Fun Things to Teach the Foreign Grad Student

Conduct daily lessons in useful colloquialisms such as "Yo, I be chillin' wit my peeps at my pad," which should be uttered as: "Jo, I be schilling vith my pips at my...what?" "PAD." "Oh, jes. Pahd."

Also, they should know that attractive females should be addressed as "bitches and hos." ("Beeches and Hohs.")

Finally, the distinction between "THE shit" and "shit" is one that should be reinforced until the pupil has full command of both phrases. ("Schilling vith ju is shit! The shit? Shitty? Please you help.")

This one goes out to my friend, JC the Peruvian God. You got it, boy! You'll be fully American in no time! *Wink*Wink!*


Tight, White, and Looking for Love.

Wowie wow wow wow, would ya look at that package?

This little hottie featured in Sunday's JC Penny's ad is obviously the highest paid and most desirable of all department store supermodels, despite stiff competition from all those mannequins in swimwear (Achtung, rimshot!) If you view the actual advertisement, you will see the tiny postscript notation just below those hairy, quivering, finely sculpted thighs. It reads:
"BETTER BECAUSE NO TAGS * NO ODOR * NO SHRINKING * NO TWISTING * NO YELLOWING". Except, the ad is not exactly clear on what is really for sale and what, specifically, is not going to stink, shrink, kink, or tragically resemble the haircolor of that fag from 'NSync.

For future reference, absence of odor and yellowing are at the top of my list when it comes to prerequisites for sexual companionship. In fact, if you've got pigmentation going on below the belt that can be characterized as anything other than FLESH COLORED, I'm going to recommend that you get the fuck out of my bed and seek medical treatment, STAT. Then I'm going to call your mom, your church Pastor, your parole officer and the producers of Ripley's Believe It Or Not.

But no shrinking? How can they eliminate the shrinkage? Is there some kind of temperature controlled plastic sheath that keeps one's bangers 'n mash all toasty warm and insulated? What is it made of? Fiberglass? Reynold's wrap? Or perhaps the ever-versatile Performance Fleece? Can I write a cogent paragraph composed entirely of questions? Is Mr. T my bitch?

This guy has definitely got it going on, and I must conclude that the lack of tag, odor, shrinking and yellowing really does make him better than the rest. I find myself wanting to run out to the store and purchase him; but at the bargain basement price of $11.25, he's probably already been snatched up by some lonely housewife with an odiferous, yellow-wankered husband.

As for the twisting... well, methinks that might actually come in handy some day because as you may or may not know, I enjoy playing a little Tentpole Twister in my spare time.

Get Over It, SUCKAH!

Today I was riding in the car with my friend Kelly and her 5 year old daughter, Emma. When the light we were sitting at turned green, Kelly hesitated before taking off and the car behind us honked. Emma's response: "GET OVER IT, SUCKAH!" Take that, beotch!


I've got Cat Scratch Fever...

And the only prescription is MORE OSCAR!


Spoonleg's Sing-A-Long

She's cold as ice
And the feeling
Was a-nice.

There's a lady I know
If I didn't know her
She'd be the lady
I didn't know.

My lady, she went downtown
She brought it home
She's choppin' broccoli.



Do you have this problem?

I WANT TO KILL. YES, KILL. If one more person calls my home wanting to consolidate my fucking student loans, I THINK I WILL GO POSTAL. Not just screaming at the person on the phone postal--no, no--machete flailing, Confederate Rebel Yell-wailing, baby-mauling, MOTHER FUCKING POSTAL.


7th Heaven it Ain't

Alright people. I have a confession. Last night in my utter depression, while trying (unsuccessfully) to work on my thesis, I put the telly on. I usually don't pay attention to the programming; since I live a desperately shallow and alone existence here in Fort Worth, I put the radio or tv on so that I can pretend I have company. For example, if FRIENDS were on, I might offer (or perhaps hurl, if the feeling was there) my own comments at those kooky characters, perhaps breaking into my own rendition of "Smelly Cat" in accompanyment of Phoebe. But enough on that: last night, 7th HEAVEN came on, and let me tell you, I have never seen a more poorly written and acted show in MY ENTIRE 23 YEARS ON THIS PLANET. I was offended, beguiled, enraged, and simultaneously felt pity for the sorry bastards who either write, produce, act on, or hell, even get coffee and donuts for the bitches who do any of those other things for this show. Needless to say, I watched with morbid fascination.

Well, in this episode, our beloved LUCY is going to give birth to her first child. And no, it can't happen in a hospital or even in one of those yucky birthing tubs in the presence of a rastafarian midwife. Nope. Lucy's gonna have her baby IN AN ELEVATOR. That, my friends, is cinematic greatness. Well, you ask, how the hell does a 9-months pregnant woman get trapped in an elevator? Long story short: Lucy is on bed rest and perpetually whining that she can't have showers or go buy shit for the kid herself, so first her husband (Kevin, apparently a cop) chides her like Ricky Ricardo might his wife Lucy, about staying in bed,while her brother (Matt, apparently a medical student) pops in about 2.8 seconds after Kevin leaves, offering to take Lucy shopping. Can we all see what's coming here? I mean, seriously, even a retarded 4th grader could follow this shit.

So, Matt takes Lucy to the department store, all the while hunting "little baby blankets," which, conveniently, are NOT LOCATED on the first floor WITH EVERY OTHER BABY ITEM KNOWN TO MAN. So, the kind (yet armed with a biting wit and a handsome department-store issue vest) salesman takes the couple (which, since neither are wearing wedding rings, salesboy assumes are unwed parents--the shame) upstairs via elevator. Well, the elevator is "new" and thus they get off to a rocky start. Fortunately, the trio makes it upstairs to fetch said "little baby blankets" (I'm not kidding, that's what they were addressed as), and Lucy, in her UTTER STUPIDITY, is trying to force her brother Matt to buy a cheap wedding ring to wear out of the store. Now it's at this point that I want to shake my TV. What the hell? WHO CARES ABOUT WHETHER OR NOT IT LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE MARRIED? He's her damn BROTHER!!! I guess this is the moral part ofthe story where kids learn that babies born out of wedlock--even if it just appears that way--are doomed to burn in a fiery hell where only little bastards melt in the steadily licking flames of illegitimacy while other, REAL children frolic and play tag in a heavenly playground made of cotton candy and puppy dogs. UGH.

Alright, so it's time to head back down to the cash register (upon urgent urging from Matt [ha! you likey the alliteration?], who has been a mere pawn in this plan to remove Lucy from the house so a whole slew of elderly shower guests could file into the Camden home to shower her with 14 boxes of diapers, 2 bassinets, 9 baby jumpers, and so on.) Well, needless to say, all this wedding ring shopping (please note that the jewelry counter is located 4 feet from the "little baby blanket" display) is eating precious time, and Matt knows this. He tries to usher Lucy into the elevator, which finally works BECAUSE HER WATER BREAKS.

Suddenly that faux wedding ring ain't so important, is it bitch?!! So, now they're trapped in a fucking elevator, and they can't reach the family, shower guests are getting antsy, and OH YEAH, A KID IS GONNA POP OUT IN ANY SECOND. Not really--I mean, how many first time moms give birth within an hour of contractions starting? Now I know I've never done this, and therefore my opinion is not qualified by experience, but my research tells me that THAT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN. She sure as hell did NOT experience hours and hours of excruciating pain to PLOP OUT effortlessly a 3 MONTH OLD BABY, 'cause that's what she was holding when she WALKED OUT of the elevator. (Yes, WALKED OUT. You read correctly.) Conveniently, the entire department store (do they not have Babies R Us in Camden land?) has gathered around the elevator, along with the whole Camden clan, waiting silently for the birth of bastard child. Well, we hear NO screaming or urgently yelled directions from Matt the med student brother/baby deliverer, the dad Kevin (who got there just in time), or the paramedic staff on hand. Suddenly, without warning, A BABY CRIES. Two minutes later, the happy family emerges from the elevator (suddenly, they can open the damn thing). No one is messy, bloody or EVEN SWEATY. Even the damn baby is already CLOTHED. What the hell?!

Anywho, dear friends, I hope you've enjoyed this posting enough to NEVER EVER WATCH 7TH HEAVEN. I even left some of the story out of my retelling because I simply could not bear to expose your pristine psyches to such dog shit. You'll thank me later!!!


A Message From The White Retardo and Her Sweet Mexican Sidekick.

So according to the Gangsta Name Generator (courtesy of Mrs. Strizzzzzzzay), I am The White Retardo. Or perhaps just a white retardo, which is slightly less glamorous if you ask me.

To tell you the truth, this probably isn't the first time I have been accused of being white, retarded, or some combination thereof. I grew up in a part of town that most cops and caucasians refer to as "the ghetto". Yes my friends, Alief, Texas is not the ideal place to raise your white-ass-whitey kids. In middle school, I adhered myself to the only visible white person not packing heat or donning corn rows. Incidentally, her Gangsta Name is Sweet Mexican, but yall can just call her Fats. I do.

Fats and I were inseparable throughout junior high and high school, and it came to light just recently that our entire high school football team thought we were lesbians. That means that we must have been way more popular than I ever could have imagined. Truth be told, we were not frolicking in my bunk bed with dildos but rather creating our own "Sit and Be Fit" home video in Gumby suspenders. Yes, we were those people.

Fats was as anti-government cheese as I was, which made us instant friends. Plus her mom worked at the school which meant unlimited free hall passes and ditching class to hang out in her office. Our parents still insist that the only reason neither of us turned out to be gun-wielding drug addicts on welfare is because we had eachother during those vital teenage years. I think it's because everyone already assumed we were smoking that good shit, so no one bothered to offer us any.

The two of us were as white as they come, but luckily we escaped the ghetto without much emotional trauma or physical scarring, except for that one time Fats got stabbed in the leg with a #2 pencil. We managed to avoid the most severely disturbed of our classmates by taking honors classes in high school. However, both of us were (white) retardos when it came to math, and were subsequently placed in the- *gasp!*- regular math classes. I believe it was in Pre-Cal where we met Carmel, a charming young gent who took it upon himself to introduce the two most sheltered honkies this side of the Mason-Dixon line to the intricacies of ebonics. Under Carmel's professional tutelage we learned such phrases as, "What's happenin' Cat Daddy?" and "Slow your roll", both of which have come in handy recently when attempting to communicate with patients who are confused, dissatisfied, horny or stoned.

Fats must also be credited with the origination of the term "Spelunking for poo". When I go out with her Law student college friends, she likes to bust out tales from the Dark Side, and by the end of the night her friends are all cowering in the far corner of the booth, sobbing and dry heaving into their plate of fish tacos. I hope they learned their lesson about asking a person who poo spelunks for a living about the grossest thing she's ever seen. Unless you are an overly curious ten-year-old boy or a scatologist, that's just not a question you should ask. I also hope they learned not to order fish tacos from a taqueria of questionable sanitation in the Bayou City unless they really like dry heaving in public.

Fats and I are brilliant and creative and majorly fucked up, so you can expect great things from us. I say "us" because... well I hope you don't mind, but I'm bringing another woman into this relationship. I know what you're thinking: "Can she cook?" All I can really say is that I hope you folks like goldfish crackers, tequila and "special" brownies.

You see, the two of us originally had the idea to start a blog together. She just didn't take me seriously until she saw all of the free nudie pics I was getting from you, my faithful readers (THANK YOU, INTERNET.) So, as usual, she starts bringing her skanky ass around the second someone mentions gratuitous nudity and now you, dear readers, get the benefit of DOUBLE THE PLEASURE, DOUBLE THE FUN. Not that kind of fun, I thought we already went over that.

So, internet, I introduce you to Fats, that Sweetass Mexican friend of mine. I hope you like her because she's not gonna leave unless you tell her they're having a sale on rastafarian hats at Gadzook's. And we all know that doesn't happen very often.

Lest you doubt, being fabulous IS her full time job.


Caption This Photo v3.0

The winner of Caption This v2.3 is Girl.A, "KAHN: You wish you could ride in my trunk! My trunk so plush it like movie star trunk!"

While there were many fantastic Wayne's World references and even a disturbing suggestion about the flavor of Condie Rice's cheek moles, I ultimately had to give in to the King of the Hill reference because of it's double entendre in relation to the interpretation of the word "trunk" by this blog's author. That, and I'd like to ride in GA's plush movie star trunk ANY DAY.


Ten reasons why Alex P. Keaton should be my financial advisor

1. The fact that I just spent $400 on an outfit for SOMEONE ELSE'S WEDDING
2. The fact that I bought a digital camera AND an iBook IN THE SAME WEEK
3. The fact that I am one of those people who will buy something useless JUST BECAUSE I HAVE A COUPON
4. The fact that I bought a brand new car before I even had A BED TO SLEEP ON
5. The fact that I spend approximately $219.64 on sushi EVERY MONTH
6. The fact that I am an ebay addict, as evidenced by my dust-covered JACK LALANNE JUICER, LATERAL THIGH TRAINER and THIS:
7. The fact that my sickly cat cost me a whopping $500, not to mention all of his pricey OPTHALMOLOGIST VISITS
8. The fact that I still owe several TENS OF THOUSANDS of dollars for my college education
9. The fact that I am the biggest infomercial junkie you will EVER MEET
10. The fact that Marty McFly was SUPER FUCKING McFLY

Looking back on 2004, I see the gargantuan number that represents my gross earnings for the year and think to myself, "Who the fuck has been stealing my paychecks?" Then I start thinking about one particular menacing bitch and how she always pierces me with her hateful stares and how I also suspect her of stealing my baby carrots that one time. Then I remember that I have direct deposit so it must be one of those shady bank employees.

Sadly, I have no one to blame but myself for my pathetic financial situation. It would be different if I had like, tons of really dope shit to show for it. But all I really have is a MINI Cooper and a cycloptic cat. I guess my MINI is pretty dope but the cat and his chronic opthalmic drainage do not always live up to their hefty price tag. Not to mention the green snot on my duvet cover, which was NOT part of the contract. What a jip. I feel like I just bought some defunct prescription pharmaceuticals from the internet. Oh wait, actually I've done that, too.

What I really need is a sponsor or something, like in AA. Someone to tell me, "Listen. My Little Ponies have not been cool for a couple of decades so do you REALLY think it's a good idea to buy that checkbook cover?" I must have seriously damaged the part of my brain that doles out common sense. Don't ever let anybody tell you that binge drinking is harmless.

I buy so much useless shit that I've run out of places to put it all. I have at least 5 unopened boxes containing GOD KNOWS WHAT that I bought on ebay. EBAY! Sometimes I even do a little tap dance in my living room and sing the chorus of, "Do You Know the Way to Use Ebay?" But only the chorus because I'm not COMPLETELY mental. I do, however, have to actually put forth effort to not browse around ebay every single day, otherwise the UPS man would start getting REALLY suspcious. I've already spent the past 18 months trying to clear up those bogus accusations from the INS (as if I would try to smuggle Cuban infants into the country without even poking air holes in the box), so the last thing I need is to be suspected of running an international amphetamine and/or swiss army knife operation.

Then there's my poor decision making when it comes to the mall. Any mall. Well, any mall with a Banana Republic that sells TANK TOPS FOR $68. That's right, a tank top who's price tag EQUALS MY GRANDMOTHER'S AGE. But I can't resist the tank top. ANY TANK TOP. Neveryoumind that the same exact tank top costs $13 at Target. Neveryoumind that I probably OWN that same exact tank top from Target. Neveryoumind that I have six tank tops in that same exact color already. It just doesn't matter people because I want THIS TANK TOP. $68.00 later, I'm wondering what's so fucking special about this ugly ass tank top. For that kind of money, it should make my boobs look huge or at LEAST come with a wicked temporary tattoo.

So I'm thinking that I'll try explaining this to the computer illiterate H&R Block employee who pretends like they know how to do my taxes. I'll say, "Listen you little old man trying to earn some extra money on top of your Social Security fortune by typing FIVE WORDS PER MINUTE, I might look rich on this here paper but I'm really quite poor. Do you see this $68.00 tank top I'm wearing? Well I bought it in JANUARY even though I don't even have a winter coat because I possess the cognitive capacity of an eight year old who ran out of Ritalin last week so hurry up and press the key that's going to get me a really fat refund. Try Shift-4 a few times."

I'm also considering lodging my grievances with the IRS for raping me of $15,000.00 this year. I figure I'll try making them a reasonable offer that they can't refuse. Something like, "If you give me my money back, I promise to spend it all in one weekend on a heroine binge in Vegas". If that doesn't work, I'll try anthrax. My last resort will be Paris Hilton. If I can just get her to show them her boobs (no, wait, she doesn't have any...) ok her ass (nope, none of that either...) ok her ENORMOUS, MAN-SIZED FEET, then maybe I can scare them into giving me that money.

Bottom line kids, stay away from internet auction sites and chicks with feet bigger than King Kong. Both will likely take you for all of your money and leave you lying on the floor of the local Jack-In-The-Box restroom in a pool of your own vomit wondering what new lows you might have just stooped to.

Can I borrow a dollar from someone?


Caption This Photo v2.3

The winner of Caption This v1.1 is HOMEDETENTIONLADY. Way to go Big Mama, let me know when you want your free lap dance. (For future reference, anyone capable of incorporating Wayne's World into one of my posts will forever win my undying love and affection. Plus also, you can be my BFF.)


Caption This Photo v1.1


Homosexual Precedents

"I think that his homosexuality was not noticed by either his wife, or many of his friends, which is one reason why we are only finding out about it today," Baker said.

The Great Emanicpator, pictured here
the day he heard Brad Pitt was single.

"Wow, the view from up
here is flippin' fantastic!"

The bowties make it socially acceptable for these two grown
men to engage in naughty bedroom activities.

"Which one of you faggots wants to Mount my Rushmore?"

Roosevelt was his #1 licky.


False Prophets

You shall have no other spoonlegs before me.

(from www.erideshare.com/profiles.php)


Gender: female

Occupation: odd jobs, gardening, organizing

Hobbies: ukulele, guitar, writing, reading, Ishmael/tribalism, garden

City: Corvallis/Eugene

State: OR

Music: eclectic--classical, folk, lesser known stuff

Smoke: non-smoker

Comments: travel with small tame pet rat, folding cage (compact, no smell), share gas/driving

(Hold up, did she just say "small tame pet rat"?)

I'm not from Eugene, but incidentally that would have been my name had I been born with a wanker.

He might be sexy, but he's not the real McCoy.

The devil is a seductive whore.

They might have spoons and they might have legs, but they also have Ricky Shroder and that pretty much wipes them out of this Book of Life.

This one's for you, Girl.A

"Spoons typically have excellent lower flexibility and are good with sports or movements that require lower-body strength and coordination."

Wait, wait, wait... someone please help THIS MAN.

now go in peace, my children.


A prudent person would never...

Flip through catalogs while lying in bed naked. It can create some wicked papercuts. Seriously.


Look At His Hair!

And the view from the rear ain't too shabby, either.


Next up, Intersexual Infants

I found this baby during my night out on the town with L. Lo, and I have an inkling that it might belong to her. One would think she'd have the decency to clothe the poor bastard before carelessly stuffing him into her tic-tac of a Gucci bag, but then again Manolos don't come in infant dimensions and Donna Karan, though seasoned in the art of adorning eating disordered celebrities in near infant-sized apparel, does not market a product line for the 12-inch and under crowd.

But at least, at LEAST, she could have the decorum to smack a pair of undies on this poor genderless creature. I'm not sure, but Victoria's Secret probably makes panties (manties? infanties?) in it's size. I mean seriously, have you SEEN what those sick perverts call an XS? Shit wouldn't even cover one of my hair follicles without busting a seam, but I'll bet it's perfect for the satin-savvy neonate with a wicked sense of style. Incontinence be damned, 2K5 is all about that sex appeal.

I feel sorry for babies with ambiguous genitalia, really. I mean, who wants to be a genderless entity with no sense of self in those wee early stages of life? Not to mention, what self-respecting young human wants to OWN said genderless entity as a toy (besides Lindsay Lohan that retarded lesbian)? As a child, I wanted my toys to have pee-pee's or sho-sho's, and if they didn't comply to my standards then I found a way to fashion some form of pudenda to their hollow plastic shells. Just because they're flammable doesn't mean that they don't deserve a gender, people!

When my brother was born, my mom bought me a gender-specific babydoll that looked like a REAL INFANT with a REAL PENIS. I think she was anticipating that a pecker-wielding toy might keep me occupied in a way that would require less of her parental supervision. Well, she got what she deserved for abandoning her only near-perfect offspring for the one who now spends his days pondering the functionality of a gravity bong. He also has this deranged tendency to smell everything from screwdrivers to toothbrushes, not to mention his incorrect pronunciation of words like "cimmanon" and "mazagine" until early adolesence.

Anyway, when she gave me that little baby I was so excited because a) I finally got to name something I owned STEPHAN and b) I could take him to kindergarten show-and-tell and, for once, truly SHOW-AND-TELL. My baby didn't eat or cry and his limbs were stiff and rubbery, but he was my favorite toy because he had a penis, and little girls like me ain't got no love for toys without the junk. I also enjoyed using him as a voo-doo doll for a few years before I learned that I didn't need no stinking doll to inflict physical trauma on my baby brother. After he became too big for me to continue beating him down with my fist, I sprung for the psychological trauma of using the baby to teach him about sex.

Babies... they got it going on in all the ways your drunken prom date could only dream of. And then some.


"My only love sprung from my only hate!"

Oscar and Big Daddy love to do the humpty dance. Neveryoumind that they are opposite-specied homosexuals. It's a modern day Romeo and Juliet story so all of you Lord & Lady Capulets can back the fuck off. Love is blind, people... and apparently incredibly stupid, too.


Lindsay Lohan, she's bout it bout it.

All aboard the L-train, next stop puberty.

I ran into Lindsay Lohan at Wal Mart last night. That's right ye of little faith, celebrities appreciate those badass falling prices and daunting yellow smilies just as much as the rest of us. So I'm all, "Lindsay, what the hell are you doing stuck to a tin of poker chips at Wal Mart? Did Salma Hayek's Avon campaign not teach you anything?" And Lindsay's all, "Are you retarded? I would never endorse these retarded poker chips, you retard. I'm a featured performer on THAT 70'S SHOW. Puh-lease." And I'm all, "Ooooh, so what you're telling me is that someone stuck you on this tin of poker chips where you don't really belong?" And she's all, "Duh." And I'm all, "So do you wanna hang out?" And she's all, "But I can tell that you're watching me/ And you're probably gonna write what you didn't see/ Well I just need a little space to breathe/ Can you please respect my privacy?" And I'm all, "Dude please stop singing, everyone already knows you've got falsies so just slow your roll." And she's all, "God, how retarded." Which was my cue to rip her off of the poker chips and stick her on my jacket.

So after I signed a waiver promising not to disclose any unauthorized details about her skankalicious bod, she agreed to adorn my lapel for the evening. All I can really tell yall is that the girl is bout it bout it when it comes to whiskey, Texas Hold 'Em and lesbian sex. She took off with my money and my last shred of amour propre, and not because I lost at poker.


Contents Under Pressure


Will I regret posting this on the internet? You bet your sweet candy ass I will.

But I have to do something to establish some credibility around here.
(I can't believe I still have this old ass picture. And just for the record, I have no idea where that necklace came from. Or the sweater, for that matter. What the shit is going on?)

Straight Clownin'

Do you hate clowns? How about lawyers?

Clowns can be scary but to be honest, I'm not the type of person who flees the room just because some manic child-entertainer gets a little overzealous with their makeup. Personally, I find grown women dressed as princesses WAY more disturbing. I actually used to love clowns as a kid because I was obsessed with balloon animals- especially the kind that look like parrots but could also function as a hat or weapon. As far as I'm concerned, a clown without balloon twisting skills is as worthless as quantum mechanics without general relativity; which, as Einstein used to say, is like completely fucking worthless.

I grew out of my clown/magic phase when I accidentally harpooned my trachea with the end of a plastic magic wand in the 3rd grade. Well, except for that time in college where some pictures mysteriously surfaced of me wearing a tri-colored clown wig and holding an alarm clock at a party. No one really knew where the wig came from or where it went, and I don't even remember having it on at all. Actually, all I remember is eating a lot of altoids and waking up 16 hours later with my looney tunes drawers draped over a space heater in the next room and my arms wrapped around a pot of macaroni, sans cheese. Typical college experience, really. Maybe you had a crossbow instead of an alarm clock, the details are insignificant.

Here, have some fun with clowns: (not THAT kind of fun you sick pervos)


Here are some scary ass clowns:

But perhaps the scariest clown of all time would be Clown Kevin (even his name is creepy):



American Idle

Could I BE any more desperate for American Idol to start?

One thing about me, I totally hate reality TV; it's gotten way out of control. I mean let's get real here: am I going to meet, fall in love with and mount my future husband over the course of 12 one-hour episodes? Am I ever going to wrap my DD boobs in a size 0 designer swimsuit and eat a bucket full of mange-infested puppies? Would I ever want to study business practices under a man with heinous hairplugs, a bankrupt empire and the personality of a mime on benzos? Would Vince Neil and Corey Feldman ever really be roommates?

So reality TV is like, so un-real. EXCEPT for the Idol. What could be more real than thousands upon thousands of undermedicated young people standing in line for 7 days with the misguided perception that their vocal talent rivals that of Jasmine from Aladdin? What I want to know is which halfway house in Atlanta decided it would be a good idea to take all of their residents on a field trip to the American Idol auditions. I also want to know where they get their outfits because sequins and safety pins seem to be making a huge comeback.

To me, the beginning of each season of American Idol is like watching Jerry Springer or a deadly car wreck; you feel really bad for watching, but you can't help but think, "at least I'm better off than THAT guy." The only difference is, I don't feel sorry for the assholes on AI. Listen dude, when your mommy told you that you could do anything you set your mind to, she wasn't referring to striking a pose like the Material Girl on national television.

There's a reason why we enjoy watching people's hopes and dreams get shattered into a million pieces like so many of my ill-fated mirrors. We're sick, we're sadistic, and we like to see people lose. There's a niche for that sort of thing and network television is exploiting the shit out of it. I don't even watch the Bachelor or any of it's similiarly wretched demon-spawn offspring, but I'll be damned if I can't WAIT for Trista and Ryan's marriage to fail miserably. Who wants a happy ending these days? I want to see people who are bigger failures at this reality show called life than I am.

I also want to see someone hump 20 guys in one night and then try to figure out which of them might be gay.

you can't hang with the Hung.


The day Hell froze over

This is what happens when it snows in Houston:

a) People will make tiny 2 inch snowmen on top of cars, with twigs for arms and a twist-tie mouth and two eyes made out of catfood.

b) Cars without garages or mittens will get frostbite. Lucky for me, my car comes from England so she's used to the blistering cold and really snobby people.

c) Tropical plants will meet an untimely demise. A 40-year chain smoker, this plant was suffering from chronic emphysema so it was probably for the best.


If it ain't broke, don't break it.

So I brought in the New Year amongst a throng of whiny, cranky, incontinent old folks, and let me be the first to tell you that based on the parties going on in everyone's pants, 2005 is going to be a stellar year.

But then the inevitable... I did something really stupid to seal my tragic fate and ensure myself another year (or two or seven) chock full of misery and despair. I BROKE A MIRROR. Jesus Mary and Joseph Lieberman, why am I such a klutz?

Growing up I was seriously clumsy, gangly and astonishingly awkward. Believe me when I tell you that I was forced to drink from a sippie cup until I was 12; and not without reason. I successfully managed to drop, break, spill, crash or choke on everything within eyeshot. In some sort of desperate attempt to save her last remaining family heirlooms of value, my mom enrolled me in ballet class with the misguided impression that I might transform into this stunningly graceful swan or at least be able to walk without tripping over the carpet. I lasted about eight weeks before my mom yanked my ass out of there, accusing me of purposely wasting her money after I crawled, tripped, slipped and scuttled all over the stage during a recital.

"But mom, I LIKE valet!" I cried, completely devastated. And just to further crush my tiny child-dream of being a beloved international dancing phenom, my mom spitefully retorted, "Stop calling it valet! It's BALLET, with a B. Not only do you suck at it but you can't even pronounce it correctly".

Oh cruel, cruel world, why dost thou mock me so?

I'm still no Shelley Long when it comes to elegance and grace, but I like to think that I am able to function as a normal adult by planning ahead and making intelligent choices, especially when it comes to food which will inevitably end up on the front of my clothing. For example: should I choose the white cherry or coke flavored Slurpee? Marinara or alfredo spaghetti sauce? Squeeze-pack ketchup or dunk-cup ketchup (thank you, Whataburger)? Through deductive reasoning and critical thinking, I somehow manage to eke through life creating as little destruction and chaos as possible.

But then there are times when I don't really think about the consequences of my actions before it's way too late. For example, should I really reach over and try to answer my cell phone while shifting gears and changing tracks on the CD player? Should I hastily try to squeeze between the glass coffee table and the ottoman first thing in the morning while dodging the scampering cat (a situation which actually resulted in me, on the floor, with a 4x6 glass piece lying on top of me while the UPS man impatiently rang the doorbell wondering what the hell was going on)? And, ultimately, should I simultaneously try to walk, breathe and hold a small compact mirror? The answer, my dears, is HELL NO.


2004's Most Annoying Celebrities

As the year comes to a close, Americans are bright-eyed and flush-cheeked with anticipation of another year spent hating those who have and/or do more than ourselves. My contribution to the New Year spirit is Spoonleg's Official Pictoral Representation of 2004's Most Annoying Celebrities. Don't get me wrong: I hate a LOT of things other than celebrities (most of which involve gold taffeta or croissan'wiches).

Like many of you, my river of hate runs deep and wide. So when I begin to question my very existence and ponder the relevance of this crazy, mixed up life, I always find solace in knowing there are some bastards out there who are WAY more fucked up than my hatred could ever imagine... thus curtailing said hatred a lilliputian of a degree. And that, my friends, is my gratuitous New Year's Resolution for 2005.

Look Who's Eating Now. Why does being fat suddenly make her famous again? I wish I could take back all those childhood nights spent watching Cheers, because now I'm having nightmares involving Ted Danson, cankles and LOTS of honey baked ham.

This guy is like one bad movie and half-an-inch of Caucasian afro away from becomming the next Pauly Shore. And I ask you, America, do we really need another Pauly Shore?

Why does this bitch have bigger boobs than me? Why am I afraid that allowing young pre-pubescent boys to watch Harry Potter has exponentially contributed to the splooge-covered carpet in my local cinema house?

Commercialism at it's prime. The fact that millions of grown-ass Americans find it not only acceptable but even COOL to don Nemo shirts, caps, smocks, sweat bands and fanny packs makes me question what kind of crack they lace their products with. It also makes me wonder when my Nemo knee pads are going to arrive so that my ceremonious idolatry sessions will not be impeded by the harsh wood floors.

Perhaps the damaging parental environment on Full House inflicted some sort of psychological trauma on this girl. In my mind, she might have seen Uncle Jesse and Uncle Joey playing Nudie Popeye Puppet Show one too many times. Quick, someone get this child a spanking!

You dirty, lying bitch.

23 reasons to look up the word INTEGRITY.

My wish for you in 2005 is that you HUMP YOUR HUSBAND AND GET PREGNANT AND FAT ALREADY. I'm tired of seeing your Pro-Active Attractive ass.

Your show sucks more than Jerry Springer's. Take your Christian ideals and your self-righteous convictions and shove them up your crap hole. And don't come to me when you need help gettin' em back out again.

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE. Let's get drunk and pretend that it's all going to be ok.

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