Discovery!

I woke up the other morning all confused, why was my computer at the foot of my bed? Why was it turned on? Why did have a UK motor boat website pulled up?

Well folks, after checking my internet history I realized I sleep googled. My dream of an impending Tsunami was so powerful, and my need to buy a boat felt so urgent, that I turned on my computer in my sleep and googled motor boats looking for a good deal.

Moral of the story, faced with incoming disaster my first instinct is to google.

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

Rebel Rebel, You've Torn Your Dress

For some reason during a staff meeting everyone at work decided to share stories of their teenage rebellion. You have not lived until you have heard a nun reference drug use and sex. I did not share mine, but it made me think back to that time in my life.

Between the ages of 13-15 I only hung out with boys, punk rock, skinhead, hardcore boys and I was the riot grrrl in their mix. I often wore short skirts, old school prom dresses or shorts, fishnets or tights, and combat boots ALWAYS COMBAT BOOTS. On a hot summer day in 1998 the boys decided to play with a favored toy among 14 year old males, cheery bombs.

The Runaways classic Cherry Bomb was my theme song, and this meant my participation in the fiery tomfoolery was mandatory. Being little suburban youth in revolt the sewer in my friend’s cul-de-sac was the obvious place to dispose of the flaming pink crackers. After a few rounds were sent down the sewer, the action lost its novelty. I was hot—the fact I was wearing black tights and combat boots might have been a factor in the heat-- and our apatite for destruction was quenched, we called it quits and went inside. My friend’s mother greeted us in the doorway looking livid.

A neighbor saw the boys acting like delinquents and throwing cherry bombs down the sewer. When she went to flush her toilet and it did not work she put two and two together. Our actions messed up the plumbing for the entire cul-de-sac. This lack of flushing lasted for three days (luckily I did not live in the same neighborhood) at the time we had no clue our actions would cause a neighborhood backup.

I apologized to livid mom, and she told me she knew I did nothing and that it was sweet of me to stick up for my friends. I got away with my actions and the boys were grounded. It sucked all my friends could not hang out for a week because of something I did, so in a sense I was socially grounded.

This happened several times and I always got away with my actions and the boys got punished. It taught me being the only girl in a group gets you out of trouble, and if you befriend mothers and they will have your back.

Anyone else share in my teenage taste of delinquency?

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

The 20 Male Poses of Facebook

For reasons that I’m not going to explain because it makes me look like a giant loser, I was recently looking through all of the guys named Ryan in New York City on Facebook. First, let me say that there are a lot of gents named Ryan living in this city. Although I didn’t find the Ryan I was originally looking for, my quest became a truly interesting study of facebook photos and faux pas.

The Facebook Photo— a bitch and a lover. As a girl, I choose my facebook photo primarily by how unrealistically attractive I look in it. It’s narcissistic, but you can’t deny that you do the same thing. I’m not going to lie, sometimes when I’m getting ready to go out, I’ll evaluate whether or not I’m lookin’ “Facebook-worthy” that night. In other instances I’ll even attend certain events just because I think I’ll get a cute Facebook pic out of it. Overall, it’s accepted that girls use their Facebook pic as an outlet to display their “Oh my Gawd I look HAWT!” pictures. What about guys? With guys it’s harder. It would be a little gay for a guy to display a nicely cropped photo of himself trying to look as cute as possible, workin’ all the right angles and sucking in like the world is about to end. While I was searching through the Ryans, I discovered that there exist 20 different standard shots that guys use for their Facebook picture. It’s like guys got together and agreed that these 20 poses will make them look good without trying to hard because that would be gay dude. The best part is that most of them are a hilariously horrible call. Let’s do a little study, shall we? I present to you, The 20 Male Poses of Facebook!

#1: The High Contrast/Photoshop Filter/iSight Shot


This is the equivalent of walking around wearing a half mask and a cape like the Phantom of the Opera. You’re hiding something. And there’s a large possibility that something is a skin problem.

#2: The Prepster at a Function Shot


He could be at a wedding, cocktail party, engagement party, sailing team reception, whatever. Either way he inevitably graduated from Wake Forest and now works for Ernst & Young.

#3: The Just Hangin’ with my Bros Shot


Whereas girls have an odd ability to quickly line up in cute formation, hug and make a kissy face to the girl to their left, guys have the ability to stand next to their bros, look awkward, barely touch each other and look stoic. SMILING IS FOR PUSSIES BITCH! NOW GET ME A NATTY LIGHT!

#4: The Too Much Party For One Picture Shot


Dude, I was so fucked up that night. Who were those girls?

#5: The I Love my Girlfriend Shot


Awww you love your girlfriend! Sadly 9 times out of 10 the girlfriend withheld sex or whined uncontrollably until he put this as his pic to ward off evil sluts and give his bros something to laugh at him for. There’s nothing like forced love.

Speaking of couples…#6: The Me & My Girlfriend Support a Team! Shot


I was surprised at how many of these there were. I actually find this less offensive than The I Love my Girlfriend Shot. It’s less forced and involves beer.

#7: The THIS GUY! Shot


One of my all time favorite poses. It always makes me wonder, what is it about that guy? That Guy always seems kind of lame and bro-like. What is it about him that makes you not only like him enough to share your Facebook profile pic real estate with him, but also point directly at him? This kid man…this guy…

#8: The Drunk Guido Shot


There’s beautiful consistency in these shots. Ingredients to make a Drunken Guido Shot: year round tan, gelled up hair, groomed eyebrows, designer suit, shirt open, expensive mix drink in hand (optional: slutty girl named Alexa on your arm, name of the lounge’s website at the bottom, usually containing “Nite Life” somewhere, proving that you’re so hot, you’re a local celebrity.) Now aggressively point to the camera like the photographer just insulted your mother’s lasagna.

#9: The I Don’t Know if you Know, But I Work Out Shot


This is an extreme version, but I had to share. Usually this shot is of a guy who just happens to have his shirt off and who just happens to have a 12 pack and just happens to be flexing at the moment someone randomly took their picture.

#10: The Wacky, Fun Guy Shot


I would date this guy and then be surprised when it turns out he has a drug problem and treats me like shit.

#11: The Babby Daddy Shot


When I have a kid, I think I’m going to retire all of this Internet socializing. Know why? Because I’ll be too busy actually raising my kid and not virtually poking people. (That’s a lie and we both know it.)

#12: The Just Jamming with my Band Shot


So emo, I’m not even mad.

#13: The Seasonably Inappropriate Shot


God knows you looked good in that James Bond costume, but it’s June, time to switch up the photo. I have to admit, I have been victim to this shot myself. I have this one picture of myself in my sophomore year Halloween costume where I look ridiculously cute. It’s sort of blurred, I’m wearing Playboy bunny ears and I was caught at the best angle ever. I think I rocked that picture for like 8 months straight before I finally had to retire it. But, all good things must come to end…so let’s retire all Halloween costume pictures, sitting on Santa’s lap shots, and maybe even drunk St. Patrick’s Day pics. Look forward to Earth Day on the 22nd!

#14: The Self-Photographer Shot


Not to be confused with…

#15: The Self-Cell-Photographer Shot


The shittier version of an already shitty action. But then there’s always…

#16: The Accidental Self-Photographer Shot


God Damnit I love these. You can crop a photo all you want, but the telltale elevated shoulder will always give you away. I love these because the photographer/subject truly believes that we will believe he was just caught by someone in this moment of pensive thought. But this isn’t even the height of social retardation and self-photography! We still have…

#17: The Future Pedophile of America Shot


What the fuck? Are you trying to tell me that you don’t have one friend who could take a picture of your creepy ass? Not one person? You’re just forced to sit there in a dark room, creepily lit up by your computer monitor and take it yourself with your web cam? And are you so into your porn and/or Myst game that you can’t be bothered to look in the damn lens and smile? These make me want to take a shower immediately…

#18: The Fuck You Shot


So, let me get t his straight— you’re too cool for Facebook, yet there’s calculated effort to seem badass and aloof. And every Fuck You Shot I found was of a fat little middle schooler like this one. Kid, get a friend and let your hair grow in.

#19: The Throwin’ a Hand Sign Shot


A classic. I understand the need to be doing something with your hands when taking a picture; it’s a little awkward. But a good gang sign or shocker is much better than the middle finger (you little Columbine-esque freak). I don’t know how many pictures exist of me throwing the shocker (not because I enjoy it, just because it makes people uncomfortable and is badass.) However, what is that sign this guy is doing??? It’s…

#20: THE MYSTERY HAND GESTURE SHOT
Ok. What’s going on here? Seriously, what is that? A consistently sideways peace sign? That has to mean something. 20 points to the first person who solves this mystery.


I saw it countless times during my photo-research.


It’s like the carrot sign thingy you use when you’re coding something. Is it slang for something? I thought I knew all of the cool ghetto hand signs! Did I seriously just use a coding reference in trying to prove that I’m cool?

Wow. I’m out.



Sha la la!
Patsy

MMM Risin'

Sorry my internet darlings for my absence, I was on spring break. By “spring break” I mean the delightful Chris came to visit me in the Pacific Northwest, because I bribed him and told he could visit 4 states, HE WANTED TO SEE ME! We spent our days driving around, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, and Washington, going to a small town gay bar (where we can never show our face again) and watching excessive amounts of Teevee on DVD.

One of the several highlights of the trip (if you ask me) was a wedding we attended. Chris’ cousin had her union, in front of god and the state, in Oregon. I was Chris' plus one, or more accurately his beard. As wonder gays who are in the closet around family it is nice to have another member of the team as an insider. What single closeted (to the family) homo would pass up a date that will enjoy a wedding, drink, dance, and make one look straight?

I was quite convincing as a hetro girlfriend and earned my place in history as one of the best beards ever!

Scene: Eddie is 2 bottles of champagne and 2 glasses of wine in, they are at the dinner of a small wedding reception. Only two children are present at this wedding, Chris and Eddie are seated at their table. The young flower girl comes up to Eddie.

Flower Girl: Did you know Chris is a Lesbian.

(Chris looks at me, gets up out of his chair and walks away, I think he said something like “this is a can of worms I am leaving” or that’s what I read in his eyes.)

Eddie: Chris is not a lesbian because he is a boy.

Flower Girl: Yes he is a lesbian! A lesbian is someone who likes girls!

Eddie: No, A lesbian is a girl who falls in love with girls. A boy who likes girls is called a heterosexual…Chris is a heterosexual.

Flower Girl: I’m confused (small child walks away)

That’s right, I told family members Chris was heterosexual. To top it off when I was tipsy I would tenderly grab Chris arm and coon “sweetie, darling, hun please get mama another glass of wine.” I also leaned in close several times to make a gay joke, to everyone else in the room it looked like I was whispering sweet nothings in his ear. If there really was an award for best beard the show I put on would AT LEAST be nominated.

I wish I could quit you,

Eddie

WARNING: This post contains material of a frank and sexual nature. Reader discretion is advised.

So…I feel very conflicted. I had a sexual misadventure Monday night that was (true to form) completely unfortunate and obscenely hilarious. Even as it was happening I found myself thinking, “Wow…this is so blog-worthy.” But I just can’t bring myself to chronicle the tale. A lot of the one-liners my dude said to me were priceless, yet raunchy enough to make Andy Dick blush. But I’m pretty open about talking about my sex life, and I am sure as shit always up for asking about your sex life, so it’s only fair that I share. So I’m giving you the PG-13, edited for TV version of the story instead of the full X-rated straight to a porn store near you version. If you are related to me, work with me, or just find the idea of me having sex disturbing, allow me to nutshell it: Sex. Went bad. Left. I only date weirdos. Fin. If you’re feeling more adventurous, read on. But you have been warned.

So I went on a round of successful dates with a 22-year-old hipster musician who lives around my neighborhood. We’ll call him…Blake. Overall I feel very “meh” about him. STATS! Pros: Sarcastic, really likes me, always has a compliment and most importantly, the best hook-up I’ve ever had. Cons: When he talks, I have elaborate fantasies about duct tapping his mouth shut, cokehead, likes tranny porn and is incredibly impressed with himself. I decided a few weeks ago that the cons outweighed the pros and cut off all contact. But you have to understand that I’m a gay frat boy trapped in the body of a 22-year-old woman. I can’t waste a good hookup, but I don’t want “emotions” or “feelings” to get involved. So I decided to entertain Blake’s request to hang out, but strictly on a hook-up only basis. One more sit-down with him and I fear I’d shove a salad fork in his eye.

Monday night we decided to make a sexin’ date, so I headed over to his place for the first time. In the straight-up ghetto. But one must make sacrifices for a decent hookup, so on I bravely went. I got to his place and headed down to his “apartment” in the basement, which he turned into his personal music studio. I was forced to get the full tour of his studio (including a long-winded explanation about the difference between Japanese symbols and American-made symbols…) while his friend burned some of his porn from him. Thanks asshole. Can’t you use X-tube like a normal person? After porny friend left, it was time to hop on the good foot and do the bad thing.

HILARIOUS THINGS HAVE BEEN EDITED AT THIS POINT BECAUSE THEY MAKE ME FEEL DIRTY WHICH IS SAYING SOMETHING. Let’s skip foreplay and cut directly to sex. I brought a condom with me because the thought of breeding with the world’s most boring cokehead is enough to become celibate and get thee to a nunnery. However, Blake insisted he had is own special condom he was going to use. Whatever, get to it, thought I. Two thrusts in and the flag went from full glory to folded neatly and put back on the shelf. Not happy. Blake insisted that this had NEVER happened to him before and it was definitely NOT me. Could I give him a little head to get things going again? Why not, we all need a helping hand (or mouth as it were) every now and then. Plus I had never given a blowjob to a dude wearing a condom before and frankly, I was curious. I actually didn’t really care at this point because I don’t really mind giving head and his condom totally tasted like English Breakfast tea. So now I wanted sex and a scone.

Back in position we went and things were going fine. Suddenly, Blake starts screaming and falls to the floor in pain. He starts hitting his now yet again flaccid dick over and over again and then ran to the bathroom. A few seconds later he came out looking embarrassed and in pain. Blake explained that he sometimes has a problem with premature ejaculation (STEEEEEEERICK ONE!) and wanted to impress me, so he bought Durex extended pleasure condoms lined with Benzocaine. Benzocaine. Benzocaine is a local anesthetic and fish tranquilizer. Why in the sweet name of Jesus would you want to put that on your penis? So the poor kid can’t feel his dick at all and then proceeds to have an allergic reaction to the Benzocaine causing him to lose it. I’m sure that was very scary, but I could NOT stop laughing. There I was, in the basement of a house in the ghetto wrapped in a sheet laughing my ass off while my date was in the bathroom screaming and running his dick under the faucet. This is my life.

Five minutes later he came out and apologized for his current inability to perform. He proposed that he explain all of his studio machinery to me while he waited for the feeling to come back to his nether regions. I explained that I think I should hit the old dusty trail. “Wait! I’ve got some killer pot!”…Damn him…I can’t resist that! So there I sat high as a kite as he manically raced around his studio explaining the mechanics of his amps and microphones and how his computer worked in conjunction with each cord and blah blah blah... Now, I don’t mean to be heartless but…DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF MY LIFE IS SPENT BEING BORED ASSHOLE? I spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week sitting in a cubicle trying not to fall asleep and thinking of new ways I can entertain myself without getting fired. I never thought I could be more bored then I am at work, but congratulations Blake, you proved me wrong (STEEEEEEERICK TWO!)

At least the situation really couldn’t have gotten worse. Oh wait, yes it could. Suddenly we heard a door slam upstairs. “Oh shit…get your clothes on! Get dressed! My dads home!!!” Um. What? That’s right kiddies! His basement apartment was in the home of his drunken and abusive father’s house. How lovely! Blake raced around the room picking up condom wrappers and spraying air freshener to hide the pot smell like a fucking 16 year old. It was at this point that I couldn’t find my pants. Why? Because Blake had hidden them under his bed. Why? I don’t fucking know, why did he think it was a good idea to put a fish tranquilizer on his dick? I got my pants on, grabbed my bag and was thinking of how I was going to gracefully leave when he said, “Well, I guess the odds of us having sex are out tonight. Why don’t we just sit and talk about more?” STEEEEEEERICK THREE! I’M OUT!

Sha la la!
Patsy

I put the "ism" in "this is all just a defense mechanism"

Just call me Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Jr. because I too have a dream. I have always dreamt of being an Upper East Side socialite. Naturally, you can imagine the happy dance I did when I heard that Bravo was producing The Real Housewives of New York City. Finally, I could get a real look at the rich and fabulous housewives of this fair city! Well I’ve looked…and now I need to go to the nearest high school chemistry lab and borrow their emergency eyewash.

I feel like a young child who has sneaked downstairs on Christmas Eve to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus, only to see their father putting the gifts under the tree. No, I’m more traumatized than that. I feel like a young child watching the Easter Bunny get slaughtered and then forced to wear its pelt while eating the rabbit stew it is now a part of.

That’s right kiddies, mama learned a hard lesson this week: money can’t buy class or style, it can only shine the terd that is redneck white trash and give it an inflated ego. –Sigh- I once took a summer road trip with my friend Helena to Canada. What we learned on that trip was rednecks are everywhere; no Mason-Dixon Line can contain them. We met Canadians whom magically had southern accents and referred to Asians as “Orientals.” Rednecks have infected our neighbor to the north and now they have infected Manhattan society. These women are obnoxious trash. But worse than that, they’re obnoxious trash with money, and I am not impressed. I feel like if you took away their drivers, they would be any given housewives from my hometown. I would rather watch paint dry than The Real Housewives of Olney, Maryland.

Let’s go through each housewife and rip her a new asshole so I feel better about being horribly poor. Mind you the picture below has been airbrushed more than a plain white t-shirt at a Boardwalk stand.



On the left we have housewife Ramona Singer. This woman offends me more than any other housewife. Let’s start with the eyes. The only thing this woman and I have in common is the look on our eyes when I watch this show—wide in shock and horror. Seriously, how much plastic surgery do you have to get to look that intensely shocked at all times? What happens to her eyes when she is genuinely shocked? Do they fall out? Jesus. Next, run a goddamn comb through your hair lady. We just discussed how freak-show wide your eyes are so I know you see the cameras following you around. You’d think you would want to brush that Crayola-yellow hair of yours so it doesn’t consistently look like you just came from driving a convertible on the highway. I feel horrible for this woman’s daughter. Countless times they show her 12-year-old daughter cringe in embarrassment as her mother prances around calling herself a MILF wearing ensembles exclusively from the clubbing section of a Forever 21. Last time I checked you are richer than God and Chanel does not make spangly neon pink spandex/lycra halter mini-dresses. You do the math. The crème de la crème is Ramona’s jewelry. Oh Lawd Jesus where do I even start? ::Patsy sharpens claws and takes a deep breath:: I understand your husband is in the religious jewelry business and I understand that you want the world to know that Jesus died for our signs on the cross. That being said, there is no excuse to wear giant blinged-out crosses that look like the ghost of Tammy Faye’s style vomited all over them. Ramona is also seen playing tennis on her million-dollar South Hampton mansion’s tennis court wearing a cute tennis outfit and a diamond Playboy bunny necklace. In the name of Ralph Lauren, Michael Kors and American Sportswear, someone take this woman out back and shoot her in the head like Ole Yeller to put her out of her misery. And by her misery, I clearly mean my misery.

Next up is yentah Jill Zarin. My only gripe with Jill is her daughter and the fact that she scores a .02 on the Fabulous Richter Scale. I feel like I’m having dinner at any given Jewish friend from High School’s house when I watch her segments. Now I went easy on Ramona’s daughter, so I’m going to unleash on Jill’s. I had high hopes for Jill’s daughter—she’s 14 years old but looks 18, hates her rich step-daddy and is going to “detox” in Martha’s Vineyard. Holy Marissa Cooper, batman! Disappointingly, this is a watered down plot line. We’re forced to watch awkward just plain uncomfortable interactions between her and her stepfather that are boring and sans intrigue and she’s going to “detox” not because she’s a 14 year old alcoholic or something equally fabulous, but rather to lose weight for a week. Boo let me help you out. You a little curvy, but you don’t need to spend $10,000 to spend a week in Martha’s Vineyard with someone telling you to put the honey cake down and pick up an apple. Ain’t nothing wrong with a little extra meat on your bones. But stop wearing the Official Insecure Young Fat Girl Outfit. The Official Insecure Young Fat Girl Outfit consists of tennis shoes, socks pulled up and then folded over once, denim shorts and a t-shirt. That shit doesn’t look good on anyone. Those demin shorts will ride up and get trapped in the crotch of anyone and maybe your thighs aren’t an area we want a denim camel toe pointing to. Use that 10 grand you were going to use for “detox” in Martha’s Vineyard and get thee to Bergdorf’s and go one-size-up crazy, and then get a drinking problem like a proper 14-year-old Manhattan socialite.

Everyone bow for Countess Luann De Lesseps. I can’t be impressed with this piece of (married into) royalty because I think she’s impressed enough for the both of us. The Cuntess is seen in a preview for a future episode reprimanding a fellow casemate for introducing her to the help. Honey, you host “The Countess Report,” a cable-access television show in the Hamptons. Wayne and Garth had less of an attitude and were far more relatable.

Bethanny Frankel. Comparable to The Real Housewives of Orange County’s Jo, except Blade is bald and 99% less interesting.

Lastly we have Alex McCord. I can stand Alex the most out of all of the housewives. Sure her husband looks like Eddie Izzard if he got beaten with an ugly stick and we see her ass in a thong, a dish I don’t think anyone at this table ordered, but I think I like her. She lives in a nice area of Brooklyn (Blair has seen her on the subway!) and is pompous in all the right ways. She has a French nanny for her two ridiculously named children (Francois and something else equally destined to make him gay), summers in St. Bart’s instead of The Hamptons, and along with her husband is viciously trying to climb the social ladder. Now that is what I want to see. That is proper snobbery. Thank you Mrs. McCord. Too bad at the top of that ladder is a bug eyed woman wearing hot pants and pasties in the shape of Playboy bunnies asking her daughter if she thinks she’s a MILF.

Sha la la!
Patsy

Evolution

I am, for the most part, a prim and proper blue blooded Yankee. However, I currently live in a town that is a bit more down country then urban. Our biggest news story this week is about a monkey named Chico.

The Feds first had interaction with Chico the monkey in 2005 when they went to check out a fake diploma ring. The little critter threw feces at the officials the entire time, their response give the monkey a stern look and say “PLEASE DON’T THROW YOUR POOP, ILLEGAL MONKEY”

Chico ponders throwing feces (THIS IS THE REAL CHICO)

As to be expected Chico did not listen, and for three years plotted his revolt. A week ago he escaped into his affluent neighborhood. Chico’s first victim was a 18 year old Japanese exchange student. The small animal continued to throw poop, bit two others, and hid in the trees keeping officials at bay for hours.

The real Chico has had a taste of youthful fear and he wants more!

Everyone in town is obsessed with this news story, Chico is truly the talk of the town.

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie