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)

Back fat

It’s bad enough that I have boobies busting out of my front side. Do I really need my body jutting out of my back? No matter my weight, when I strap on a bra, the layer of fat I’ve accumulated for winter hibernation oozes under and over the band.

Needless to say, this is decidedly not hot.

Don’t misunderstand me: that layer of fat is insulating me, but it’s the only thing keeping me warm since no one wants to get near my built-in pillow. It’s like spooning with Quasimodo. It’s not all bad, I suppose. My punchback is great for uncomfortable plane flights—no need to take up space in my carry-on with a bucky pillow when I’m rocking the Maidendeform.

But that might be the only upside to my body goo. Oh, and I suppose there’s one other consolation: if I punch back fat in its face, it will absorb the impact and prevent any damage to my internal organs. There I go again, being all glass half-full and shit.


(photo: losefatfrom.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)

Winks

I’ve dipped my toe into the internet dating waters and whenever a guy “winks” at me, I go off the deep end. Are you too lazy to write to me? Too busy? Tongue-tied in the face of all of my splendor? Too fucking bad. Grow a pair and send me a real note.

It doesn’t need to be an 8,000-word missive (I’ve gotten one of those). It doesn’t need to lay open your soul, telling me how much I remind you of your ex-wife (yep, got that too). It just needs to say hi, be real, and, if you’ve got an extra 5 minutes, tell me something about yourself or why you liked my profile.

But whatever you do, don’t “wink” at me, you puss.

Winks make me batshit crazy. To me, they scream, “I care enough to send the very least.” Do you think I’m going to be so taken with your snapshot (the one where you’ve clearly cropped out your last girlfriend or draped your cat artfully over your girth) that I’ll go straight to your profile and become inspired to initiate the conversation?

Dream on, Lothari-NO.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” you say? You’re absolutely right. I have absolutely no idea what I’m missing. However, I do know what you’re missing: courage and perhaps a time-management system that allows you to spend more than 10 seconds contacting a potential love interest. Wink at me again and I’ll give you a response. How about “This person has blocked you from her profile?” Get some game or get lost.

(photo: www.zazzle.ca/)

Security questions

Where did you take your honeymoon?
What is your spouse’s middle name?
What is the date of your wedding anniversary?
How many times a week does your first-born child say, “I love you?”

I just want to join a yahoo group or sign up for online banking; I don’t need some lazy content provider throwing my single, childless status in my face. Am I supposed to dream up answers for these questions, irrelevant for a good percentage of the population? And if I do, am I expected to remember the name I give to my make-believe Prince Charming or his childhood pet?

How about this, dingdong.com? How about asking some questions we can all collectively be annoyed about, say, for example, what year did you realize that life was going to be a giant disappointment? What body part do you particularly loathe? What hooch always results in you dropping trou at the end of the night? With whom did you have the most underwhelming sexual experience to date?

I want to bludgeon these questions with the lamp that shows up every time I log into my investment account. And if Merrill Lynch decides to swap it out for an image of a diamond ring, I’m going to have to transfer my funds.

(photo: blogs.zdnet.com)

Watching all the movie credits

The movie’s over. I know this because I hear the strains of some shitbox Celine song and I see credits rolling.

This is my cue to vamanos. I saw Scream 2. The theater’s still dark. I could die if I stay in my seat popping Milk Duds. Anyway, I have to hit the head. It was a 90-minute movie, after all.

There’s just one problem. Peen Shalit next to me is gazing at the screen as though it’s the beginning of Star Wars or a Magic Eye image.

Excuse me, sir, did you work on the film? Are you in the business? Did you happen to be in Utah during Sundance last year? Is Jeremy Piven your second cousin? Do you think there’s a clue to an episode of Lost embedded somewhere between the grip and best boy credits? Do you sleep with your eyes open? No? Then why are you still sitting there? You’re blocking my passage and the ushers need to clean up the remnants of your jumbo combo snack box before the next screening.

Sure, if outtakes or additional footage have been added to the credits, hang out. I'm right there with you. I don't want to miss Will Ferrell ad libbing hilarity, either. But that's not usually the case. If you have to watch the credits because you’re avoiding going home to an empty or angry house or because you’re an aficionado who says “film” instead of “movie” and takes your two-week vacation during your city’s film festival, at least have the decency to sit in the middle of a row so I don’t have to play impromptu aisle Twister. Consider doing what any self-respecting film buff does: study IMDB when you get home.

If I have to give you one more lap dance as I’m leaving The Squeakquel, I’m going to pack a boom mic in my bag along with my contraband snacks and go Darth Maul on you.

(photo: hereinmyhead.wordpress.com)

Giant balloons

I love me a marching band and I admire the ephemeral art of a flower-festooned float, replete with a has-been or never-was singer, but I don’t really get the point of a giant Underdog balloon. You can’t play with it, you can hardly see the details of it from ground level, and it takes a small army to keep it from taking flight. Is the point to create something large enough to be seen from space? I think Kayne’s ego and Opryland Hotel pretty much have that covered.

In a year where Balloon Boy took us on a fright of fancy, helium’s never been so hot. But sorry to burst your bubble, Buzz Lightyear, but I think the hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs to create, fill, and parade you down Seventh Avenue could be better spent feeding the homeless during the holiday or hiring Rick Astley to rick-roll a few floats. Didn’t we learn anything from Mr. Stay Puft? Giant inflatables are freaks of nature and bound to give kids nightmares.

Stick a fork in these things, already. (Unless, of course, you want to bust out a blow-up Rob Pattinson, in which case I might be forced to reconsider my position.)

(Photo: nytix.com)