Monday, August 3, 2009


I was disturbed by the movie (bedroom cryfest over violence) so I decided to go out and buy my FIRST EVER COMIC BOOK to recapitulate and hopefully salvage something out of the first-row movie experience that left me a girl. I went into the store and asked this nerdy guy to sell me a good 'un, and he directed me to Watchmen by Allen Moore. I was a little skeptical at first, but the more I read the book, the more I loved it. Esp all of the references that would make a high school English teacher all hot and bothered. My faves were the Gunga Diner, taken from Rudyard Kipling's poem Gunga Din, and the name of the band "Pale Horse."

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Friday, July 24, 2009


I've recently been occupied with tracking down the underground cult of Newsies followers. Although the Disney movie flopped when it came out in theaters in 1992, it has acquired a modest following through the web. What does that mean, you might wonder? It means meticulous lists, puzzles, endless fan vids, and unapologetic fan sites about their mild "obsession."

I recently found this website, "Mush's Goil," devoted to everything Newsies, with a new quotation updated every week:

My favorite thing about this site is the "You know you're obsessed when..." list. Here are some of my favorites:

5. You and your friends go by your newsie names
13. Whenever you see "Fe" on the periodic table you immediatly think of Santa Fe and have a sudden urge to kick up dust
26. You have a Newsies outfit
27. You wear your Newsies outfit regularly
42. You think you see the Newsies in the most random places (I thought I spotted Trey Parker in WalMart one time.. but of course it wasnt him)
73. You've spent over 100 dollars on Newsies memerobilia.
88. You've had at least one one hour long phone conversation with a fellow newsie freak of just singing the songs. (I know I've had more than one!)

There's an entire page devoted to the hatred of the heroine in the movie, "Sarah," because she gets to kiss Christian Bale (aka Jack Kelly) at the end of the movie. The complaints? "She sounds like a man." I finally figured out that the maker of the site is an 17 year old self-proclaimed "RENThead" (that word gives me the creeps) who apparently grew up with Broadway coming out of her rear. She states:

"My dream roles are to be Glinda in Wicked, Velma in Chicago, Christine in Phantom, Amneris in Aida or Mimi in Rent."

Shoot big, there, kiddo.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

T'choupi et doudou

"French cartoon" might sound like a painful paradox, but believe it or not, there are cartoons out there made in France and the toddlers aren't smoking, wearing mascara, or having back alley sexual encounters.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

When we're together it's like hot coals in a fire

I don't know if you've ever encountered STACEY Q, but she's like a less fugly, more eighties version of Madonna. Why was she not more famous? I guess I'll chalk it up to the fact that an ivy headdress will never outwit a cone bra, and the well-placed seductive mole and gap tooth can come across as alluringly exotic. Psh.

I just feel for Stacey Q. She wasn't Madonna, no. That's understandable. But she wasn't even a Debbie, or a Tiffany. She could only be herself, and that ultimately caused her demise in the pop sphere.


It's been a while since I've fired up the ole bloggeroonie, but to be perfectly honest, I forgot my password and I had to try every permutation of my dead dog and some numbers before I got it just right, and then I realized that I had no inspiration and that nothing interesting happens in my life.

I'm taking a TESOL/TEFL certification class right now, and the material makes me want to scrape out my earwax and make a little earwax doll in the middle of class so I can have something to play with. This is gross.

I eat many peanut butter sandwiches. I eat one per day, and for a while I thought about upping the number to two or even two and one half peanut butter sandwiches per day. That struggle remains unresolved. Maybe I will make peanut butter bananas or ants on a log or switch the brand of peanut butter instead.

According to the Chinese Zodiac, I was born in the Year of the Snake. I realized that this has absolutely nothing to do with me.

Why don't they make round cookies with fortune cookie-type batter? Is the fortune/shape essential to the fortune cookie experience? If I have the cookie in a different shape, sans fortune, can I still call it a fortune cookie?

Adrien Brody. I've finally decided that he is an attractive man.

Friday, June 19, 2009

This is the

nastiest thing I have ever seen on the internet:

Friday, March 27, 2009

Monday, March 23, 2009

Birthday Letters

When life gives you lemons, forget the lemonade and drink an Arnold Palmer. Also, remember that at least you aren't Ted Hughes, who cannot escape his desperately suicidal family members. There's his first wife, Sylvia, who died at the age of 30 via gas oven. Then there's his second wife, Assia Wevill, who decided to kill their daughter along with herself. Now there's his son Nicholas, who hung himself 46 years after his mother's suicide.

Poetry is good, but in the end we're most interested in the poets.

Sunday, March 22, 2009


Just watch it, okay? Don't say anything.


I heard this song on the radio over spring break and it took me the longest time to figure out whether the person singing was a boy or a girl. It turns out it's just Miley. My favorite part about this video? Definitely the CGI.

Saturday, March 21, 2009


I do not watch movies because I have the attention span of a baby cricket. Someone recommended that I go to this website and watch all of the movies in sequential order. I cannot wait to become a snobby art house critic with eyeglasses shaped like nonagons and a different black turtleneck for every day of the week. I will sit in dark corners and sip organic Rooibos tea and talk about Herbert Brenon in silken tones and click together my mauve-painted nails and reminisce about the time when I watched every Criterion movie in the collection and became, dahling what's the word, a buff.

why is this message board so funny late at night

Thursday, March 19, 2009


I want to meet the person who wrote this ad and shake her hand.

I'm thinking her name is "Denise." She's an MFA grad from U Michigan, class of 2002, who freelances and temps while writing her novel about a woman who moves to Austrailia on a whim and falls in love with a hairy aussie 20 years her elder. Denise has never been married, but she loves her niece and three triplet nephews, an, of course, LIP PLUMPER.

My favorite paragraph on the whole page:

"Celebrity Sexy Pout is THE BEST ONE ,The first thing I noticed was that it smells yummy, not spicy. I figured "it's probably decent". Understatment of the year! It is the best plumper on all levels: It's got a sexy sheen, it stays put for hours, and the plumping lasts for days. This was the only plumper that had a semi-permanent effect. It's like you can actually feel the lips swelling from the inside out. BUT..if you overuse it, your lips can look a bit too plump (I was asked if I had injections a couple times). The most impressive plumper of the bunch."

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Dewretch Mode

This is the Marc Jacobs model up close. His name is Cole Mohr. He models for MJ's male and female lines. Dear Mr. Mohr: there's a reason the alternative synthkid style of northern England died with the 80's. Thank you for reminding us of that reason.

Morrissey... nightmarish in this video. The cold nape-perspiration that's gathering above my collar reminds me of the time I freaked out when I saw this Marc Jacobs ad in a Wallpaper* magazine:

Yes, that's a man. You're welcome.

If ya like pictures

This website has some pretty good stuff.


After a long hiatus from the blog, I have decided to return in a big way...with Siamese Crocodile Twins. Why did I stop? Sometimes the level of inanity to which I routinely ascend scares me. I panicked on February 11th after the beef jerky panties post, not wanting to become yet another posterchild of the Look-At-Me generation obsessed with sniffing out insipid internet truffles.

But then last night I had a revelation. I was looking at Gwyneth Paltrow's celebrity blog, GOOP, and I realized that not only do I hate Gwyneth Paltrow for being a beautiful film actress with fruit children and a rockstar hubby to boot, but I also hate everything her blog stands for...those verbal icons...her director friends...etc. I looked around, and I was alone in the room. There was not a single person I could tell about Gwyneth Paltrow's blogging atrocity, and suddenly I became very afraid. My soap box was floating somewhere a million miles away. "I could send out a mass text," I thought, "But then I would be branded as a psycho...where could I funnel my heavy-handed opinions so someone, someone, could read them? My thoughts must be read."

Then the blog, oh, the sweet sweet blog came back to me: my meglomaniacal stomping grounds, my personal piece of real estate on the world wide web where I can fell as many trees I want. Somebody's gotta hear eventually. Somebody. I am a part of the Look-At-Me generation whether I want to accept it or not.

And so I accept.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

I faithfully promise that I will never google image search the words "bearded lady" ever again.

Sunday, February 8, 2009


Sometimes when my tum-tum's acting up, I think about really salty foods that make my face bloated for three days after consuming them. And then I look at pictures of beef jerky rhinestone-encrusted panties:

Kinda cutey?

Does it make me totally disgusting that I think this guy's intentions are cute? He's looking for an all caps REAL woman, none of that fake stuff, okay thanks?

Tuesday, February 3, 2009


"Hit me baby one more time" has a freakish amount of key changes.

Sunday, February 1, 2009


This is a picture of Beyonce from her new "Diva" video. I don't know where her glasses are from, but they look like the French clothing designer Bless that made these grimy horse glasses below:

They also made these glasses and a wire pin that says "uncool."

Here is a video from one of their concept fashion shows. I think the models are playing soccer?


There is something about Mungo Jerry in this video that screams "Get me to a post-traum E.R."

Sunday, January 25, 2009


I just saw the title "Brothels in Nevada Ask to Be Taxed" on the front page of the New York Times and almost lost my pineapple upside-down cake. Apparently George Flint, the director of the NBA (National Brothel Association...lolskies) wants to provide a safety net for the industry floundering in a Red State filled with intact hymens by bribing Nevada with money that will eventually support a penal system devoted to keeping O.J. Simpson's 61 year old simper behind bars for the next double lifetime.

Flint: "Let me give you free cash money."

The State of Nevada: "No thanks, Gizmo doppelganger. We'd rather be the conservative bastion of gambling and drinking than be paid off by whores."

Saturday, January 24, 2009


I'm sicker than a Great Dane right now. My lymphnodes are bigger than a Great Dane right now. I'm burning more flu calories in my chest than Michael Phelps would if he made love to the energizer bunny. There are all the typical Saturday night bumps of exuberance in the boxes surrounding my dorm room, and I'm completely miserable.


Gemma Ward is purdy

Friday, January 23, 2009

Thanks, Caleb.

7 Things

I didn't think I would ever deign my blog to the level of the Jonas brothers, but after I read this awful article about the metrotrio titillating the new First Daughters Sasha and Malia, my choler was sufficiently dandered up enough to put pads to plastic and eke out a little treatise on these horrible teen idols. Now put on any David Cassidy song and I'll headbop with the rest of the front row fainters, and I have been known to steal an occasional N.K.O.T.B. listening sesh every few weeks. I am in no way against the teenage heartthrobs as an established/serious genre in popculture. BUT these curly-haired putti troubadors with their promise rings and glottal love anthems and their faces plastered on the page of every Tiger Beat (along with that dental hygienist's nightmare Miley Cyrus) and ambiguous 80's filtered fashion (srsly how many Wayfarer styles does Ray Ban make? Follow up question: how many scarves from H&M can one manchild actually sport in one week?)...allow me to say I'm NOT A FAN, JBROS. Look at the above picture. Kevin, "The Ugly One" in preteen circles, is trying to appear intellectual in that awful vest. And those sideburns! Then there's Joe in the middle with his typical Farah Fawcett mane and Tom Ford fashion sense. Then Nick on the right, who is a cross between Samantha Ronson and GnR's Slash.
Just give me MmmBop and leave me alone.

Sumthin Fishee

So I'm looking at a Goldfish bag I'm munchin' out on a Friday night in my bedroom and there are a lot of things about it that confuse me.

First, Finn (the mascot) is blowing orange bubbles (!) and "riding" a bike (with a safety first helmet). He accentuates his "Now Made With Whole Grain" message with a pedophilic grin that's wider than the Mormon Tabernacle. This message is essentially meaningless, because one serving provides a measly 2g of Dietary Fiber. That's about enough for a worm to poop with ease. Another disconcerting fact about this package is the ingredients list, which is preempted by the phrase, "Made with smiles and..." While this kind of cutsy marketing works for Trader Joe's, Peppridge Farm is too far down the mainstream pipe to handle creative deviation.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

A Milli

I heard that song the other day for the first time (I know, right?!) and when this lyric came up:
"I'm a venereal disease/like a menstrual bleed"
I went through a full spectrum of emotions, ending in amusegustment, a personal portmanteau that describes a facial contortion in between the stages of laughing and throwing up. I kind of want to know what Lil Wayne means by this, though. Clearly it cannot be temporal, because I've never heard of a venereal disease that shows up every month like clockwork and then fades away when you're 50 to hot flashes and irritability. And surely it cannot mean "a force of nature," because the former is incidental to sexual activity, both male and female, and the latter is the effect of the cause of womanhood.
So the best explanation I have of it is "I'm really, really annoying."

Pomp n' Circumstance

"Inauguration" comes from the Latin verb inaugurare, meaning "to take omens from birds." In a purely etymological world, Barack Obama should either a) get someone to help him read the entrails of an eagle Dick Cheney shot in the backwoods of Virginny or b) stand in front of the Lincoln Memorial and wait for a bird to fly by, poop on his head, and consecrate him into office.

Wiggity wack.

Monday, January 19, 2009


Umm...I don't know what language this is.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Truck stop

I hope you clicked on the link in the last post to Bithlo. Bithlo, aka. "The Nightmare Before Christmas" (because it's situated on the road to Christmas, Florida, another seedy pimple on our Nation's phallus) is easily the worst place on the planet. I like how the wikipedia article conspicuously avoids putting up a picture, because the 33 sex offenders, median CDP household income of $34,425 and etymological tidbit (Bithlo is Muskogee for "canoe") are enough to convince anyone that the image would consist of two truck stop prostitutes in Confederate thigh-highs massaging an old lecher's jowls. But if that doesn't seem right to you, image-search "Hell" and you'll see something like this, which was taken from the barfable website :

And then watch as much of this youtube video that you can stomach. 100% of the people in Bithlo are like this man.

Grumble in the Jungle

There are a few things about our federal government that annoy me (panacea "bailout" sentiment when things get sour, bureaucratic desk goons with a disconcerting amount of de facto power, federalism's blithe treatment of universal health care, etc.), but nothing comes close to my annoyance at the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC). Only they would make a circa 1994 brainwashing website to prevent little Suzie from jamming her pinkie into an outlet and little Tommie from getting gonorrhea from a urinal in Bithlo. Only they would title a press release: "Ryobi Corded Circular Saws Sold Exclusively at Home Depot Recalled By One World Technologies Inc. Due to Laceration Hazard." Saws? Laceration hazard? Say it isn't so!

Maybe I want to get poisoned from my polycarbonate Nalgene filled with stroketastic Sparks. Maybe I want my baby to wear a vinyl bib. Maybe I want to lead a lead-exposed lifestyle. It's my prerogative. I don't need no CPSC to tell me what to do.

Aaaaand I promise I'm not a Republican. Gross.

Friday, January 16, 2009

There are 10 different words meaning "fruit dessert" in this post

Betty was an ordinary girl, except when she would buckle under the pressure of her Tourette's Syndrome and yell obscenities like "Claflouti!" at strangers. Though her occasional coprolalia embarrassed her, her father, the town cobbler, would rather crumble kitty litter than pay for medical treatment.

One crisp autumn morning, Betty greeted her father in their kitchen. He gave a cold grunt and returned to the shoe in front of him. She tried to talk about her school day ahead and her plans for later on that evening. "Enough of your flummery, Betty," her father replied. "I need you to stay in the kitchen all day and make me a delicious pandowdy, and then maybe you can go out." Betty was so angry, she took out a gun, shot her father in the chest, and watched him slump to the floor.

Aged like cheese, wine

I can't wait until I'm really old, like 70 or 80, when I can yell offensive things at younger people like "Screw off, whippersnapper!" as I pass them in a bikini on a periwrinkle beach bike, cigarette teetering on my lips, my wrinkled, leathery flesh rippling in the wind as I go 2 miles per hour through the streets of Boca Raton, the humidity seeping through my dentures and moisturizing the lone piece of hair that trails off the top of my scalp. I will be accompanied across the street by younger men. I will gloriously remember nothing but things that happened before I turned thirteen. I will eat only chocolate and maybe some prunes to keep balanced. I will walk around nude and pretend it's my dementia acting up.

I also want to become this woman, because setting a Guinness World Record in the last five days of one's life sounds weirdly satisfying.


Yesterday an Airbus 320 crash-landed in the Hudson River after leaving La Guardia. It rose 3,200 feet over the Bronx before swerving down to the river with 155 people bracing themselves for impact. The cause of the emergency landing? BIRDS getting caught in the engine.

There's a fine line between totally funny and totally depressing.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

This is not a joke


I just got an email. Subject line: "FW: Auditions for the Underpants."

That would be a great cardboard sign for a hobo prostitute.

Sucks to Your Assmar

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

G'Day Mate

Forget Nicotine. Forget Crystal Meth. YERBA MATE IS THE MOST ADDICTIVE SUBSTANCE EVER. Over winter break I went into my parents' tea cabinet looking for a hot bevvy to sip whilst I knitted some psychadelic socks, and I found some weird stuff called "Matte Leao" that they got in Brazil. I steeped one cup and then two cups and then two bags per cup and then by the end of break I was averaging a box a day. Someone make me stop plz.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Git It

This blog is hilarious, though I do get annoyed with the million+1 avatars of the word "douchebag." Also, calling men "Scrotes" is kind of sick . Check out the January 8th, 2009 post for mucho laughs.

Altarwrap Supreme, no sour

When I first saw the headline "Couple Gets Marries at Taco Bell" I thought to myself, "Yet another gimmicky online human-interest piece to consummate USA Today's position as #1 most widely read newspaper in America (thanks to color-coded sections and giant pictures that make the paper look like a Monopoly game)." And then I thought, "That's the first time I've ever thought with a parenthetical aside, and now I hate myself." Of course I read the article (those enticing color codes!), and I must admit, the article was good. An Internet couple with the incidental SAME LAST NAME marry in a Taco Bell in NORMAL, ILLINOIS, with the WILL YOU MARRY ME? sauce packets nearby and an ONLINE-ORDAINED minister presiding. The total cost? About TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS. USA Today had enough nerve to print that the bride's hot pink dress cost FIFTEEN DOLLARS.
  • "I would never have expected in my life in working here there would be a wedding," restaurant manager Carl Hamlow said.

  • "We have the same brain, just in two bodies," Paul Brooks said. "We think alike in virtually every manner. We have the same interests, viewpoints."

  • "This is the way to go — there's no stress," said the groom's mother, Kathy Brooks.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Last one, I promise

I couldn't resist. This is the cutest lil thang I ever did see.

post script... a day full of blogging. I have one final question before I go to bed: what is up with this picture?! It makes me feel dirty inside.

Whisper those sweet nuthin's somewhere else, Mr. President.


No Sound

A quick quiz to test your knowledge

Identify this picture:
a) A William Blake watercolor etching of his character Urizen from his created mythology
b) An image from 1971's Led Zeppelin IV
c) A picture of Howard Hughes, the late years

Middlemarch On

I've spent the majority of this week in an uncomfortable Scan Design chair (the kind that makes your butt feels like hardened ice crystals of carbonation after an hour of continual noisy readjustment) reading Middlemarch, menstruating, and staring at this picture on the back cover of my book, which makes me wonder every twenty pages if George Eliot's transgendered pseudonym is really not just an ironic fabrication by a modern world that refuses to admit: "Yes, this ugly woman truly was a man." I looked up the 1994 miniseries to see if it was worth ditching the torture chair, and I unhappily happenchanced across this disgusting fan website about Rufus Sewell, the slightly wall-eyed Brit who plays Will Ladislaw. But if that's not pathetic enough, I decided to compile the sum total of things I've learned reading this Victorian behemoth:
  1. I cannot pronounce Bildungsroman after many tries. I remain unsympathetic towards the plight of George W.

  2. I wonder if I will ever be able to appropriately use the word "energumen."

  3. The phrase "at sixes and sevens," does not make British English more endearing. Nor is "British English" as "tautologous" as John Bull might think.

  4. I need to curtail my no strings attached sessions with Wikipedia, because I end up finding articles like this that test the strength of my gag reflex.

  5. There are human limitations to coffee consumption.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Women's Lib

According to Tyra "Rip 'em off!" Banks, this is probably why Hillary didn't get elected...she just didn't throw her weight around in proper-fitting jeans.

Monday, January 5, 2009


This post is less a coattail off of my post about tamping, and more about a traumatic childhood event that left me questioning reality and my will to exist (hyperbole, but work with me here). Remember the nascence of our teen years, when we were shelling out our hard-earned lawn care/babysitting cashola for the Slim Shady LP and newest S Club 7 cd, when Cheerios came out with a version of Frosted Cheerios called "Millenios," the highly-coveted collector's item that now retails on Ebay for SEVEN DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS?! Yeah, I totally had a box, unopened, complete with holographic imaging splashed on the cereal container that doubled cleverly as a year 2000 time capsule. I kept that piece of cardboard for five years, only to discover that not only did my mother have complete disdain for it, but she threw it away without a care, a keepsake that was so important to a budding antique connoisseur that she took it out of her closet thrice a year and whispered as she held it to her tender-nippled girl bosom, "One day, one day..."
Thanks, mom.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

50% De Agave

Why do none of America's finest rappers deign to rhyme "Patrón" with anything? For example, in Missy Elliot's "Touch It" featuring Busta Rhymes, the lyric goes:

You can hit it like a game of ping-pong/if you give me two shots of Patrón

and in the next line, she tries to rhyme the word with "home," which is a clever oblique rhyme when you're Emily Dickinson, but sad if you're a yo-yo diet, "progressive" rap artist.

Or let's look at Bubba Sparxxx's wonderful "Ms. New Booty (feat. the Ying Yang Twins)" version:

"Sippin' on Patron (glumb glumb glumb)/Shorty in a thong (woah woah woah)"

Yung Joc has the cojones to actually get the rhyme right in his eponymous song "Patrón":

"This ballers zone/J’s on my feet/Im on dat Patron/so get like me

But unfortunately, "feet" and "me" still are only an oblique, kind of lame rhyme. Is it me, or does "MC" these days stand for "Major Contriver?"


Some people claim that fake nails are "tacky," but they've never experienced the raw feeling of power that comes from having a hand punctuated with five polyresin acrylic weapons. Sure, they limit the range of a woman's abilities much like Chinese foot binding, and probably cause the soil to churn above Betty Friedan's grave, but typing has never been more of an adventure in depth perception!

But these are effing disgusting.

Cutest animal ever

A much needed warmandfuzzy buffer between you and the horrors of lingering holiday relatives.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Phenylketonurics: Contains Phenylalanine

I need to amend an earlier post in which I disparaged diet sodas. The brunt of my vitriol should go to that effervescent turpentine, Diet Coke. I hate the way people order it at a restaurant, especially when the waiter says, "What would you like to drink with that [fattening entree]?" and the person says, "Oh, I'll just have a diet." A "diet?" As if someone can be so chummy with a drink to give it a cute abbreviated nickname. If you want your innards embalmed by aspartame, can you PLEASE at least say "Diet Coke?"

But I will not deny that I do indulge in the king of all diet drinks, FRESCA. By "indulge" I mean the New Year's Eve bender in which I drank between 12-15 in the course of 8 hours. I woke up this morning feeling my duodenojejunal flexure pulsating, angry and irritated that I consumed a product that, according to the ingredients, contains:
Carbonated water, citric acid, concentrated grapefruit juice, potassium citrate,
potassium benzoate and EDTA, aspartame, acesulfame potassium,
acacia, natural flavors, glycerol ester of wood rosin, bromated vegetable oil, carob bean gum.
Glycerol ester of wood rosin is a fantastic name, but the thought that I'm drinking something that is also in the composition of eyeliner (and presumably guyliner)? No thanks. The worst is that little "natural flavors" clause, which is about as telling as a catatonic deaf-mute. According to Title 21, Section 101, part 22 of the Code of Federal Regulations:

"The term natural flavor or natural flavoring means the essential oil, oleoresin, essence or extractive, protein hydrolysate, distillate, or any product of roasting,
heating or enzymolysis, which contains the flavoring constituents derived from a spice, fruit or fruit juice, vegetable or vegetable juice, edible yeast, herb, bark, bud, root, leaf or similar plant material, meat, seafood, poultry, eggs, dairy products, or fermentation products thereof, whose significant function in food is flavoring rather than nutritional."
Once again the bureaucratic desk writers of the federal government win my respect. They can't teach that kind of superb rhetoric in schools.