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/)