s and Meg Ryan’s oft-inflated lips. I can’t look Heidi Montag in the eye. I know my mythology; I might turn to stone.

Enter the Olympics. I’m watching men and women who have transformed their bodies and worked them towards a goal. Such as Bob Costas. Specifically, his face. In looking at the NBC commentator, I’m a little confused about his particular end goal. Is he going for the gold in the Look of Perpetual Surprise Freestyle? Was he replaced with a Madame Tussaud’s wax figure after he was stopped at the border with an expired passport? Did he get a makeover from a Real Housewife? What the hell is going on?

I don’t know, but I do know that he’s a real eyesore. High definition has not been kind to Bob.

If his dark hair wasn’t distracting enough (is it just me, or has his pelt gotten darker every Olympic Games?), he looks as if he’s had an eye lift, some Botox to a forehead that’s now as tight as Johnny Weir’s short program costume, and some sort of peel. I’m afraid that his waxy skin will melt off if he gets too close to the Olympic Torch. Remember Frankenbob: Fire bad.

Not only is this sports commentator out of medal contention, he’s out of his mind. You’re a 57-year-old sportscaster, dude—it’s okay to age gracefully. We’re not looking at you anyway; we’re watching the speedskating gods in their formfitting unitards. In this case, high definition, good.

(photo: stampedeblue.com)

Miley Cyrus’ cheeks

I know it’s not nice to pick on teenagers but when they straddle the pole, all bets are off. So here it is: Miley Cyrus has some big-ass cheeks, and I’m not talking about her ass cheeks.

Even accounting for baby fat, you've gotta admit that Hannah Mouthana has a freaky pair of pancakes on her pretty puss.

Sorry, Smiley, but the party isn’t in the U.S.A.: it’s in your mouth. In fact, I think a DJ is spinning in your left cheek right now. And sweetcheeks, with your bank account, there’s really no need to be storing nuts for winter.

I'm not going to punch you in the face, since I don't believe in hurting baby animals, but I'm trusting that the cheekiness subsides in a few years. If not, I know of a few Real Housewives who'd be happy to take your baby face off your hands to plump up their own.

(photo: dankando.wordpress.com)

Swag bags

It’s awards show season and I’m pissed. No, not because The Squeakquel is getting shut out. It’s not the “In Memoriam” montages and laundry-list acceptance speeches, either. It’s those damn swag bags.

Does Kate Hudson really need a makeup case chock-full of some fancy-pants line only found at Fred Segal? What's Jennifer Lopez gonna do with another candle? Let’s be honest—she’s just going to give it to her nanny anyway if it’s not white. Does Johnny Depp want a free trip to Atlantis Paradise Island Resort & Casino? Cap’n Jack owns an island, for fuck’s sake!

Then there are the bottom-feeders like Paris Hilton and Tara Reid, who always seem to bluff their way into gift suites at Sundance or the Independent Spirit Awards so they can gobble up trampy low-rise denim, free Botox, and the newest gadget or handbag.

Fuck yeah, I’m jealous. I could use the hell out of Oliver Peoples sunglasses and some Paige denim (even if I can’t get my ass into a pair). But I can’t afford this stuff—Nicole Kidman can. Nic Cage once could. These stars, the ones who CAN pay for a phat dinner at Katsuya and an impromptu trip to Bali in their private plane, need to step away from the swag and leave it to those who really will appreciate the booty, namely me. If you don’t back away, I’m going to beat you with a fully loaded Tumi duffle bag. Take that, Drew Barrymore.

(photo: mmva.muchmusic.com)

Jay Leno’s chin

Maybe it’s just because NBC is trying to push Conan out of the 11:30 slot to make room for Jay's face. Maybe it’s because he reminds me of one banana-jawed ex-boyfriend. But whatever the case, I want to beat the shit out of Jay’s mammoth chin.

There’s all this talk about lollipop-headed anorexic actresses with heads too big for their body. Please. Those noggins are lightweights compared with Jay’s disproportionate head. Specifically, his elephant man chin.

Punching it will assuredly result in nerve damage to my left hand, as I suspect the bone is twice as thick as other talk show hosts. So Jay’s chin, which Google Earth is reputedly zeroing in on, would be better served with a trip to plastic surgeon Steven M. Hoefflin. If he could make Michael Jackson’s face disappear, this medical magician could certainly shave down that late-night eyesore.

(photo: dirtywhiteblog.wordpress.com)

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)

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.

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)

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)