Thursday, January 5, 2012

So Insipid, Even A Caveman Could Do It...

Ladies and Gentleman (yes... singular... I'm looking at you, Brandon)...

The time has come for yet another roll of the dice, in the vain hopes that fate will finally take pity on ABCs calamitous matchmakers and that one of the 25 crazy ass hookers that slept their way past the casting couch, just so happens to be the "soul mate" of Ashley Hebert's sloppy seconds...  But if for no other reason than the comfort and security of knowing that there will be someone to clutch tightly (or file a restraining order against) in the midst of that inevitable Mayan apocalypse that is oh-so-hot on our heels.

That's right...

I'm talkin' about The Bachelor, season... I don't know... 72?

True to form, our friends at America's 3rd Most Watched Network have once again tirelessly scoured every online dating site and Craigslist ad their company firewalls would allow them to open and eventually settled upon what could only be described as, the LEAST DESIRABLE caveman they could find from GEICO's 2004 - Present ad campaign, aka last season's runner up, Ben-There-Done-That Flajnik.

Tell me I'm wrong...

He is so revolting, in fact, that Ashley Hebert, this country's most repulsive birthmark, turned down his marriage proposal... I needn't say more.

But what's done is done. It doesn't do anyone a lick of good for me to wax nostalgic over the days of Andrew Firestone and... ummmm... well... just him...

Enticing Bachelor or no, there are needy bitches to ridicule, and I am equal to the task.

Let me start by saying this... Thank you... but I don't get it.

The English speaking majority has seen, or at least heard of, the calamity that is The Bachelor/Bachelorette franchise. This NEVER ends well. Ryan and Trista are the best we got going, and anyone out there longing for that kind of "happy ending" should be tarred and feathered in the town square.

And CBS can broadcast it... (since they have once again clinched the Most Watched Network on Television title...)(Ooooooo burn! Cap on you, ABC! That stings a little, doesn't it?)

So, why? WHY? Single women, I ask you. Why subject yourselves to this ballyhoo? Why audition to look the damn fool on national television for the manufactured and ill-fated love of a neanderthal? Why?

But also... thank you.

Night one unfolded as it always does, a fractured and masterfully edited glimpse into the lives of the hopefuls. The types of women that pin all their dreams on doomed reality television dating shows, giddy with the notion  that soon, if they successfully walk those fine lines between vapid push-over, raging devil-bitch, and slut-bag, they will no longer be seated at the singles table with the rest of the Table 9ers.

Jill's "Ones To Watch"


This bitch lost her shit the moment she stepped out of the limo


  • Misquoted CaveBen's "I just got dumped" whine line
  • Became certifiably obsessed with the prospect that some pony-tailed potential lesbian might not think she's swell

  • Went into the bathroom alone... shut the door for privacy... microphone strapped to her chest... and had a audible schizophrenic break. Money.


I didn't see it coming with this one...


  • All but fornicated with another bachelorette, Blakely, in the courtyard of the Bachelor Mansion...

  • Solely responsible for Jenna's schizophrenic break (well, her, and the fact that Jenna is bat shit bananas)
  • Ponytail + Formal Wear + National TV = Fashion Trailblazing, if ever I've seen it


The elderly are not pawns in your slut-capades!


  • Bitch brought her crippled grandma to win points with Ben

  • It worked


The off-brand Michelle Money...


  • She's a "model"... in Scottsdale, Arizona... Which is to say, some amateur photog took some snapshots of her in his basement and posted them on his blog in exchange for sexual favors and fried chicken... Oh, but she's pretty sure she's the bees knees...
  • Hair-flipping is her dangling carrot

  • Lip-biting is her Ace-in-the-Hole

It's gonna be one for the books, friends, I can already taste it...

Sunday, December 4, 2011

I complain on Sundays...

A gaggle of gripes to satiate your craving for the bitter within me...

Don't act like you're not excited...

This week?

I Don't Want Your Garbage... I Don't Care If It's Free...

There's this thing people do. I mean, if they're NOT hoarders. They call it Spring Cleaning even in the Winter. And even though it should be called Shit Purging. It's a good thing. I'm not knocking "the thing". I fully support and celebrate the conscious exorcism of materialistic overpopulation.

What I DO NOT celebrate, or even tolerate, really, is when said purging concludes with the stacking of useless garbage curbside with a grease stained slab of cardboard that has the word "FREE" scrolled in Serial Killer Font, precariously balanced atop it.

It would be one thing if this shit was worth taking. But it never is. It's always some broke ass tube television or a 1970's era particle board dresser with missing drawers or a cracked mirror.

This is just a clear and shameless demonstration of Sloth. What the sign should actually say is:

It would take a bigger piece of cardboard, but at least it would be honest.

Listen, I don't want your garbage. I don't care if it's free!!!

And while we're on the subject... I also don't want your horse manure, yet there are signs for that on the side of the road as well.

I'm sure it's useful in some circles. I mean, I'd rather put out a bonfire with my face, than have any part of these circles, but I imagine they're out there... It's LITERALLY SHIT, people. "Oh, your animals have produced an obscene amount of feces and you'd like me to come relieve you of some of it, and you're NOT going to charge me?!?!?! Yahtzee!"

And what about paying money for things you can find anywhere for free? Like dirt. Or rocks. Or pine cones. People do this. MY MOTHER does this. She will get in her car, drive to Home Depot and trade cash for dirt. FOR DIRT!

Ma, I gotta tell ya, I have dirt if you want it. I'm fucking swimming in dirt. I track dirt all over my carpet from the bottom of my shoes. I have to wash things to get rid of dirt, I have such a abundance. I can't swing a cat without hitting some kid covered in dirt. There's dirt inside, there's dirt outside. It's yours for the taking. Yet, you can't stop yourself from forking out your hard earned money just because their dirt has been neatly packaged for you and renamed "Soil".

Also, we live in the Pacific Northwest, why don't you let me go ahead and swoop up some of the grabillion pine cones that fall from the sky every GD day and you can stack them in all the decorative bowls your little heart desires for the bargain price of Mother-Nature-Owes-Me-For-Efiing-Up-My-Car's-Paint-Job. I'll even spray 'em with a little cinnamon Lysol for you. No ventures to Pier 1 Imports required.

I'm not saying I don't like free stuff like a free coffee at Starbucks, or a free gift with purchase, or free shipping. I'm also not saying that I can't appreciate the price of convenience, i.e. food delivery, valet parking, maid service (I can't actually afford any of that... but in a perfect world...). What I am saying is this...

My ass is broke, and even still...
I. Don't. Want. Your. Garbage.
I. Don't. Care. If. It's. Free.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Chester, Chester, neighbor molester, where do you park your van?

I just moved.

It's a lovely place really.

Good neighborhood. Secured building. Spacious, bright, quiet. View of the city. The subtle melody of seals barking in the night air. Really quite lovely.

But as with all new dwellings, there are those little quirks, "personality traits" if you will, one must discover, digest, and attempt to internally reconcile.

My new shiver-inducing, midnight-lurking neighbor across the street, is one such quirk.


Prosecution Exhibit A:

I'm on the third floor.
I have a deck.

From said deck is the aforementioned view of the beautiful metropolis that is Seattle, WA. Also, visible from this deck is the street. And the houses across that street. And the van that parks in front of the houses across that street.

This is not just "a van". I've seen vans before. Some (few) are not creepy. Some (few) are used for the purposes of toting children to and fro, delivering cakes or flowers, transporting lazy asshats that promise to come fix your cable between the hours of noon and next Tuesday. I've seen these vans. This is not one of those vans.

This is one of the vans that is acquired solely for the purposes of abduction, torture, brutal homicide, and body disposal.

How do I know? Well, first, it's yellow. Not canary yellow, or "beige that looks yellow in a certain light", or obnoxious Nissan Xterra yellow. It's rattle can, lane line yellow. With not-so-subtle hints of rust and erosion speckled about. And you might think that yellow would be a less than ideal color selection for a torture wagon. You'd be wrong. Yellow is so obvious, it's discreet. It's hiding in plain sight. Who suspects a yellow van?!?!? Me. That's who.


Second, the windows that it does have, of which there are three, are tinted. And not "the sun's so bright in Seattle" tinted, but "try to guess what I'm hiding in here" tinted. And I don't want to guess. I already know.

So, of course, I'm already a smidge uneasy. But I keep telling myself, "It's just a van, Jill, it's just a van."

Prosecution Exhibit B:

It was late. 10 or 11 at night. Or perhaps it was 4:30. Who the fuck knows? Night falls at noon here in the winter. Regardless, it was dark. Extremely dark. And raining (weird). Not drizzling. Raining. Hard. Sheets of rain. And it was windy... I think... I might have made that part up... but I'm pretty sure. And there were zombies milling about, and you could hear the cackle of witches in the distance (okay, that last part is bullshit). Whatever, it was a creepy night. I was sitting on my deck, enjoying a mug of warm tea, listening to the rain, reveling in the solace, when I spotted him. "Chester" (for the purposes of this blog) standing in the middle of the road. Lurking. No coat. Pelted by raindrops. Perfectly still. Intently staring up at my deck.



I retreated inside immediately, locked the slider, closed the blinds, and buried myself in the comfort and safety of under-my-blankets, resting easy in the knowledge that no one could get me there.

The next day I discovered that "Chester" has a couple of dogs, one called Creepy (not kidding), his master's namesake no doubt, and was most likely just letting them out to piss all over my building, but still...

Listen, I hate to be "that neighbor". I really do. I don't want the local police to recognize my voice when I call to report more suspicious activity. I don't want to be running to the drug store every other day to buy more spiral notebooks in which I jot down license plate numbers and physical descriptions. I don't want to purchase binoculars.

But also, I don't want my life to play out like some low budget independent film entitled I Really, Still, Really, Really, Know What You Did Last Summer. I'm not a good screamer. It wouldn't translate on screen.

So, if it should come to it, let this post be my voice beyond the grave. Chester, The Neighbor Molester did it!  Please to secure Keith Morrison to tell my story.

(Side bar: When I typed "Yellow Van" in to Google Image Search a picture of Jaycee Dugard popped up... told ya so)

Monday, November 28, 2011

It's not me... it's you...

Dear Blog,

I have been an absent participant in this relationship.

I am to blame.

You bore me.

I feel like we have nothing to say to each other anymore.

I'm starting to doubt that I am commitment material.

Or maybe that you're worth the commitment.

Either way, I stopped putting in the work a long time ago. I've come back. I've tried to make things like they used to be... and I just... I don't... I'm not...

I need some inspiration. And you are clearly not giving that to me.

Fine. Fuck it. We'll give it one last shot, in the form of a list...

The Soundtrack of my Life: 10 songs that should be played at my funeral. On repeat. In no specific order.

10) I'm Too Sexy- Right Said Fred

Some might say this is a painfully obvious choice.  
But cliches wouldn't be cliches if they weren't obvious...

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~ 

I'm too sexy for my shirt too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts
And I'm too sexy for Milan too sexy for Milan
New York and Japan
And I'm too sexy for your party
Too sexy for your party
No way I'm disco dancing

9) Damn, It Feels Good To Be a Gangsta- Geto Boys:

By the time I leave this earth I'm fairly certain my street cred' will be the stuff of legends. But for those elderly folk who aren't hip to my playa wayz, we'll bust this cut with a little bass...

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta
Feedin' the poor and hepin out wit they bills
Although I was born in jamaica
Now I'm in the us makin' deals
Damn it feels good to be a gangsta
I mean one that you don't really know
Ridin' around town in a drop-top benz
Hittin' switches in my black six-fo' 

8) Black Pudding- SWV:

Because in death, as in life, I aim to offend as many people as humanly and/or inhumanly possible. 
~Lyrical proof this song is about me~ 

Must be Jell-O, 'cause pudd'n don't jiggle like that
Yeah ain't that a fact
Pull out your spoon
And let's begin the mixing
Always in the bedroom
Never in the kitchen
You can get busy
WIth your head beneath the blanket
Flip it, spank it, gettin' buck naked
'Cause women in the 90s want more from a brother
Than a part-time lover, who's wack undercover
So, brother, do your duty when it comes to the bedroom:
Don't let him eat the pudd'n
If he ain't got the head room
So, dip, DIP, dive if you wanna be a diver
Sport a helmet with a light
Like an old gold miner
No need to taste test
The puddn's always fresh
So, brothers, wear a bib if you're gonna make a mess

7) I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight- Cutting Crew:

Assuming of course that my funeral is on the very eve of my death... and that I was actually in someone's arms at T.O.D. There will need to be some pre-mortem planning done to make this relevant, but I'm willing to do so at the benefit of my funeral playlist. 

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~

Oh, I just died in your arms tonight
It must have been something you said
I just died in your arms tonight

6) Maneater- Hall & Oates:

I wasn't a huge fan of the movie Alive, nor do the ways of Jeffrey Dahmer entice me... but I do love me some benjamins... a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do (wink, giggle, dry heave)

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~

So many have paid to see
What you think you're getting for free
The woman is wild, a she-cat tamed by the purr of a Jaguar
Money's the matter
If you're in it for love you ain't gonna get too far
Oh here she comes
Watch out boy she'll chew you up
Oh here she comes
She's a maneater

5) Easy Lover- Phil Collins:

No. Explanation. Required. 

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~

She'll get a hold on you believe it
Like no other
Before you know it you'll be on your knees
She's an easy lover


4) Every Rose Has It's Thorn- Poison:

Sure, it may be the ONLY song Bret Michaels remembers the words to. Sure, it may be about a stripper. Sure, it could be catagorized as a power ballad. But truer words were never spoken. So sing on, Bret, sing me to my maker.

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~

Every rose has it's thorn
Just like every night has it's dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has it's thorn

3) Fuck You- Lily Allen:

Jill says "Fuck". And my British alter ego's name is Lily. 'Nuff said.

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~

Fuck you
Fuck you very, very much
Cause we hate what you do
And we hate your whole crew
So please don't stay in touch

2) Wind Beneath My Wings- Bette Midler:

I will dedicate this song to my minions. I'm hoping to have some by then a'la Blair Waldorf on Gossip Girl. And during the final verse of the song, I will be rigged like a puppet to sit up in my casket and spit on them one final time... (insert diabolical laugh)

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~

 It must have been cold there in my shadow,
to never have sunlight on your face.
You were content to let me shine, that's your way.
You always walked a step behind.

1) Take This Job and Shove It- Johnny Paycheck:

Because apparently nothing short of death will get me out of that shit hole job of mine... 

~Lyrical proof this song is about me~
  One of these days I'm gonna' blow my top
And that sucker, she's gonna' pay
And I just can't seem to wait
Till I get the nerve to say
Take this job and shove it
I ain't working here no more're all invited. There will be dancing.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Dudes Are Just Bitches In Uglier Outfits...

I know.

I'm sorry.

I didn't write last week.

But I have an excuse. Or a collection of excuses, as it were.

What happened was, I started vomiting all over myself at the sight of Ashley donning yet another mid-riff bearing tee in the "Last Week on The Bachelorette" segment. As you can imagine, clean up was a bitch. When I finally collected myself and settled in for the remainder of the personal hell that I call "This Season on The Bachelorette", I was immediately forced to stab my own eyes out with a dull writing utensil thanks to Ames basically just mocking himself in hot pink shorts and boxing gloves, attempting to fight like a man... Translation: getting the shit and the dignity simultaneously beat out of him.

Blind and soiled I persevered, remaining conscious just long enough to count the 17... that's right SEVENTEEN times Ash-Munch dropped the name "Bentley" THREE WEEKS AFTER HE LEFT HER ASS IN THE MOST HUMILIATING DISPLAY OF HE'S-JUST-NOT-THAT-INTO-YOU TO GRACE THE SMALL SCREEN IN HISTORY, and to vaguely make out William's threats of suicide upon not receiving his red petaled due on the Two-Guys-One-Rose-One-Stays-One-Goes fiasco.

So, as you can see, my reasons hold water. I can not be blamed.

Luckily, this week's episode was riveting... on opposite day...

I think there was a dragon boat race. I'm still unsure of the prize. I vaguely recall JP and Ashley demonstrating the first glimmer of chemistry this season has seen, on their one-on-one. I feel like maybe a Texan ate dinner on a boat in a harbor with a girl, it may or may not have been Ashley, I was concerned with my split-ends at the time.

The promised return of everyone's favorite Human Manifestation of Penis Envy, Bentley, was the juiciest five minutes this episode saw. And let me tell ya, I was lucky to stay awake for the entirety of it.

As you may have guessed, or witnessed, or assumed, or don't give a flying fuck about, (might I suggest the latter) Bentley flew to Hong Kong, not for Ashley but, that's right, for the free trip to Hong Kong. Mouths agape at this shocking revelation, America watched as his patented "dot, dot, dot" morphed into a "period". A menstrual period, as it were, because this prick deserves to experience that miserable punishment every month for the remainder of his existence.

Ash-tard, of course, was slow to realize his true intentions. But eventually (once he spelled it out for her) she grasped reality and feigned the independent and self-confident persona that only a woman scorned can dig out from the depths of her bitter soul. She may have even told him to fuck off, which causes me to (begrudgingly) think slightly more of her... I said SLIGHTLY.

Alas, in true Ashley form, she effed it all up again.

Flash forward to a Hong Kong-ian cocktail party, a mousey bitch's guilty conscience, and eight douche mongers shot up full o' Taiwanese testosterone injections. Ash, speaking on behalf of her absent common sense, thought that the news of Bentley's return would fill her second-rate's to the brim with candy corn and rainbows.


Turns out, just cuz they sissy 'nuff to go on a dating reality show, don't mean they ain't afraid to cut a bitch.

Icky Mickey's ass just up and left, never to return.

Blake (Who?!?!... Exactly.) the "dentist" threw a helluva frat boy temper tantrum. Some dude from Texas spouted off some stern words about the situation with... the rest of the guys... having apparently left his balls in his other purse.

In the end, Ashley wrapped it all up with a pretty little bow by pulling out the ol' trusty waterworks, the roses, and the failure to demonstrate good decision making skills.

And I am once again left with this, playing on a loop, in my head, until next Monday,
"Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far far away from here." ~Jenny, Forrest Gump