Thursday, August 26, 2010

I love the smell of face rape in the morning...

I've often wondered why men think that women are crazy. I've asked my brothers. I've grilled my boyfriends. I've observed my friends.


I used to think it was because women tend to put it all out there. We don't have a lot of secrets, we don't play a lot of games. If we are fond of you, there is no question. If we think you're a raging douche nozzle, we make it clear. And I used to think that men just couldn't handle that level of honesty. Because as my research has proved time and time again, men like to shroud their opinions in veils of man-code and penis-serving gibberish.  

And listen, I'm no relationship expert...

Far far far far far far far far............. far far far from one...



Unless sheer volume of relationships graduates one to the title of "expert", and then I'm actually Sigmund Freud reincarnate... with better shoes...



I've spent several of my nearly 31 years trying to navigate that trecherous and twisted road that is "the male psyche"...

Which typically ends in a fiery explosion of some sort... and carnage... lots and lots of carnage.



Yet I continue to get behind the wheel, map to nowhere in hand, traveling down that same dangerous and uncertain path I've traveled so many times before. Swerving to hit the casualties I've left behind along the way...

Not. Crazy. At. All.

But really, my point is, I don't think most women are crazy. Or I didn't... until the birth of Reality TV...

And now I see that I've been wrong... I have been oh-so-wrong...

Men think women are crazy because these are the bitches representing us as a whole.





Elizabeth~



At first glance: A seemingly harmless, attractive, put-together lady
Thirty minutes later: Mildly delusional, and poorly disguised slut bag
One day in: Bunny boiler

Tenley~



At first glance: Squeaky clean jelly bean, pure hearted and wholesome, salt of the earth kinda gal
Thirty minutes later: The Nails on a Chalkboard and Screaming Toddler Chastity Quartet
One day in: I know why your husband cheated on you

Natalie~



At first glance: Fun, flirty, spunky, one-of-the-boys bombshell
Thirty minutes later: Borderline alcoholic raspychick.com
One day in: STD incubator, happy to lop of the willy of any guy who wrongs her... or just for shits...

Nikki~



At first glance: Sideburns
Thirty minutes later: Sideburns with a side of geriatric flamenco dancer
One day in: Sideburns with a side of geriatric flamenco dancer who will ALWAYS choose to stab a girl in the back if it means she'll get attention from a boy

Is it any wonder fellas seek out the one night stand. I'd like to give each and every one of them a badge of honor for making it to daylight let alone calling the next day. And to the men I say, I'm sorry. I was wrong. And I understand your fear.

Episode 3 (at a glance):

The "Insiders" and "Outsiders" became the "Couples" and the "Singles"... it's hard to keep up with what the cool kids are calling themselves these days...

The challenge was a Kissing Contest... which is a nice way of saying Tongue Prostitution. Blindfolded and face raped, the girls voted David (McRageaholic) and the guys voted Peyton (Who? No, really. I'm asking.) the best kissers of the house. Roses to both.



David took Natalie and... two other girls on his date to Vegas. Halfway through the date he sent the other two back to LA and then banged Natalie all night... which apparently means that they are now in a serious and committed relationship. (It never seems to work out like that for me)...

(Thank God)...

(wink, smiley face emoticon)

Peyton took everyone else's boyfriends on her date to the racetrack (i.e. Kovacs, Kiptyn, and Jesse B.) which is the equivalent of tossing a lit match into a pile o' dry cuckoo doused with gasoline. She closed the night by PG-13ing it up with Jesse B., with some bullshit picnic ABC provided and a make-out session ala Every-Teen-Movie-Ever-Made.



Gia melted into a pile of shame and misfortune when Wes performed THE ONLY SONG WES KNOWS for her. She then got shit-face sloppy drunk, called him the Modern Day Shakespeare, and decided to be a trifling whore and "snuggle" with him all night in his bunk. She also got dumped by her boyfriend back home, but she doesn't know that yet.



In the end it was sianara to Gia for being a dumb bitch and giving Wes the rose last week and then admitting to everyone that she was trying to oust Kiptyn in an effort to "break up the couples". And bon voyage to Weatherman for being... well... Weatherman.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

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...



I'm not a big fan of selling myself short... though I often do.

I tell people I can't cook, when I can... granted it's typically frozen fare or boxed mac -n- cheese, but technically it's cooking.

I'll do or say stupid shit and blame it on the fact that my degree is from an art school... When, in reality, I'm pretty smart... Not PhD smart, but I can hold my own.

I date asstards.

I make shallow comments in jest and act as though they are part of my true identity... and only those who really know me see the humor...

I sell myself short. Partly because I like to make people laugh, especially at my own expense, and partly because of some other reason that I'm sure a PhD could explain to you, but I can't because I went to art school...

I do, however, choose to be somewhat ignorant to the world around me... in a sense.

I HATE the news. 

I hate the devastation and destruction and fear mongering. I hate the irresponsible journalism and the biased reporting. I hate that the top 5 stories are always about murder and rape and war and disease and missing children. I LOATHE the effing news...

I don't want to know about all the pain that the world is in. All the hate. All the sadness. I CHOOSE not to know about it. I'm pretty sure that I have about all I can handle with my own neuroses. I worry about plenty on a minute to minute basis. There's not a lot of room in me to take on all the other bullshit.



I've taken a lot of heat on this throughout the years. Most people view my decision as apathetic and self-important and shallow. I see their point... I do. But I assure you, this is an educated choice. And I, in no way, feel that my life is bigger or more important than anyone else's... except Paris Hilton... my life is DEFINITELY more important than Paris Hilton's...



And when reporters aren't reporting on shit that makes you want to jump in front of a moving train, they're busy filling us full of nonsensical and irrelevant rubbish. Things that no one needs to know... ever...

MSNBC headline examples:

  • MAN MAKES SHRIMP PIZZA, TRASHES RESTAURANT 
  • BRIDE ARRESTED FOR DRUNK DRIVING ON WEDDING DAY
  • THE AGONY AND ECSTASY OF ICE CREAM

Really? This shit matters? Someone out there gives a frack about some chump that has obvious anger issues and trashed a pizza joint?

What happened to the personal interest stories? Why don't we get to hear about how many babies were born today? Or a little boy who gave a lonely old man his puppy? Or how much money was donated to charities across the globe last week?



I am positive that there are good people out there doing good things, inspirational things, things we might all try to do every once in a while. So why doesn't anyone care about that enough to put it in the news?

When the top stories start to be about the families that feed the homeless and the people that selflessly donate their time to help this planet flourish, then I'll start watching...

Until then, I CHOOSE to be ignorant...

Saturday, August 21, 2010

It's gettin' ugly... in the best way possible...





I'm SO sorry I'm late with this Bachelor Pad update... 

Judging by the ZERO pissing comments I got last week, y'all are just chompin' at the bit, waiting for my witty quips and relentless mockery about episode deux of my REALITY TV WET DREAM.

Whatev...

Matters none...

I'm gonna keep writing about it.

Joke's on you, Comment Boycotters...



And might I add, that this shit shan't be missed. I emphatically encourage you to tune in... for at least ONE episode... even my sweet little Mary Tyler Moore mother is hooked... And she's actually classy...

That said...

For the both of you who did read my previous post on the show, I remain confident in my original evaluation of this wackadoodle social experiment. Sluts and Man-Whores Unite! But it's gotten better. Because now the Sluts and Man-Whores have broken off into two distinctive groups, known as "The Insiders" and "The Outsiders"... Not surprisingly, "The Insiders" named both teams...



As far as I can tell, the "teams" were divided thanks to one determining factor...

  • Have you acquired an STD from one or more of the other contestants PRIOR to the filming of Bachelor Pad via some sort of Bachelor/Bachelorette  retreat? If yes, you are an "Insider"... If no, please to be ostracized and dubbed an "Outsider"...

And yes, you read that correctly... Bachelor/Bachelorette retreats exist. You can't make this shit up.


Apparently these shindigs are some sort of Real World/Road Rules Challenge sans the "challenge". What I've gathered from the super-secret-society gossip is this: All the rejected contestants of past seasons convene (minus the cameras) on some cruise, or in a cabin, or at a truck stop (I'm not altogether sure) and connect over their collective rejection armed with a whole lotta alcohol and fistfuls of eachother's naughty bits...

The sheer volume of incestuous love octagons that these retreats (orgys) have produced is staggering. However, some sort of posse bond is formed and when the attendees of said congregations are approached to further embarrass themselves, their friends, and their families by smearing what's left of their virtue all over basic cable in a torrid spin-off series, the re-treat-ards feel it appropriate to label themselves "The Cool Kids".

And might I ask, in what sick, twisted, effed up world does a smokin' hot, sweet, mildly stupid SWIMSUIT MODEL get lumped in with the "Outsiders" and Tenley Molzahn is counted as an "Insider"?!?!? Ass Backwards, it is.



But that is neither here nor there...

The "challenge" this week was a pie eating contest. Seriously. It's like the event planner (school secretary) for my 3rd grade carnival was hired by ABC to come up with this ish. The cast is all a-twitter trying to vote off the "biggest threat" each week. Judging from the first two challenges, the biggest threat is a super bendy fat ass. Of which there are none.



Gia and Weatherman won their respective heats. Both "Outsiders", BTW. Which means that they were both immune from elimination and each got to take three other cast members on a date.



There was a lot of Outsider/Insider strategy discussed which, frankly, made not a piss-lick of sense to me... The dates were chosen based on... ummmmm... something... and people were voted off... and stuff. Whatever.

Here's the good shit that happened:

  • Jesse Beck (tattooed frat douche from Ali's season) pulled a summer camp break up on Natalie (blonde bomb-bitch from Jason's season) citing "I heard some shit about you from other dudes"... The true motivation? He realized he'd rather bang Gia (the swimsuit model from Jake's season)...



  • Gia (swimsuit model from Jake's season) PROMISED Craig (Coked-out Weatherman nemesis from Ali's Season) that she'd give him the rose on their date to maintain the "Outsiders" majority vote in the elimination. But then, when Wes (Cocky Country-Singing Asshat from Jillian's season) spun his web o' bullshit around Gia by spouting off that he was in love with her, she pulled the bitch-switch and gave the rose to him instead...



  • Tenley threw up in her pie during the challenge... and then kept eating it... and she didn't even win...



  • A closeted homosexual Weatherman in a Speedo covered in body paint, and three lackluster, wildly uninteresting female "Outsiders" formed a conga line... this was the "romantic date" they were promised...

  • Jesse (the pug from Jake's season) tried to play all four sides... (Girls vs Boys vs Insiders vs Outsiders) which in all her Slut-tasticness just meant dry-humping David (McRageaholic from Jillian's season) in the hot tub. This, of course, backfired and bitch was sent packin'...
 
  • And a Coked-Out Weatherman Nemesis lost the majority vote thanks to Gia's cock-blindness and was sent back to wherever the hell Coked-Out Weatherman Nemeses reside... My guess is right down the street from the Bachelor Pad set aka L.A.


Dial in next week when Wes will serenade Gia, recycling "the song he wrote for Jillian" and passing it off as "the song he wrote for Gia"... as if the ENTIRE EFFING COUNTRY doesn't have that acoustic piece of shit tune memorized and won't be on to him... again.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

I'm complaining again on Sundays... and all is right with the world...

A gaggle of gripes to satiate your craving for the bitter within me... Don't act like you're not excited...

This week:

The inevitable and untimely demise of Britney Jean Spears: Memorialized in pictures



There are very few things in this world that I don't find humor in. Comedy is everywhere. Around every corner. There are certain things I laugh at or about due to their intended farce. There are other things I laugh at or about because if I didn't I would have to cry. One such example is the rise and fall of that infamous Pop Princess called Britney. From rags to riches to certifiably insane, the world watched in horror as the sweet and slutty teen pop sensation plummeted to the depths of the has-been cesspool. And really, who is there to blame but ourselves... and perhaps Kevin Federline?

But y'all... what the hell did we do to Britney Jean Spears?!?!

I wasn't a fan at the beginning. It was 1999. I was 20. And Hit Me Baby One More Time played incessantly on the loop tape at The Gap in New York City where I earned my keep mastering the "perfect fold".


I was cool. And edgy. And living on my own in Manhattan. I didn't have time for pop music. I was too busy wearing black and learning how to smoke Marlboro's.

Ah, but then a little ditty hit the airwaves called Oops, I Did It Again... the tables had turned. And I was an instant closet superfan. No, I didn't have the posters. And I wouldn't be caught dead at the concerts. But I learned the words... and sang along... and turned it up... and danced. And I may or may not have silently rejoiced when a new loop tape was introduced which included the latest Brit Hit... 10 years ago I would have sooner died than admit to this.

I am no longer ashamed...



I guess one could chock the fall up to society... and Kentwood, Louisiana... and being genetically predisposed with the crazy bug...

But, I blame Federline. That smarmy, meth-lovin', thug-tastic, bastard that gesticulated his way into the throes of the Spears Franchise. And for that, to me, he will be forever indebted.



Sure, she showed signs of lunacy prior to the Federline era, what with sluttin' around on her soul mate Timberlake,


and a 55 hour marriage to Who-The-Shit-Is-That-Guy...


But the real moment of transformaniac can be unequivocally determined as the day that poser asshat agreed to join B. Spears on tour. 3 months later they were hitched...


And she would never again call sanity a friend...

It was a rapid decline. First, the reality show, Britney and Kevin: Chaotic, in which we were forced (albeit by choice) to hear the words "We have the best sex y'all. We have sex like three times a day y'all. And it is SOOOOOO GOOOOOD..." (cut to Jill ripping off her skin and lighting it on fire).


Then came the unfortunate reproduction phase, when the world was burdened with more K-Fed DNA (I don't blame the children, they are the innocent victims)


Then came the problems in the marriage, followed by the legal separation, followed closely by the decision to cease and desist all undergarments and flash her nasty, rotten, Federlined cooter to the masses.


Bad choice after bad choice, Paris Hilton after Lindsay Lohan, we watched, mouths agape, as the once Back-Water Southern Belle turned Bubble Gum Icon floundered like a fish on dry land.


There was the head shave heard 'round the world.


The paparazzi umbrella attack.


The nervous break down to the power of ten.


The torn fishnets.


The barefoot gas station bathroom visits.


The VMA "comeback" performance.


Extinguishing any hope of resurrection, she skanked her way through the tabloid circuit leaving only heart-broken former fans in her wake.

Then, a glimmer of hope came wrapped in a court order. Papa Spears was assigned custody of his 27 year-old bat shit banana-jamma.


Her money was no longer hers to spend on Schmidt Ice and Fredrick's of Hollywood paraphernalia. Her new album, aptly titled Circus, was released, and shockingly didn't remind everyone of shit karaoke at a local Asian restaurant.


The world was free to exhale, for all the Britney ballyhoo was behind us.

Not so fast, world. Then came this...


And this...


And this...


And she was gone again, as quick as she came...

R.I.P. Brit, it was a good ride... I, for one, will never be the same.