[Quick reminder: Chris blogs in green, I blog in red. Ergo, this is a Chris post. And no, we didn't purposely pick Christmas colors. Kthnx.]
As you may be aware, we have a perpetual bone to pick with people who make a milli off a stupid idea. No one needs a blanket with sleeves. And if you are too cheap to spring for a vibrator, then you deserve to carve your labia a new one.
I’m not trying to sound like a broken record, but sometimes I just don’t understand who is responsible for some ideas becoming reality. For instance, I’m sure you may have seen this commercial at some juncture in your life:
There is nothing wrong with the product being sold. It’s a great idea, a clear, easy to read pregnancy test. But just think about the number of people who approved this commercial. I’d like to sit in on the pitch meeting for this: “What would make our advertisement stand out? Other pregnancy tests stress accuracy and ease of use. Hmm….oh I know! What don’t people ever discuss in pregnancy test commercials? PEEING ON THE DAMN THING! It’s genius!!”
The stream of water is the most offensive part. Had they simply just said “you pee on it”, it might be funny. But they had to add a visual reference for us, as if we don’t know what peeing looks like. Thanks for that. (Although that’s a pretty direct stream of water...so is this a male pregnancy test?) I don’t know what’s worse, this blatant urine stream or the blue liquid used in tampon commercials to simulate blood.
But with that commercial, I get their advertising slant. It’s clearly advertised to young guys who “accidentally” have sex with their girlfriends without a condom “because it feels better”. They get a good chuckle at it when they see it on TV with their bros. Then when the gfry won’t have sex with him because she says she’s late and its his fault and if he doesn’t go pick up a test for her right now he’s never getting laid again the first test he thinks to buy at 3 AM at the 24 hr CVS is this one.
If anyone would like to try and explain the value of this commercial to me, however, it would be greatly appreciated:
I saw this for the first time during The City finale (thank you Whitney Port) and was absolutely shocked. About halfway through the commercial I realized what was going on. Once I saw the landing strip bush, I died, rewound, called my roommate in, and watched it again. The only times I’ve ever seen this commercial was during The City and Gossip Girl (yea, so I like girly TV shows. I’m not ashamed) so clearly they are advertising to women. But is anyone out there going to buy this razor because of the obvious “Trim the Bush” slogan? I don’t know about you, but I’d be a little offended if someone referred to my nethers as an unruly shrubbery.
Don’t get me wrong, I am DEFINITELY in favor of trimming. If your pubic hair resembles Nick Nolte’s mugshot, then we are not hooking up. Thanks, but I flossed already today. The only thing I want stuck between my teeth is, well frankly nothing, but if I just ate a delicious steak dinner and there was some remnants left behind I wouldn’t be put off by it. Not only does it make hooking up more manageable but everything down there just looks better when it’s taken care of. In the same way you don’t want to go near the old McHiggins house because the lawn is overgrown and the shutters are falling off and you’re pretty sure it’s haunted, I don’t want to be around your unkempt no-nos. Because the way it looks right now, I’m not convinced you don’t have some paranormal activity in your pants.
And I don’t mean that in a good way.
4.07.2009
Recrap Tuesdays takes on...THE HILLS!
Although I loved Chris' recaps, I wasn't in love with The City. I didn't hate it. I just wasn't in love with it. I begrudgingly went on a series of mediocre dates with it, mainly to get a free meal and see if I'd get drunk enough to let The City come home with me. But that kind of magic never translates in the sobering light of the morning. I only stuck with The City for so long because I didn't have The Hills and figured it was better than being alone. And I know that's no reason to stay with a reality show but, what can I say? I'm young and vulnerable.
The reason I could never fully get behind The City was because, well, I kinda like Whitney. She seems nice and normal enough. Privileged, yes, but normal enough. However, if I wanted to watch a privileged girl with problems, I'd just stare into a mirror for an hour every Monday night. Which I already do. It's called "eyebrow maintenance time," and MTV sure as shit isn't paying me $40K a week to do it.
So, sorry if I can't get a sympathy boner up for you, Whit. Your stunningly hot Australian boyfriend doesn't want to define your relationship? Boo-hoo! There's a mean girl at your fabulously glamorous job that I would sell my body on the street for? Cry me a river! I mean, you get your life advice from Dian Von Furstenberg, for Christ's sake! Wanna know who I get my life advice from? A therapist who charges $250 a session and looks like the full-grown version of Vern Troyer aka Mini Me. Sucks.
Unfortunately for Whitney, I like my reality TV shows like I like my men: sloppy and desperate, with a slight hint of a mustache.
And speaking of Lauren Conrad, man I love me some LC. Truthfully, I love the Hills' whack pack as a whole. They're shiny and pretty and tan and fake and come from this distant land they call "Calla-forny." Yes and please! The Hills is so shamefully vapid and fake, I just can't tear my eyes away from it. It's almost pornographic. That's where The City went wrong; it acted like it had more substance than it really did. And what is it that my spirit guide Dre always tells me? Ah yes, "one can not make a ho into housewife. For those hos; they do not akrite."
So, without further ado, I give you the first and second episodes of The Hills!
Episode One opens with Stephanie Pratt and Heidi meeting for a good old fashioned cup of coffee to talk about Stephanie's "fabric class," (read: raging meth addiction.) Distracted by the invisible bugs under her skin, Steph lets it slip that Lo and Audrina are throwing a Boats 'n Ho's surprise party for Lauren. Unable to control her excitement, Heidi pees her pants, hops atop Stephanie's back, slaps her on the ass and shouts, "YEE-HAAAWW! TO LAUREN'S PARTY WE GO, TRUSTY STEAD! HI-HO METH FACE, AWAY!!!!" Stephanie lets out a mighty whinny before galloping off into the sunset that is Heidi's closet to pick out some super spangly outfits for the party.
As the two are in Heidi's closet wondering whether or not Heidis going to get pitched overboard for crashing, 'ole Spencer Pratt and his Beard of Fleshy Colors wander in wondering where the ladies were going for the evening. Heidi replies with an ever-cool, "BLI-I-I DON'T KNOW?! WHO'S GOING ANYWHERE?! WE'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE! WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT A BOAT?! I SAID "GOAT," WE'RE GOING TO SACRIFICE A GOAT...IT WAS ALL STEPHANIE'S IDEA I SWEAR, SHE'S TRYING TO MAKE ME DRINK METH AND BE LAUREN'S BEST FRIEND AND I DON'T WANT TO, OK I SWEAR IT BAY-BEE!!!"
Sensing that Heidi miiiiight be lying, Spencer packs up his beard and goes to a bar with his friend Charlie (who looks mysteriously like a hybrid of Mathew McConaughe circa Dazed and Confused and my uncle Doug,) to drown his sorrows at BoYz NiGhT! However, the only boy present besides uncle Doug McConaughe is Stacie the Bartender's acting coach hiding under the bar feeding her lines, hissing, "PROJECT! PROJECT!" Spencer spends most of his time at BoYz NiGht flirting like a horny boy at summer camp with Stacie the Bartender. In a stroke of completely unscripted luck, Stephanie's ex-boyfriend happens to be sitting across the bar with an MTV producer stroking his balls under the table whispering, "text Stephanie and tell her that Spencer is writhing on the hood of a Corvette to the tune of 'Pour Some Sugar on Me' with Stacie the Bartender!" Done and done.
Meanwhile at Lauren's Boats 'n Lo's Party, everyone was about as happy to see Heidi as a fat kid is to see his gym teacher. Lo steps up to bat and pitches Heidi overboard before lindy-hopping back to the card table to enjoy the rest of the river boat activities.
Back in 1987, Spencer climbs off the hood of his Corvette and confronts Stephanie's ex-boyfriend about texting Stephanie. He's all, "YO YO YO YO YO DAWG, I'MMA GIVE YOU A BEATING, DON'T DISSRESPECK ME DAWG, YO YO YO YO YO" and then his mustache is all "OH NO YOU DIDN'T!!!!!" AND THEN! Just when you think this situation can't get any whiter, Spencer bitch slaps Stephanie's ex and a cat fight ensues before they both get kicked out of the bar. As Spencer's mustache hands him an ice pack for his vagina, Heidi calls to confront the alleged flirtations with the bartender. Spencer, between icings, tells Heidi that he just beat up Stephanie's ex and Heidi is so embarrassed she saves Lo the effort and pitches herself overboard this time.
As Heidi climbs back onto the river boat, tears streaming down her face, seaweed stuck in her hair, our heroine Lauren feigns interest and asks Heidi what's wrong. "I think Spencer might be an a*hole like you've been saying all along!" "Well no shit sugar," Lauren responds, picking a crab off Heidi's dress and tossing it to a hungry Lo for dinner. Then, out of nowhere, even though neither of them had any chemistry between them what-so-ever the entire night, Lauren and Heidi have a teary-eyed heart-to-heart about how close they used to be and how they wish it was possible to move on, and oh my gawd I love you and I miss you and maybe if we could just―" Just then, our would-be-reconciliation is interrupted by Lo, who pitches 'em both overboard in a fit of jealousy and mercury poisoning. Sadness. They were so close to being BFFs once more. FIN.
Episode 2 was about as entertaining as court-ordered community service, and I should know. Heidi decides to confront Stacie the Bartender, who confirms that Spencer was hitting on her at the bar, but apologizes for flirting back because she's been under a rock with her fingers stuck in her ears singing "lalalalalalala" at the top of her lungs for the past year and didn't know that this mysterious "Spencer" person even had a girlfriend.
Broken-hearted, Heidi hops on the first moose she sees and goes home to Crested Butte, Colorado to do some soul-searching.
Spencer decides to do some soul-searching of his own and seeks guidance from the man, the legend―Mr. Brody Jenner. The two meet at a vegan cafe to discuss Heidi's abandonment and the conversation goes a little someting like this:
Spencer: Bro, bro, dawg man, like bro, homie I'm telling you dawg, Heidi man, she's like bananas dawg!
Brody: Dawg. Man, dude that is banananas homie. Man you gotta just live your life homie, word, dawg. Man. Dude, just be your own dawg, homie, word?
Spencer: Yo, word dawg. Aight homie. I'm out, dawg.
Brody: Keep it real homie.
Spencer: Yo.
Brody: Dawg.
Spencer's moustache to the camera: This is desperate homes.
Back in Colorado, Heidi goes to a ho down with with her mom and pervy stepdad and partakes in some heavy square-dancing with Colby, a good Christian boy and former high school sweet-heart. As Heidi's mom barters Heidi's hand in marriage for a few buffalo and pitchers of fresh milk, Heidi looks wistfully at the moon and wonders if Spencer might be staring at the moon at that exact same moment....
And as fate would have it, he is! If moon = Stacie the Bartender's breasts. FIN.
The reason I could never fully get behind The City was because, well, I kinda like Whitney. She seems nice and normal enough. Privileged, yes, but normal enough. However, if I wanted to watch a privileged girl with problems, I'd just stare into a mirror for an hour every Monday night. Which I already do. It's called "eyebrow maintenance time," and MTV sure as shit isn't paying me $40K a week to do it.
So, sorry if I can't get a sympathy boner up for you, Whit. Your stunningly hot Australian boyfriend doesn't want to define your relationship? Boo-hoo! There's a mean girl at your fabulously glamorous job that I would sell my body on the street for? Cry me a river! I mean, you get your life advice from Dian Von Furstenberg, for Christ's sake! Wanna know who I get my life advice from? A therapist who charges $250 a session and looks like the full-grown version of Vern Troyer aka Mini Me. Sucks.
Unfortunately for Whitney, I like my reality TV shows like I like my men: sloppy and desperate, with a slight hint of a mustache.
And speaking of Lauren Conrad, man I love me some LC. Truthfully, I love the Hills' whack pack as a whole. They're shiny and pretty and tan and fake and come from this distant land they call "Calla-forny." Yes and please! The Hills is so shamefully vapid and fake, I just can't tear my eyes away from it. It's almost pornographic. That's where The City went wrong; it acted like it had more substance than it really did. And what is it that my spirit guide Dre always tells me? Ah yes, "one can not make a ho into housewife. For those hos; they do not akrite."
So, without further ado, I give you the first and second episodes of The Hills!
Episode One opens with Stephanie Pratt and Heidi meeting for a good old fashioned cup of coffee to talk about Stephanie's "fabric class," (read: raging meth addiction.) Distracted by the invisible bugs under her skin, Steph lets it slip that Lo and Audrina are throwing a Boats 'n Ho's surprise party for Lauren. Unable to control her excitement, Heidi pees her pants, hops atop Stephanie's back, slaps her on the ass and shouts, "YEE-HAAAWW! TO LAUREN'S PARTY WE GO, TRUSTY STEAD! HI-HO METH FACE, AWAY!!!!" Stephanie lets out a mighty whinny before galloping off into the sunset that is Heidi's closet to pick out some super spangly outfits for the party.
As the two are in Heidi's closet wondering whether or not Heidis going to get pitched overboard for crashing, 'ole Spencer Pratt and his Beard of Fleshy Colors wander in wondering where the ladies were going for the evening. Heidi replies with an ever-cool, "BLI-I-I DON'T KNOW?! WHO'S GOING ANYWHERE?! WE'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE! WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT A BOAT?! I SAID "GOAT," WE'RE GOING TO SACRIFICE A GOAT...IT WAS ALL STEPHANIE'S IDEA I SWEAR, SHE'S TRYING TO MAKE ME DRINK METH AND BE LAUREN'S BEST FRIEND AND I DON'T WANT TO, OK I SWEAR IT BAY-BEE!!!"
Sensing that Heidi miiiiight be lying, Spencer packs up his beard and goes to a bar with his friend Charlie (who looks mysteriously like a hybrid of Mathew McConaughe circa Dazed and Confused and my uncle Doug,) to drown his sorrows at BoYz NiGhT! However, the only boy present besides uncle Doug McConaughe is Stacie the Bartender's acting coach hiding under the bar feeding her lines, hissing, "PROJECT! PROJECT!" Spencer spends most of his time at BoYz NiGht flirting like a horny boy at summer camp with Stacie the Bartender. In a stroke of completely unscripted luck, Stephanie's ex-boyfriend happens to be sitting across the bar with an MTV producer stroking his balls under the table whispering, "text Stephanie and tell her that Spencer is writhing on the hood of a Corvette to the tune of 'Pour Some Sugar on Me' with Stacie the Bartender!" Done and done.
Meanwhile at Lauren's Boats 'n Lo's Party, everyone was about as happy to see Heidi as a fat kid is to see his gym teacher. Lo steps up to bat and pitches Heidi overboard before lindy-hopping back to the card table to enjoy the rest of the river boat activities.
Back in 1987, Spencer climbs off the hood of his Corvette and confronts Stephanie's ex-boyfriend about texting Stephanie. He's all, "YO YO YO YO YO DAWG, I'MMA GIVE YOU A BEATING, DON'T DISSRESPECK ME DAWG, YO YO YO YO YO" and then his mustache is all "OH NO YOU DIDN'T!!!!!" AND THEN! Just when you think this situation can't get any whiter, Spencer bitch slaps Stephanie's ex and a cat fight ensues before they both get kicked out of the bar. As Spencer's mustache hands him an ice pack for his vagina, Heidi calls to confront the alleged flirtations with the bartender. Spencer, between icings, tells Heidi that he just beat up Stephanie's ex and Heidi is so embarrassed she saves Lo the effort and pitches herself overboard this time.
As Heidi climbs back onto the river boat, tears streaming down her face, seaweed stuck in her hair, our heroine Lauren feigns interest and asks Heidi what's wrong. "I think Spencer might be an a*hole like you've been saying all along!" "Well no shit sugar," Lauren responds, picking a crab off Heidi's dress and tossing it to a hungry Lo for dinner. Then, out of nowhere, even though neither of them had any chemistry between them what-so-ever the entire night, Lauren and Heidi have a teary-eyed heart-to-heart about how close they used to be and how they wish it was possible to move on, and oh my gawd I love you and I miss you and maybe if we could just―" Just then, our would-be-reconciliation is interrupted by Lo, who pitches 'em both overboard in a fit of jealousy and mercury poisoning. Sadness. They were so close to being BFFs once more. FIN.
Episode 2 was about as entertaining as court-ordered community service, and I should know. Heidi decides to confront Stacie the Bartender, who confirms that Spencer was hitting on her at the bar, but apologizes for flirting back because she's been under a rock with her fingers stuck in her ears singing "lalalalalalala" at the top of her lungs for the past year and didn't know that this mysterious "Spencer" person even had a girlfriend.
Broken-hearted, Heidi hops on the first moose she sees and goes home to Crested Butte, Colorado to do some soul-searching.
Spencer decides to do some soul-searching of his own and seeks guidance from the man, the legend―Mr. Brody Jenner. The two meet at a vegan cafe to discuss Heidi's abandonment and the conversation goes a little someting like this:
Spencer: Bro, bro, dawg man, like bro, homie I'm telling you dawg, Heidi man, she's like bananas dawg!
Brody: Dawg. Man, dude that is banananas homie. Man you gotta just live your life homie, word, dawg. Man. Dude, just be your own dawg, homie, word?
Spencer: Yo, word dawg. Aight homie. I'm out, dawg.
Brody: Keep it real homie.
Spencer: Yo.
Brody: Dawg.
Spencer's moustache to the camera: This is desperate homes.
Back in Colorado, Heidi goes to a ho down with with her mom and pervy stepdad and partakes in some heavy square-dancing with Colby, a good Christian boy and former high school sweet-heart. As Heidi's mom barters Heidi's hand in marriage for a few buffalo and pitchers of fresh milk, Heidi looks wistfully at the moon and wonders if Spencer might be staring at the moon at that exact same moment....
And as fate would have it, he is! If moon = Stacie the Bartender's breasts. FIN.
4.06.2009
4.03.2009
Wet Hot Drinking Game Friday
I want to share my morning with you. Because I want there to be a written account of what happened that caused me to die of shock and awe. I don't want there to be any ambiguity or leftover conspiracy theories about what happened. This is it. Case closed.
This morning started like any other. My alarm went off at six and I rolled around in my bed, audibly whimpering and feeling sorry for myself until about 7:50. Although I whimpered 15 minutes longer than I normally do, I was still out the door at 8:45, on-time and feeling good. I was having an unusually good hair day and today's outfit was cuter than I had expected, so I was in high spirits as I strode through my apartment lobby, ready to face the world.
That is until I stepped outside and realized I had forgotten my umbrella. I have what I lovingly refer to as "Frizzy Jew Hair," which I flat iron every morning. If even one single drop of moisture comes within a 30-foot radius of my hair, it poofs like a poodle on acid. So I had a decision to make: run back up and get my umbrella and risk being late to work, or sacrifice looking like Art Garfunkel for the rest of the day and go sans umbrella. Shockingly, I went the less shallow route and decided to be on time.
As I walked to the metro and felt my painstakingly straightened and styled hair begin to frizz and curl, my good mood plummeted. Plummeted into negative numbers. My hair dictates my mood, so I was pretty much ready to punch the nearest homeless person in the homeless face.
When I got to the metro platform, things went from bad to worse. Three No Passenger trains whizzed through the station without stopping before, 20 minutes later, a train finally stopped. Of course because not one single person in this god-fearing town understands the importance of the "MOVE TO THE CENTER OF THE CAR WHEN BOARDING THE TRAIN" warning, I had to wait for another less crowded train to arrive.
Five minutes later, one finally did. And come hell or high water, I was getting on it. Ass out and elbows flying, I fought my way through the herd of mediocre-looking people to ensure my spot in the car. I had just barely made it on when the person behind me shoved me forward and into the arms of a woman wearing a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt. I turned around to confront my attacker, and what I saw made my blood pressure skyrocket.
There were three, count 'em!, three people with mother fucking rolling briefcases standing in the doorway behind me and one person holding his unicycle. WHAT. IN THE. FUCKITY. FUCK? That's what I had been shoved forward and forced into a homely lesbian experience for?! So you can fit your nerdy rolling briefcase and a UNICYCLE onto the train?! I don't recall buying tickets to the circus, but I certainly would like my money back, thank you.
I know I've already discussed this in my Rolling Briefcase Manifesto, but seriously, you people are the scum of the earth. How rude and presumptuous do you have to be to think it's A-OK to force people to make room for your unnecessarily large and inconvenient rolling briefcase? NEVERTHELESS A UNICYCLE! What the fuck was that?! He wasn't even being ironic or promoting a circus! That really was his means of getting to work! He was wearing a nice suite and an EPA windbreaker! I mean, I'm all for reducing my carbon footprint and all, but do we really have to throw all dignity out the window and ride unicycles to work like god damn circus acts?!
But it gets even more ridiculous! At Farragut North, an older man wearing a top hat got on the clown car. A large, unnecessary, Daddy Warbucks-style, top hat. What in God's holy name is wrong with you people?!
Oh, but this shit show aint over yet! Sit back down! As our train rolled out of the station, the conductor suddenly slammed on the brakes, causing (and I couldn't even make this up if I tried,) the Monopoly guy to lose his balance, which caused him to fall backwards into Jo-Jo the Circus boy, who lost his grip on the Unicycle, which fell over and smashed into the face of an Asian woman, who started hysterically crying.
I have no words. I'm officially spent.
Thank god moments later we arrived at Metro Center, where I bolted out this three-ring circus and booked it to work. When I finally arrived at the office, my boss gave my frizzy mane a disapproving look before she reamed me out for being so late to work. With boiling blood, I looked her in the eye and mustered a meek-little, "It'll never happen again."
Because really, it better not happen again! I don't want to live in a world where it's a normal occurance to have to commute to work on a crowded train full of briefcase rolling, unicycle riding, top-hat wearing, Asian face-basing, three-ring-circus FREAKS! So don't worry sugar-tits! It'll never fucking happen again!
Sigh...
Given this week's Michael Showalter reference and the ridiculous events that transpired this morning, it seems like there's only one movie Showalter-y and ridiculous enough to be this week's drinking game. Yep, you guessed it. I give you the Wet Hot American Summer Drinking Game!
Rules:
Drink When:
- Writing is shown on the screen to indicate what time of day it is
- The Bee Keeper does a radio broadcast
- Bethesda's own Jewish Day School is referenced
- Katie thinks of someone for Coop to date
- Victor says "fuck"
- The cook clarifies what he just said
- The talent show is referenced
- You hear the sound of a clay pot breaking
- Someone asks for a piece of gum
- Anyone makes out
- Gail talks about her ex-husband
- There's an astrophysics reference
- Andy throws a kid in the woods
- The 12-sided die is rolled
- Shirts are swapped
- The talent show emcee makes a joke about how old he is
- And finally, just chug during the chase scene, simply because it's my favorite:
That's a lie. This is my favorite:
That's a lie too. The entire movie is my favorite.
Thank you as always for reading and we'll see you back here Monday morning!
This morning started like any other. My alarm went off at six and I rolled around in my bed, audibly whimpering and feeling sorry for myself until about 7:50. Although I whimpered 15 minutes longer than I normally do, I was still out the door at 8:45, on-time and feeling good. I was having an unusually good hair day and today's outfit was cuter than I had expected, so I was in high spirits as I strode through my apartment lobby, ready to face the world.
That is until I stepped outside and realized I had forgotten my umbrella. I have what I lovingly refer to as "Frizzy Jew Hair," which I flat iron every morning. If even one single drop of moisture comes within a 30-foot radius of my hair, it poofs like a poodle on acid. So I had a decision to make: run back up and get my umbrella and risk being late to work, or sacrifice looking like Art Garfunkel for the rest of the day and go sans umbrella. Shockingly, I went the less shallow route and decided to be on time.
As I walked to the metro and felt my painstakingly straightened and styled hair begin to frizz and curl, my good mood plummeted. Plummeted into negative numbers. My hair dictates my mood, so I was pretty much ready to punch the nearest homeless person in the homeless face.
When I got to the metro platform, things went from bad to worse. Three No Passenger trains whizzed through the station without stopping before, 20 minutes later, a train finally stopped. Of course because not one single person in this god-fearing town understands the importance of the "MOVE TO THE CENTER OF THE CAR WHEN BOARDING THE TRAIN" warning, I had to wait for another less crowded train to arrive.
Five minutes later, one finally did. And come hell or high water, I was getting on it. Ass out and elbows flying, I fought my way through the herd of mediocre-looking people to ensure my spot in the car. I had just barely made it on when the person behind me shoved me forward and into the arms of a woman wearing a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt. I turned around to confront my attacker, and what I saw made my blood pressure skyrocket.
There were three, count 'em!, three people with mother fucking rolling briefcases standing in the doorway behind me and one person holding his unicycle. WHAT. IN THE. FUCKITY. FUCK? That's what I had been shoved forward and forced into a homely lesbian experience for?! So you can fit your nerdy rolling briefcase and a UNICYCLE onto the train?! I don't recall buying tickets to the circus, but I certainly would like my money back, thank you.
I know I've already discussed this in my Rolling Briefcase Manifesto, but seriously, you people are the scum of the earth. How rude and presumptuous do you have to be to think it's A-OK to force people to make room for your unnecessarily large and inconvenient rolling briefcase? NEVERTHELESS A UNICYCLE! What the fuck was that?! He wasn't even being ironic or promoting a circus! That really was his means of getting to work! He was wearing a nice suite and an EPA windbreaker! I mean, I'm all for reducing my carbon footprint and all, but do we really have to throw all dignity out the window and ride unicycles to work like god damn circus acts?!
But it gets even more ridiculous! At Farragut North, an older man wearing a top hat got on the clown car. A large, unnecessary, Daddy Warbucks-style, top hat. What in God's holy name is wrong with you people?!
Oh, but this shit show aint over yet! Sit back down! As our train rolled out of the station, the conductor suddenly slammed on the brakes, causing (and I couldn't even make this up if I tried,) the Monopoly guy to lose his balance, which caused him to fall backwards into Jo-Jo the Circus boy, who lost his grip on the Unicycle, which fell over and smashed into the face of an Asian woman, who started hysterically crying.
I have no words. I'm officially spent.
Thank god moments later we arrived at Metro Center, where I bolted out this three-ring circus and booked it to work. When I finally arrived at the office, my boss gave my frizzy mane a disapproving look before she reamed me out for being so late to work. With boiling blood, I looked her in the eye and mustered a meek-little, "It'll never happen again."
Because really, it better not happen again! I don't want to live in a world where it's a normal occurance to have to commute to work on a crowded train full of briefcase rolling, unicycle riding, top-hat wearing, Asian face-basing, three-ring-circus FREAKS! So don't worry sugar-tits! It'll never fucking happen again!
Sigh...
Given this week's Michael Showalter reference and the ridiculous events that transpired this morning, it seems like there's only one movie Showalter-y and ridiculous enough to be this week's drinking game. Yep, you guessed it. I give you the Wet Hot American Summer Drinking Game!
Rules:
Drink When:
- Writing is shown on the screen to indicate what time of day it is
- The Bee Keeper does a radio broadcast
- Bethesda's own Jewish Day School is referenced
- Katie thinks of someone for Coop to date
- Victor says "fuck"
- The cook clarifies what he just said
- The talent show is referenced
- You hear the sound of a clay pot breaking
- Someone asks for a piece of gum
- Anyone makes out
- Gail talks about her ex-husband
- There's an astrophysics reference
- Andy throws a kid in the woods
- The 12-sided die is rolled
- Shirts are swapped
- The talent show emcee makes a joke about how old he is
- And finally, just chug during the chase scene, simply because it's my favorite:
That's a lie. This is my favorite:
That's a lie too. The entire movie is my favorite.
Thank you as always for reading and we'll see you back here Monday morning!
4.02.2009
My legs were crossed the entire time I wrote this.
So yesterday my friend Justine forwarded me a Daily Candy article about The Tinge razor/vibrator. Take a look:
The Tinge makes me uncomfortable on so, so many levels. First let's talk about the name: The Tinge. Tinge: (noun) A slight added element, property, or influence. I'm guessing the most literal definition of the word "tinge" has nothing to do with anything, and this is more some minge word play (which is heinous in it's own right,) but less obvious is the origin of the T. Where does it come from? Tantalizing? Tough hair? Trusty? Tingle? Is it Tingle? TINGLE MINGE?! I'm going to vomit everywhere.
Now, of all of the shower products to choose from that could possibly be designed to double as a vibrator, what genius settled on the razor? A razor is sharp. It cuts. People use it to take their own lives. I don't associate pleasure with my razor. I associate small cuts that take over an hour to stop bleeding. No matter how careful I am when shaving, my shower always ends up looking like a god damn scene from Sweeney Todd. Ergo, maybe a vibrating bar of soap would have been more appropriate.
On a purely functional level, you just have to be fucking kidding me. "Throw on the cap and voila — party time!" I don't know what kind of female circumcision party you're trying to drag me to, but the thought of a rickety piece of plastic standing between my clit and a razor blade pretty much makes me want to buy a chastity belt and never leave my house again. And I won't be "throwing" anything on, thank you very much. I'll be securely fastening at the very least. And I mean, honestly, what are the chances of that cap flying off mid "party"? I think I would have to see some concrete design plans and take a guided tour of the plastic cap factory in China before that thing comes within six inches of seeing inside my pantaloons.
The Tinge also offends me for one of the same reasons that The Snuggie offends me—someone is making a million dollars off it. Why, oh why, do we insist on rewarding such stupidity?? A shammy cloth sold by a trick-beating Scientologist?! LORD KNOWS I HAVE ONE! A backwards robe marketed as a hands-free blanket?! SOLID GOLD! A vibrating razor blade for the sexual adventurous girl-on-the-go?! HERE, TAKE MY WALLET!!!
I think part of the reason I'm so bitter (besides not wanting my genitals sliced and diced,) is that I once had a great invention idea once, but not a single soul supported. I called it The Slammock. I created The Slammock by combining the two places I find most comfortable to sleep—a sleeping bag and a hammock. My design specifically called for a fleece-lined sleeping bag tied onto (not sewn into, that would be too tight and constricting,) a traditional cord hammock. I genuinely think this is an amazing idea and I still wish everyday that I had one. I actually pitched The Slammock to my parents while we were bed shopping for my first apartment. I argued that The Slammock beats a traditional bed, as it is comfortable, financially sound and space efficient. And yet, I was met with negativity by everyone I proposed the idea to. Suddenly everyone was a bed critic—is there enough back support? What if a prankster flips you over while sleeping? How can you have sex on it? What about motion sickness? Will the cords make an imprint on your face? What happens when it starts to sag?! Yes, I'm the idiot, yet slap a sticker that sex "sex toy" on a vibrating razor blade and we're in business!!!??????!?!?
God I hate life.
i don't know why i thought you would enjoy this/ want itOk. First and foremost Justine, whatever I did to make you think that I would ever want a razor slash vibrator, I'm sorry. Whatever I said, just pretend I said the exact opposite and I think we'll be able to move on with our friendship.
xxoo
j
Have you ever been in the shower, shaving your legs, when you started to get turned on? Didn’t you wish that trusty razor of yours could satisfy more sensual needs?
Now it can with the Tinge, the first (and, we’re pretty sure, only) razor-slash-vibrator! Yes. Really.
The Tinge may look like an ordinary shaver, but just throw on the cap and voila — party time! Finally, you can remove unwanted stubble and get off with a single device.
But wait, there’s more: The Tinge has a whopping 32 different speed/mode combinations for your pleasure, and it’s water resistant, so you can get freaky in the bathtub.
That’s not all. The gadget comes with two blade cartridges and a bottle of pleasure gel — all for the low price of just $99.
The Tinge makes me uncomfortable on so, so many levels. First let's talk about the name: The Tinge. Tinge: (noun) A slight added element, property, or influence. I'm guessing the most literal definition of the word "tinge" has nothing to do with anything, and this is more some minge word play (which is heinous in it's own right,) but less obvious is the origin of the T. Where does it come from? Tantalizing? Tough hair? Trusty? Tingle? Is it Tingle? TINGLE MINGE?! I'm going to vomit everywhere.
Now, of all of the shower products to choose from that could possibly be designed to double as a vibrator, what genius settled on the razor? A razor is sharp. It cuts. People use it to take their own lives. I don't associate pleasure with my razor. I associate small cuts that take over an hour to stop bleeding. No matter how careful I am when shaving, my shower always ends up looking like a god damn scene from Sweeney Todd. Ergo, maybe a vibrating bar of soap would have been more appropriate.
On a purely functional level, you just have to be fucking kidding me. "Throw on the cap and voila — party time!" I don't know what kind of female circumcision party you're trying to drag me to, but the thought of a rickety piece of plastic standing between my clit and a razor blade pretty much makes me want to buy a chastity belt and never leave my house again. And I won't be "throwing" anything on, thank you very much. I'll be securely fastening at the very least. And I mean, honestly, what are the chances of that cap flying off mid "party"? I think I would have to see some concrete design plans and take a guided tour of the plastic cap factory in China before that thing comes within six inches of seeing inside my pantaloons.
The Tinge also offends me for one of the same reasons that The Snuggie offends me—someone is making a million dollars off it. Why, oh why, do we insist on rewarding such stupidity?? A shammy cloth sold by a trick-beating Scientologist?! LORD KNOWS I HAVE ONE! A backwards robe marketed as a hands-free blanket?! SOLID GOLD! A vibrating razor blade for the sexual adventurous girl-on-the-go?! HERE, TAKE MY WALLET!!!
I think part of the reason I'm so bitter (besides not wanting my genitals sliced and diced,) is that I once had a great invention idea once, but not a single soul supported. I called it The Slammock. I created The Slammock by combining the two places I find most comfortable to sleep—a sleeping bag and a hammock. My design specifically called for a fleece-lined sleeping bag tied onto (not sewn into, that would be too tight and constricting,) a traditional cord hammock. I genuinely think this is an amazing idea and I still wish everyday that I had one. I actually pitched The Slammock to my parents while we were bed shopping for my first apartment. I argued that The Slammock beats a traditional bed, as it is comfortable, financially sound and space efficient. And yet, I was met with negativity by everyone I proposed the idea to. Suddenly everyone was a bed critic—is there enough back support? What if a prankster flips you over while sleeping? How can you have sex on it? What about motion sickness? Will the cords make an imprint on your face? What happens when it starts to sag?! Yes, I'm the idiot, yet slap a sticker that sex "sex toy" on a vibrating razor blade and we're in business!!!??????!?!?
God I hate life.
4.01.2009
April Fool's Day and Michael Showalter
April Fool's Day is the absolute worst. Well, that's a lie, New Year's Eve is the absolute worst, but April Fool's Day is certainly up there. I just can't get behind a holiday that celebrates making people look stupid and embarrassed. That's my reality all day everyday, do we really need a holiday celebrating that? In fact, if you could all do me a personal favor and not play a single April Fool's prank on someone today, that would be great. I really appreciate it. And if you already have played a prank on someone this morning, I want you to do the following:
1.) Bring a chair into the nearest bathroom stall.
2.) Stand on said chair.
3.) Lift the rear band of your underwear up and out of your pants.
4.) Place the band over the stall's door hook behind you.
5.) Kick the chair away from you.
6.) Dangle.
Feel that? That's from me to you. And you're welcome.
This April Fool's day marks the one-year anniversary of me turning my back on my destiny, and for that reason, this is a particularly painful AFD for me. So friends and family, please be aware that if you do decide to play a prank on me, I will kick you in the testicles. Regardless if you have them or not.
You see, I am convinced that actor/comedian/writer Michael Showalter and I are meant to be. If Dr. Dre is my soul mate and John McCain is my guardian angel, than Michael Showalter is my one special someone. Here's why:
- The Baxter (which he wrote, directed and starred in) is a large part of why I moved to Brooklyn (it is also a supremely underrated movie. "Ask her to dance Elliot." Holy shit, I cry every time.) I remember sitting Chris down two summers ago, popping in The Baxter and being like, "LOOK! LOOK AT THIS MAGICAL LAND THEY CALL BROOK-LAND! LET US GO THERE AND FLOURISH!" Of course we should have stabbed each other in the heart instead of going through with it, but how were we supposed to know our landlord would turn out to be a psychotic ex-Marine über patriot? The fact remains that Michael Showlater has touched my life, and I would like to touch him in return.
- I appreciate his sense of humor so deeply. I get it. I get you Michael. I get you, and I applaud you.
- Jean Claude van DAMN THAT MAN IS FINE! There it is. The heart of the matter.
- We both have Jewish mothers and Christian fathers. HALF-BRED JINX!
- This means that technically he's Jewish, so on some level he must be looking for a nice Jewish girl to fall in love with. Welp. What Jewish gal has two thumbs, a heart of gold, a rack as big as the Gaza? This girl.
- He's a writer, I'm (sort of) a writer!
- He's funny, I'm (occasionally) funny!
- He was in a movie about Jew camp, I was waitlisted from Jew Camp!
As you can see, we're clearly made for each other. When I moved to Brooklyn, I put a little something I called "Operation M! F.I.L.M." (Michael! Fall in Love w/ Meg) into full effect. I promised myself, that I would meet Michael Showalter. And I would talk to him. And thus, we would fall in love.
Which brings us to April Fool's Day 2008. It was a Wednesday, which meant that the magazine was going to print and I had to wait around the office all day for last minute photos and articles that needed to be layed out. At approximately 3:30pm, I realized that I hadn't eaten all day and I was starting to feel a little dizzy. I ducked out of the office and ran to get lunch at my usual spot—Café Charlie on East 40th between Fifth and Madison. Now on any other day, I'd get my usual small cup of chicken gumbo, but because I was so blindingly hungry, I broke away from tradition and ordered a large bowl of gumbo to-go. What I was handed what can only describe as a vat of gumbo, that I was one-part embarrassed of and one-part extremely excited to eat.
Moments later, I was standing outside of Café Charlie on East 40th struggling to put the change I had just received into my wallet while balancing my recently purchased gumbo, spoon and bottle of water. Suddenly, an attractive man smoking a cigarette hooked a right from Madison onto 40th and started strolling towards me. "Shit, that guys hot," I innocently thought to myself. "I dig the scruffy facial hair and sunglasses. Wait, that guy looks familiar. Why does he look familiar? Why is he so hot?" And then I realized: It was Michael Showalter. He was standing three feet away from me. It was go-time for Operation M! FILM...And I fucking failed. I didn't say a god-damn word to him. Instead I just stood there like a jackass staring with big squirrely coke-eyes, spoon danging from my mouth, bottle of water shoved between my legs and a comically large tub of gumbo in hand. He walked past me, into an office building and out of my life.
Had I said just one thing to him, I am convinced my life would be completely different right now. I'd be starring in a successful and critically acclaimed husband/wife comedy act touring the nation's hottest clubs instead of being stuck in this hell hole doing data entry and stealing pita chips and toilet paper to sustain my life.
What's worse is that absolutely no one believed me that this happened. Knowing of my love and admiration for the Showalter, they thought it was just another stupid April Fool's joke. In fact, I'm 98% sure that Chris still doesn't believe me, even though a year has passed and I've sworn upside down and sideways that it really happened.
So thanks a lot April Fool's Day jokesters. Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us. I'll be in my office not having sex with Michael Showalter should you need me for anything not-prank related.
1.) Bring a chair into the nearest bathroom stall.
2.) Stand on said chair.
3.) Lift the rear band of your underwear up and out of your pants.
4.) Place the band over the stall's door hook behind you.
5.) Kick the chair away from you.
6.) Dangle.
Feel that? That's from me to you. And you're welcome.
This April Fool's day marks the one-year anniversary of me turning my back on my destiny, and for that reason, this is a particularly painful AFD for me. So friends and family, please be aware that if you do decide to play a prank on me, I will kick you in the testicles. Regardless if you have them or not.
You see, I am convinced that actor/comedian/writer Michael Showalter and I are meant to be. If Dr. Dre is my soul mate and John McCain is my guardian angel, than Michael Showalter is my one special someone. Here's why:
- The Baxter (which he wrote, directed and starred in) is a large part of why I moved to Brooklyn (it is also a supremely underrated movie. "Ask her to dance Elliot." Holy shit, I cry every time.) I remember sitting Chris down two summers ago, popping in The Baxter and being like, "LOOK! LOOK AT THIS MAGICAL LAND THEY CALL BROOK-LAND! LET US GO THERE AND FLOURISH!" Of course we should have stabbed each other in the heart instead of going through with it, but how were we supposed to know our landlord would turn out to be a psychotic ex-Marine über patriot? The fact remains that Michael Showlater has touched my life, and I would like to touch him in return.
- I appreciate his sense of humor so deeply. I get it. I get you Michael. I get you, and I applaud you.
- Jean Claude van DAMN THAT MAN IS FINE! There it is. The heart of the matter.
- We both have Jewish mothers and Christian fathers. HALF-BRED JINX!
- This means that technically he's Jewish, so on some level he must be looking for a nice Jewish girl to fall in love with. Welp. What Jewish gal has two thumbs, a heart of gold, a rack as big as the Gaza? This girl.
- He's a writer, I'm (sort of) a writer!
- He's funny, I'm (occasionally) funny!
- He was in a movie about Jew camp, I was waitlisted from Jew Camp!
As you can see, we're clearly made for each other. When I moved to Brooklyn, I put a little something I called "Operation M! F.I.L.M." (Michael! Fall in Love w/ Meg) into full effect. I promised myself, that I would meet Michael Showalter. And I would talk to him. And thus, we would fall in love.
Which brings us to April Fool's Day 2008. It was a Wednesday, which meant that the magazine was going to print and I had to wait around the office all day for last minute photos and articles that needed to be layed out. At approximately 3:30pm, I realized that I hadn't eaten all day and I was starting to feel a little dizzy. I ducked out of the office and ran to get lunch at my usual spot—Café Charlie on East 40th between Fifth and Madison. Now on any other day, I'd get my usual small cup of chicken gumbo, but because I was so blindingly hungry, I broke away from tradition and ordered a large bowl of gumbo to-go. What I was handed what can only describe as a vat of gumbo, that I was one-part embarrassed of and one-part extremely excited to eat.
Moments later, I was standing outside of Café Charlie on East 40th struggling to put the change I had just received into my wallet while balancing my recently purchased gumbo, spoon and bottle of water. Suddenly, an attractive man smoking a cigarette hooked a right from Madison onto 40th and started strolling towards me. "Shit, that guys hot," I innocently thought to myself. "I dig the scruffy facial hair and sunglasses. Wait, that guy looks familiar. Why does he look familiar? Why is he so hot?" And then I realized: It was Michael Showalter. He was standing three feet away from me. It was go-time for Operation M! FILM...And I fucking failed. I didn't say a god-damn word to him. Instead I just stood there like a jackass staring with big squirrely coke-eyes, spoon danging from my mouth, bottle of water shoved between my legs and a comically large tub of gumbo in hand. He walked past me, into an office building and out of my life.
Had I said just one thing to him, I am convinced my life would be completely different right now. I'd be starring in a successful and critically acclaimed husband/wife comedy act touring the nation's hottest clubs instead of being stuck in this hell hole doing data entry and stealing pita chips and toilet paper to sustain my life.
What's worse is that absolutely no one believed me that this happened. Knowing of my love and admiration for the Showalter, they thought it was just another stupid April Fool's joke. In fact, I'm 98% sure that Chris still doesn't believe me, even though a year has passed and I've sworn upside down and sideways that it really happened.
So thanks a lot April Fool's Day jokesters. Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us. I'll be in my office not having sex with Michael Showalter should you need me for anything not-prank related.
3.31.2009
Tasteless Tuesday
Allow me to share this gem of a story I discovered yesterday while paroozing Gawker:
BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!
It also turns out that Shlomi is a renegade Scientologist! He joined the church in 1982 to create contacts for his film The Underground Comedy Movie, a direct-to-DVD comedy movie featuring Slash and Joey Buttafuoco. However, the Church of Scientology brought Shlomi up on criminal charges in fake-me-out Scientology court and kicked him out. A cult, asked him to leave. Impressive or what?!
When I read this article, I ran outside with my scarf and mittens and checked for snow 'cuz I thought Christmas had come early. While clearly this is a completey horrendous and sad situation, I can't help but think it's also a gift from God directly to me. And I took that gift. I untied the bow, tore away the wrapping paper and slowly opened the box. And what was inside? A deluxe set of comical ShamWow! jokes to be made at the expense of this situation.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
Yayyyy! Leave your own ShamWow/prostitute joke as a comment because this entire situation gives me a giggle. As I am a horrible human being.
[...that last one is only funny to me because I think it's cute when my mom de-rails a joke via gchat.]
"Vince Shlomi best known as television's ShamWow! guy, was arrested in Miami last month [f]or beating up a prostitute.
According to the police report:
- Shlomi meets Sasha Harris in a Miami club. They go back to his hotel.
- She propositions him for "straight sex." He pays her a thousand bucks in cash.
- He kisses her.
- She "bit his tongue and would not let go."
- He punches her in her face repeatedly until she lets go.
- He runs down to the hotel lobby.
- They both get arrested."
BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!
It also turns out that Shlomi is a renegade Scientologist! He joined the church in 1982 to create contacts for his film The Underground Comedy Movie, a direct-to-DVD comedy movie featuring Slash and Joey Buttafuoco. However, the Church of Scientology brought Shlomi up on criminal charges in fake-me-out Scientology court and kicked him out. A cult, asked him to leave. Impressive or what?!
When I read this article, I ran outside with my scarf and mittens and checked for snow 'cuz I thought Christmas had come early. While clearly this is a completey horrendous and sad situation, I can't help but think it's also a gift from God directly to me. And I took that gift. I untied the bow, tore away the wrapping paper and slowly opened the box. And what was inside? A deluxe set of comical ShamWow! jokes to be made at the expense of this situation.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
Yayyyy! Leave your own ShamWow/prostitute joke as a comment because this entire situation gives me a giggle. As I am a horrible human being.
Sham. Wow. - Gawker
And the hooker was German, so you know she's good. - Myself
Rumor has it the hooker can hold up to twenty times as much semen as other prostitutes. - Chris
Remember Vince, the ShamWow can dry everything but the tears of a life gone horribly, horribly wrong. - My Dad
Beware ShamWow imitators. And kissing prostitutes that charge $1,000 for straight sex on the mouth.
He should have just told her we can't do this all day. It's from his commercial, you know like call right now 'cause we can't do this all day. Then she would have let go of his tongue. I had to work too hard, this isn't funny any more. Damnit. - My Mom
[...that last one is only funny to me because I think it's cute when my mom de-rails a joke via gchat.]
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