I Don't Want An Oscar

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

2012-01-05T21:12:00.000-08:00

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"

Jenna

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

Highlights:

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.

Monica

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

Highlights:

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

Brittney

The elderly are not pawns in your slut-capades!

Highlights:

Bitch brought her crippled grandma to win points with Ben

It worked

Courtney

The off-brand Michelle Money...

Highlights:

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...

I complain on Sundays...

2011-12-04T16:43:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2011-12-02T15:03:00.000-08:00

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.

(reenactment)

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.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm....

Seriously?

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)

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

2011-11-28T18:45:00.000-08:00

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

So...you're all invited. There will be dancing.

Dudes Are Just Bitches In Uglier Outfits...

2011-06-28T19:34:00.000-07:00

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.

Backfire.

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

Hasn't Thailand Been Through Enough...

2011-06-14T20:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Ashley Hebert,

~~You're a stupid bitch~~ We need to talk.

Considering we don't know each other ~~all that well~~ at all, I feel it my duty as ~~the one who detests you most in the world~~ an unbiased observer, to let you know what you're doing wrong. ~~The list is long. So buckle up~~ But don't worry, there's really not that much.

Now I bore witness to how well you handled The Roast, so I'm gonna have to ask you to man up here and take this for what it is... ~~a blatant and unabashed character assassination~~ constructive criticism.

I would first like to touch on your ~~shit suck~~ questionable taste in suitors. There are a few ~~I'd like to hump~~ I can let slide. I can grasp the appeal of JP, despite ~~the jealous little bitch tantrum he threw on Monday~~ his insecurities.

I sort of understand the ~~"Bryman College Drop-Out to Bryman College Drop-Out"~~ "Dentist to Dentist" draw of Blake. There may be a ~~heterosexual~~ redeeming quality in Mickey, though I have yet to see it. But that's it, ~~you dumb hooker~~ Ash. That's really all we're working with here.

I mean, have you even looked at what is surrounding you on these dates?

~~Flat Face~~ ~~Stingray~~ Ben C.

~~Marshall from ALIAS~~ ~~Raging homosexual craving the love and support needed to come out to his friends and family~~ James without the "J"

This guy...

...who I actually think might also be...

...this guy... (in the biggest hoax pulled on the American public since The Parent Trap)

~~Byron from The Bachelor Season 6~~ ~~Kato Kaelin~~ Ummmm... ? ? ?

And there are others ~~so void of anything remarkable that I have nary a wise ass thing to say~~ that I won't go in to.

And then to send West home?!?!?! He was so ~~lucky to escape the talons of your inadequacies~~ cute. I just ~~want to kick you square in the teeth for eliminating the only man worth tuning in for~~ don't understand.

Furthermore, we need to reevaluate ~~what an insufferable whore bag you are~~ who you are as a person. Are you aware that you are currently representing a Reality TV franchise that has been ~~the most important thing in my life~~ a small part of my Monday nights for over 20 seasons? ~~You are forcing me to seriously consider throwing you in front of a moving train~~ There are things you could work on.

For starters,

Your voice. Perhaps, instead, ~~shut the fuck up~~ try listening.

Your ~~understandable~~ raging insecurities and constant need for reassurance. Why not try ~~jumping off a cliff~~ affirmations and confidence?

Your ~~pathetic and nauseating obsession~~ trouble getting over ~~the dickiest dick that ever dicked~~ Bentley. Might I suggest, dignity?

Your plethora of half shirts. Just because you have a nice stomach, does not mean you are required to ~~trounce around like a 2-bit 80's crack whore~~ show it.

In conclusion, I really do hope that this letter can help inspire you to ~~eat shit~~ become all the wonderful things I ~~doubt~~ know you can be. You are truly a ~~thorn in my ass~~ unique individual. I wonder weekly how I will be able to ~~stomach another 120 minutes of you~~ wait until Monday to see what happens.

D~~isappear~~ Take Care,

~~The One Who's Existence You Are The Bane Of~~ Jill

Dot, dot, dot, is better than, like, just a period...

2011-06-12T21:38:00.000-07:00

First, I would like to formally apologize on behalf of Best Buy for the late arrival of this post. The distinguished members of the elite, and aptly titled, Geek Squad made the uneducated and ill-advised decision to monkey my shit up... which is to say, they held my computer hostage for 2 1/2 weeks, erased all of my information, and then returned it to me with a diagnosis of "Ummm, we couldn't find anything wrong with it". So fuck you very much Best Buy, and a pox on the wild pack of geeks that forced me to spend most of my weekend trying to remember what programs I used to have access to.

Now on to the show...

As far as doozies go, 'twas a doozie...

It began innocently enough. Ashley chose Flat Face for the first one-on-one. Which really just solidifies her impeccable overall taste. I mean, this guy... Not only is he a direct descendent of the order Myliobatiformes, or stingrays, as they are more commonly known, but he is also one of those super awesome dudes who lacks formal training in the art of Shutting The Hell Up For One GD Second So The Bitch Can Squeeze A Word In. That's my favorite!

And to answer my own quandary from last week, The Bachelorette fo' shiz has a hand in planning the dates. And I know this with absolute certainty based solely on what transpired in the first 15 minutes of last week's episode.

I have two words for you...

ASHLEY'S DUMB ASS CHOREOGRAPHED A SURPRISE FLASH MOB AND DUPED HER WILDLY AWKWARD AND SPACIALLY UNAWARE DATE INTO STAGING A PUBLIC AND NATIONALLY TELEVISED DANCE PERFORMANCE!

Okay, that was more than two words... But simply writing "Flash Mob" could not begin to demonstrate the absurd and altogether mortifying spectacle that was forced down my throat (that's what she said). And don't you fret, she gave him the rose, igniting false hope in every Johnny-Virgin-Band-Major in America.

The group date was a work of undeniable genius. I must credit the masterminds behind this enterprise, as I'm sure Ashley herself could NEVER come up with ANYTHING as entertaining as "The Roast".

That's right, folks. In an apparent fit of mental, emotional, and social ineptitude, Ashley Hebert, who was ripped from the arms of Brad Womack by her own pathetic insecurities, agreed to let a pack of what could only be described as former Delta Sigma Phi pledge masters with a barbaric need to "prove themselves men", get onstage in front of a packed house and roast her.

Pure. Comedy. Gold.

But not in the way intended, of course. These asstards wouldn't know funny if it kicked 'em square in the naughty bits. I imagine, whilst listening to each bachelor deliver his cornucopia of bathroom humor, small titty digs, and playground bully chants, my face looked like that of someone who had just watched an entire busload of her family executed individually. It was appalling on all counts.

But Wedding Date William hammered it home with personal insults that cut so deep I actually felt bad for the hooker. She cried. The date was ruined. Blahdy, blahdy, blah...

**Note to Producer: Please God, do a roast every season. I beg of you.

The final one-on-on was with not altogether revolting, JP. They sat around her temporary squatting grounds in their sweats and drank wine and told each stories. Which is actually kind of an awesome date... if you're on it... with someone you like... as opposed to watching it... happening... to someone you loathe. If the latter should occur, bust out the Saved-By-The-Bell-Jessie-Spano-I'm-So-Excited-No-Doze-Crack-Pills cuz it's gonna be a LONG night.

But in fairness to Ashley, because I am a fair and non-judgmental gal, she HAD just been at the losing end of a round-house kick to the ovaries courtesy of Bentley. So there's that...

Which is a lovely segue, if I do say so myself, to the crown jewel of this episode...

~The Bentley Files~

I have to say, I wrestled with even writing about this. I know that there are guys out there like Bentley. I've met them. Vertically stunted, small penised, Napoleonic, Cro Magnite assholes that literally get their rocks off dicking women around. I've never understood it. And I hesitate to give this prick any more attention than he's already received. So I will truncate Bentley's long overdue departure into succinct bullet points so as to not encourage any more thought on the matter.

Bentley is a flaming piece of shit
Bentley tried to play Ashley on national TV to promote his "trampoline fun center" (that is not a joke)
Bentley said horrible, assholic, hurtful things about someone he didn't know to gain notoriety (BTW, I recognize the irony. "Hi Kettle? This is Pot. Ummm, you're black")
Bentley gave Ashley false hope for the future in the form of "I still want to keep, like, the dot, dot, dot there. Dot, dot, dot, is better than, like, just a period" because he's a pissing coward who can't just tell it like it is
Bentley is under the false impression that he matters
Bentley exploited his daughter to gain sympathy from Ashley
Bentley is a flaming piece of shit

In conclusion, he left the show.

And SPOILER ALERT:: Rumor has it he's coming back this season. One can only hope it's for public castration.

I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Oh yeah, and that raging super douche took off his mask... My vote is for him to put it back on. And maybe take some time to think through his decisions a little more thoroughly...

What Happens In Vegas, Creeps Me The Hell Out...

2011-06-01T19:58:00.000-07:00

If you've EVER read this blog, you are privy to the well documented fact that I date some effin' creeps. I was equipped with a malfunctioning creep deflector at birth. Whereas, when faced with a gargantuon creepster, I am filled with butterflies and puffy hearts instead of red flags and warning buzzers. It's a substantial issue. I'm working on it.

And yet, in all my vast creepster experience there are very few things one can do on a date that I find creepier than what we, the loyal viewers of abc's The Bachelorette, were forced to stomach on Monday night...

They include, in no particular order:

Hog tieing your date and forcing them into your crawl space
Taking your date to a fertility clinic to ensure they are reproductively viable
Asking your date to "play dead" during intercourse
Removing sections of your dates dermis for use in a "human skin suit" you are constructing

Now, even with the Ph.D. in The Bachelor/Bachelorette Series that I earned 7 seasons ago, I'm still not altogether positive who is at the helm of the date planning. On one hand, it is OBVIOUS that abc is shellin' the duckets for these shananagans, and it's highly probable there is some "gentle nudging" coming from the puppet masters on what would make great TV. But on the other hand, The Bachelors and Bachelorettes must have some say in what they do.

All I'm sayin' is, if I was on the show (which I probably will be) and those bitches told me I was going to be locked in a cage with monkeys and my date and a candlelit meal, I'd kick every one of 'em in the baby maker and run for my GD life. But that is neither here nor there...

The first dates were upon us. This is where the magic happens. This is when the bitches get crazy and the homeboys start peacocking. This is why we tune in.

The initial one-on-one went to William, a Cell Phone Distributor (aka Entry Level Car Toys Sales Associate). We'll call that "Mistake #1". The date takes place in Vegas (Mistake #2). The date consists of the following activites; wedding cake tasting (Mistake #3), wedding ring shopping (Mistake #4), meeting with a minister (Mistake #5), walking down the aisle with boquet (Mistake #s 6 & 7), joining hands at the altar (Mistake #8), RECITING VOWS (Mistake #s 9, 10, 11, 12, & 13), William saying "I DO" (WTF?) Ashley saying "I will someday, but probably not today" (Seriously, WTF? You crazy bitch! This is your FIRST date with this asstard and not only did you force him into a faux wedding rehearsal, but you ditched him at the altar?)

Then it was off to the waters of the Bellagio in a row boat where the holiest of douchedom commenced in the form of a meal atop a plywood platform and dull conversation including, but not limited to, "the saddest story I can think of", and "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Piss.

Next.

The initial group date went to... ummmm... basically everyone else... except that mo in the mask, meh (shoulder shrug) JP, Hey-Face-Raper-Not-So-Fine, and a couple other dudes. And instead of Ashley's lazy ass flying back to LA, she flew them all to Vegas. Because as they say, TRUE LOVE ALWAYS BLOOMS IN VEGAS... or is that Chlamydia? I can never remember.

(Insert- Vh1's America's Best Dance Crew pissing contest dance-off, awkward and painfully obvious ploy to get Ashley's remedial dance skills in front of an audience, and about 17 half shirts- Here)

After the "dance show", it was back to some seedy Vegas digs for the "no-fair-it's-my-turn-to-talk-to-her" grown man bitch fit. Always a fav. Bentley, apparently still under the impression that being a huge cock will give you a huge cock, decided to toy with Ashley's awesome judgement and manipulate the rose out of her. All in all, Vegas Fail Part Deux.

Back at the ranch, Mickey 9-1-1 was forced to flip a coin with Meh (shoulder shrug) to determine the final one-on-one date pairing. Mickey won. Ashley lost.

Surprise, surprise, to Vegas he went to engage in THE MOST BORING DATE I'VE EVER BEEN ON AND I WASN'T EVEN THERE. So boring in fact, that I don't remember shit about it. I think there was a meal. I'm almost positive I gagged once or twice. Colbie Calliat may have shown up to perform the trademark Bachelorette concert-for-two that makes everyone involved wildly uncomfortable. The rest is but a blur of monotony.

What I do know is this...

Ashley is the human incantation of nails on a chalkboard
Mickey and his giant loafer selection bore me to suicide

William wants to be a stand up comedian, which wouldn't even be possible if Steve Carrell possessed his body ala Patrick Swayze in Ghost
Bentley is under the misguided impression that there is ANYONE ON THE PLANET who gives a piss about him and his deplorable attempts at womanizing for fame
Jeff, the masked mo, jabbers nonsensically (Ex: "I'm taking the stealth approach and I feel like everybody else is just riding around in cabs"... ? ? ? ummmm ? ? ? what ? ? ?)

There are too many schmoes with greasy, chin length mops to keep track of

and

Everyone else is so completely unremarkable that I don't even remember enough to make fun of

So pull your shit together, Chris Harrison. You are the fearless and noble captain of this vessel upon which I ride, and I will not allow you to just pull the covers over your head and go down with the ship. Capiche?

The Real Answer Is "Nothing"...

2011-05-25T15:56:00.000-07:00

In a rare, but long overdue twist of serendipidous intervention, I decided to go to my dear friend Mama Kat's blog to find inspiration for a post. In an even rarer, and longer overdue twist of serendipidous intervention, it actually happened!
(j/k Kat, you know I got nuthin' but love for ya baby, uh huh)

So for my 100th post (that's right bitches, it's all about the Benjamins) I have decided to participate in...

What you're tasting right now? That's the sweet nectar of pure giddified anticipation... You're welcome.

Write a list of 50 things you want to do before you turn 100. Otherwise known as a "bucket list". (I had to cut the actual number in half... I can't even name 100 things)

Turn 99

Beat "dairong" by 100 points on Words With Friends

Tell someone with a face tattoo that they've effectively ruined their chances of being a productive member of society

Spit on Katy Perry

That guy from the Motorolla Xoom commercial

Fly

Personally thank Manolo Blahnik

Get through my Netflix que

Solve a crime

Eat every pastry in a Parisian pastry shop

Win The Biggest Loser (see above)

Tell David Beckham "No"

Have an Absolut flavor named after me

Concoct a reanimation serum

Rid the world of monkeys

Frollick with Jennifer Garner

Bury Steve Carrell in the sand

Make Kristin Wiig laugh

Cook personal pizzas with Ricky Gervais

Kick it with your mom

Find a way to make donuts taste as good as they smell

Throw (and land) a punch

Watch The Bucket List

Fiji

Be a guest judge on Project Runway

Invent edible staples

Win a karaoke championship

Get silly drunk with Mark Wahlberg

Finish this list

Poop without peeing

Teleport

Own an original Dolce & Gabanna design

Raise a penguin and carry him around in a baby bjorn

Kick Tyra Banks in the shin

Get 25 comments on a blog post

Be in the Guiness Book of World Records for "awesome"

Play poker against Matt Damon and Ben Affleck

Have a rap-off with Eminem

Smooch on Adam Levine and then never return his calls

Seriously, finish this list

Date an Australian just to hear him talk

Memorize The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Slide down a rainbow

Help Mama Kat get some blog followers

Have a six pack (of bitch brew)...

Be a magician's assistant

Learn only dirty words in Italian

Get a robot maid ala Rosie in The Jetsons

Legally change my name to Carrie Bradshaw

Grow five inches (vertically)

And So It Begins...

2011-05-24T20:12:00.000-07:00

So, here we are, my fellow reality TV whores... Please to strap yourself in as we embark on yet another installation of the reality genre's least successful dating show. I'm actually salivating...

It really is, as if abc executives have suicidal tendencies. We all know that they've completely given up on casting a fresh face as the lead in their 10-week-experiment-in-failure. But to comb through the former members of Team Womack and hand pick Ashley Hebert as the next Bachelorette is a true testament to how much they hate me. The wise person might gently remind that this is an obvious trend... Trista Sutter, Jake Pavelka, Ali Fedotowsky... but the dumb bitch, such as myself, continues to hope, waiting patiently for the announcement, fingers akimbo, imagining all the possibilities, only to be punched in the ovaries time and time again by the poor decision making skills of "The Man".

That said, I will still be tuning in.

Because my life has little meaning without this shit. And I am not sad about that.

Episode 1: This Is What's Out There, I'm Single By Choice...

(Please note: At this point in the process I can't be bothered to remember the names of the Dating Defectives, therefore they will often be referred to by nickname {mildly offensive slurs based on character and/or appearance} or by the name of a celebrity or character they remind me of, and no doubt wish they were.)

To begin at the beginning, Ashley Hebert is THE WORST.

I know I've used that term before. I may have diluted it's intensity based solely on the frequency of application. But really, truly, just when I thought we'd hit rock pissin' bottom, abc discovered it had a basement.

Ashley Hebert is THE WORST.

Ashley

At First Glance:   Thanks for the make-over but that forehead should still have it's own show
30 Minutes Later:   Say "awesome" more... seriously
One Day In:   I imagine purgatory to be that manufactured laugh on a loop and that mouth-agape-faux-excitement-face image wallpapering every room

Ames

At First Glance:   Marshall from ALIAS
30 Minutes Later:   But really, is there something wrong with that guy's face?
One Day In:   His most embarassing moment? "I had a teacher walk in on me while I was hooking up in boarding school." Sure you did, Marshall. I'm absolutely positive that you didn't make that up. But unfortunately your still intact virginity disagrees with me....

Tim

At First Glance: Long Island, NY? Really? I NEVER would've guessed...

30 Minutes Later: "Liquor Distrubutor" is just another way of saying "Alcoholic 3rd Rate Bartender" with a little frosting on top
One Day In: ... ... ... (sound of squealing van cab tires as tragically intoxicated contestant is dumpstered just outside the mansion gates, left to fend for his own damn self)

Ryan P. (yes, this is elementary school)

At First Glance: A solar energy executive that Taylor-Swift-heart-fingered the sun... Coolest. Move. Ever. (written in sarcasm font)

30 Minutes Later: Wait, isn't that the sensitive guy Phoebe dated on episode 3.23 of Friends?

One Day In: First impression rose. Last impression: homosexual

Jeff

At First Glance: That super douche is wearing a mask!!!
30 Minutes Later: That super douche is still wearing a mask!!!
One Day In: OMFG! He's actually not going to take it off the whole two episodes he's here! What a raging super douche!

Mickey

At First Glance:   Hey Mickey, not so fine...
30 Minutes Later:   Not so fine you blow my mind...
One Day In:   I stopped caring about the time you attempted to face rape the unsuspecting Bachelorette, but nice moves, Chief (wink, giggle, 9-1-1)

J.P.

At First Glance:   Meh (shoulder shrug) not altogether revolting
30 Minutes Later:   Meh (shoulder shrug) not altogether revolting
One Day In:   Meh (shoulder shrug) not altogether revolting

Bentley

At First Glance:   The Missing Link
30 Minutes Later:   What A Pissing Dick!
One Day In:   Every other asshole on every other season called... he wants his original thought back

West (Opposite of East and a Little North of South)

At First Glance: Yes, please
30 Minutes Later: I'll have another... and keep 'em comin'
One Day In: Ashley Hebert, you are THE WORST! Cut him loose or I'll cut your face!

Let the shit-show commence...

Your Irrelevance Is No Good Here...

2011-05-20T21:22:00.000-07:00

There is a fairly recent and wildly disturbing trend I've noticed that gives me cause for concern. And it can no longer be ignored.

The infiltration of completely irrelevant people informing us that they are, in fact, relevant and the world, in turn, agreeing out of sheer apathy and laziness.

Granted, this has been happening for years under the radar. Look at the Paris Hiltons & Lindsay Lohans & Kirstie Alleys of the world (I'm just saying what we're all thinking. She has done nothing of note since Cheers besides Oprah-ing it up on the scale... and yes, the Look Who's Talking series is included in that. The Incredible Expanding Woman is for a circus sideshow not Hollywood).

They design a line for Wal-Mart, or snort a line at Wal-Mart, or eat enough to fill a Wal-Mart, and all of a sudden the sacred pages of my US Weekly are spattered with faux facts and Caught With Cellulite, Bikini Beach Bod paparazzi pics of these "I'm sorry, who?"s. And you could not imagine the immensity of the fuck I do not give.

I want Beckham & J. Garn & that fine ass dude from the Motorola Xoom commercial! I want my trash to mean something.

But lately, this rubbish I'm bombarded with isn't worth the money I spend on my People subscription... and I don't spend ANYTHING on my People subscription, it was a gift from Santa and Mrs. Claus.

Donald Trump:

No, you don't get to see Obama's birth certificate. Why? Becasue YOU DON'T MATTER. You are a D-List cheater with bad teeth and worse hair and you masturbate to your own "power" on-camera because you get to fake fire other D-Listers who are only on your foot-in-the-door-of-the-reality-TV-franchise-bally-hoo because they are savagely attempting to resuscitate their once mediocre, now non-existent careers.

A) Way to squash the meager hopes of Melissa Rivers and Meatloaf, no doubt sentencing them to a lifetime of binge eating in dark spaces and self-mutilation. Do you feel good about yourself?

and

B) YOU'RE fired! (Insert cheese ass snake bite hand gesture here) And take your doppelganger son-sation with you when you go.

Charlie Sheen:

I stopped caring about this guy around the time I started my period. It was 1990. I was 11... (bit of an overshare, my apologies). It was the same year that I stopped caring about Kirk Cameron and Ricky Schroeder if that tells you anything... which it should. And since, this schmo hasn't done ANYTHING attention worthy that doesn't fall under one or more of the following catagories:

Violence Against Women
If You Can Crush It, You Can Snort It
Nonsensical Catch Phrases

Two and a Half Men can be split in to three equal parts and divvied up amongst them, as far as I'm concerned. I do know some people who think that show is the bee's knees, but they are also the people who tune in regularly to King of Queens... in syndication. And if you are moments from defending the comic genius of "That Sitcom With Ducky From Pretty in Pink" as it is often referred, let me stop you right there... They got Ashton Kutcher to replace Charlie... no amount of chunky child comedic timing can unsink that ship. Not winning.

Arnold Schwarzenegger:

Barf, dude! Who IS this guy?

To be fair, his "wife" is likely closer to the xy chromosome side of things... and that jaw line could cause anyone's eye to wander, if only to avoid searing her likeness into your subconscious for a future starring role in your worst nightmare. But SHE'S A KENNEDY! And really, who are you? Mr. Universe? Circa 1967. The Terminator? Rode that train to the end of the tracks in 1991. The Governor of California?... I'm actually going to blame California for that one.

But seriously, the ugly ones are supposed to stay put. Is it all of a sudden preposterous to think that at least the trolls will remain faithful? (I'm looking at you former members of the United States government)

And again... BARF!

Ali Fedotowsky:

Who?

Exactly!

The former Bachelorette has apparently announced that she will be hosting her own talk show.

Brilliant.

I often look to unfunny, frump-a-dumps with piercing whines and resumes that feature "Facebook Ad Sales" as a career high to bring the hard-hitting journalism and celebrity interviews that I so crave into my living room. Hey Ali, I have an idea who your first three guests should be before that pre-typed & signed cancellation notice comes across your desk (please see aforementioned nobodys)

Also, please wear more yellow and Converse All-Stars, cuz I just can't get enough of your signature style!

Listen, I am not a hard girl to please... Okay, that's actually not true at all... But regardless, we must revolt. We, the huddled masses, should be deciding who matters. That's what this great country is all about. No more water cooler gossip about middle-aged has-beens, no monetary exchange to witness the incoherent ramblings of a coked-out 80's kinda-used-to-be, and no Tivo-ing talk shows hosted by reality sluts. We are taking back the night! Dammit, we are taking back the grocery store check-out line library!

Now who's with me?!?!

Single is the new Married...

2011-04-23T18:51:00.000-07:00

The other day my best friend's 9 year-old asked, "Jill, why aren't you married?", to which I answered, as I always do, "Because I haven't found anyone worth marrying yet."

This is kind of true and kind of not... True, in that every ass-munch I've dated, save a select few, hasn't been worth a stale hoagie roll, let alone a lifetime commitment.

Kind of not true because I'm pretty sure I want to marry myself, I'm so pissin' handy to have around. And me and me have already been formally introduced. We're quite fond of each other.

I have trouble coming up with a single reason this should not take place...

I already know what I look like when I wake up

I'm the funniest person I know

I never mind if I don't shave my legs or brush my teeth

I can fix a car and fix dinner

I never want to cuddle with me

I don't get pissed that "my side" of the bed is "the whole bed"

I never fight with me about what I want to watch on TV

I'm not a stage five clinger

I don't keep me up with my snoring

I'm never upset when I cheat on me

I always agree on whether I should go out or stay in

I understand when I need a little "me" time

I'm always willing to take me out and buy me a drink, even after a long day

I love all the same music and movies and reality shows as me

I'm a fuckin' catch. I think I might be my soul mate.

So in light of this epiphany, I have decided to propose to myself.
I'm almost positive I'll say yes.
And I'll look so stunning in my wedding gown that I won't be able to take my eyes off me.
And I'll live happily ever after.

Does anyone even read this ish anymore...?

2010-12-19T15:43:00.000-08:00

Top 20 Things I L.O.V.E. About The Holiday Season

(written in sarcasm font)

It takes 2 pissin' hours to buy a new tube of toothpaste because apparently even Walgreens is a Christmas shopping hot spot
The only thing I REALLY want for Christmas already has three kids with Victoria Beckham

Skittish holiday drivers... skittish holiday drivers are THE BEST
Classic Christmas song lyric alterations sung by drop-out musical theatre majors rotating through my brain on a constant loop courtesy of stupid ass holiday marketing schemes... (see: TJ Maxx commercial)
The sweet, holy, effin' drama that comes with saying the phrase "Merry Christmas" to someone

The sweet, holy, effin' drama that comes with not saying the phrase "Merry Christmas" to someone
The Snuggie... it's back...('nuff said)

The I-Don't-Give-A-Piss-Holiday-Gift-Set... cash is a better gift than an Axe Body Spray gift set, homey, just wrap up some cash
The kick-ass TV series two week holiday hiatus. Like we don't need shit to watch during the holidays...
Shipping and Handling
The Old Navy Modelquins... (that's actually a year round fav of mine, but I throw it in whenever I can)

Stockings filled with worthless chotchkies that nearly force one's hand into taking on a life of hoarding until their next Goodwill run
Check-out clerks in Santa hats
The Trans Siberian orchestra (i.e. Working In A Doctor's Office).

I've included one of their "hits" for your listening pleasure (reminder: this is still sarcasm font)

"Winter Breaks"... Where's my "winter break", bitches? I've been working my ass off here...
The bill juggling/present buying balancing act
Starbucks' Cranberry Bliss Bars... (but only because I am not a strong enough woman)

Hot Buttered Rum (but only because I am not a strong enough woman)
TBS' incessant need to air Tim Allen Christmas movies over and over and over...as if they were SO good the first time we just HAVE to see them again and again and again... (I'm looking at you The Santa Clause 1, 2, and 3)

Small dogs in Christmas sweaters... okay, just dogs in sweaters period...

So Oy, Humbug... and a Happy New Year to you and yours!

Dedicated to every notch on my bedpost...

2010-11-04T19:22:00.000-07:00

*** If you're one of the countless fellas that I've dated, however briefly, and you are reading this... Yes, I'm talking about you. You are not the exception... you are the rule. And you are no doubt a lunatic. ***

I have the worst taste in men.

The. Worst.

It's not even up for discussion. It's not even something that someone could challenge.

There is no competition. I win... And by that I mean I lose.

I have a fundamental and unconscious need to seek out the best-looking BAT SHIT BANANA-JAMMERS within humping distance.

Now, I'm not implying, for even a second, that I am without fault when it comes to these "relationships". I am quite the complicated, cynical, hyper-emotional gal. I make PLENTY of mistakes.

I am not, however, certifiably insane... I'm just wildly attracted to those who are.

Due to this substantial gift of mine, foraging through the masses to woo the prickiest asstards in recent history, my friends and I have fashioned a checklist. A somewhat vain attempt at pre-screening my potential suitors based on the holy fuckin' train wrecks of my past.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
~Jill's Deal Breaker Checklist~

If you:

Are a cat owner (there is something incredibly unsettling about a bachelor with cats)
Are my neighbor
Were born after 1985
Are a chemical dependent
Went to my high school
Are named Ryan
Are 5'6" or under
Own a Smart Car (there is no level of dignity that can be maintained getting in and out of a Smart Car)
Are a recreational drug user
Are vegan (I heart meat... and cheese)
Are crazy religious,
Crazy political,
Crazy
Have served time in prison
Live with your parents
Have a lack of motivation
Rock a ponytail or a mullet
Are a hoarder
Have no transportation
Suffer from PTSD
Are a friend of either of my brothers
Are an excessive crier
Say "I love you" within the first week
Have baby mama drama
Make me pay for EVERYTHING
Can not appreciate The Beatles or Sinatra
Think using words like "horny" or "pussy" is EVER a turn-on
Lie... especially about things like where you live or what you do with your day
Store dead hookers in your crawl space
Are a card-carrying member of The Church of Mystery and his Pick-Up Artist teachings

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I often check this list to see if I've omitted anything that could be considered a non-negotiable. And every time I do, I am satisfied that the list is substantial and fairly all-encompassing. Yet, with every new fella I add to my repertoire, I find I have to tack on new and unusual deal-breakers that I didn't even know existed...

So I've devised a new list... And here be it's grand reveal...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
~Jill's Deal Breaker Checklist (revised)~

If:

Jill is attracted to you

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I pray that with the above revisions I might be compelled to deviate from the coveted presence of lunatics. Perhaps, inadvertently stumble upon a little enlightenment that may prevent me from accompanying them on a first date (which inevitably leads to a fifth or a twelfth or a 2 year anniversary... I'm looking at you, fish monger)

I'm not betting on success. I'm a sucker for a hot guy...

But at least now I will get to be the one to look at me and say "Told ya so". And I could always use a good gloat... even if it's at my own expense.

I complain on Sundays...

2010-10-31T14:11:00.000-07:00

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

I'm a renter.

I've been a renter for 13 years.

The mere mention of owning a house causes my asthma to flare... and I don't have asthma.

The permanence of it all, the commitment, the responsibility, the weight... it's suffocating. Home ownership is like an open flame to my fragile wings.

That said, renting is shit.

For so many reasons.

The noise, the inability to make noise, the smell of someone else in my home, the landlords that fail at everything, the monthly stack of cash that may as well be set ablaze, the overwhelming realization that when your father tells you that "you're an adult" and "you don't have a pot to piss in", he's right.

But the single worst thing about being a renter... the coup de grace... is the sex.

Certainly not the sex I'm having... or not having as it were. Rather the All Night Hump-Fest that congregates in the room directly above my once quiet, cozy, innocently sterile bed on a nightly basis. Or thrice nightly basis.

Listen, I am not a hater... I am a renter. And with that comes a responsibility.

I fully comprehend the reality of the situation. We are, in essence, strangers sharing a home. And while we have our own compartments, we are but co-inhabitants of the same dwelling.

I know that this is not all mine. I know that I do not make the rules. I know that these folks pay a substantial amount of money to keep this roof over their heads, just like me. And I understand that the act of love making is a natural and beautiful thing. In fact, I applaud the gentleman for lasting as long as he does... I am not a hater.

I am, however, a gal that needs some sleep. And the fuck factory upstairs is chronically preventing that from happening.

So to you, Upstairs Banes o' My Existence, I offer a few wee suggestions that might prevent me from setting you both on fire...

Spring for some WD-40
Get kinky with a Ball-Gag-For-Her
Go buy a NEW fuckin' BED (pun-intended)
Hump on the kitchen counter/in the shower/at a reasonable hour
Move
Live on the ground floor
Break up
Eat shit
Die
Substitute my bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of ruffies... or horse tranquilizers... or cyanide...

Any or all will suffice.

And also, God speed to you both and your healthy sexual appetite. May you never live to see the day that I find anti-gravity boots and pay it forward...

'Tis a thin line between "Not Enough" and "Please, shut the hell up"...

2010-10-20T19:45:00.000-07:00

I've had a few conversations in the past few days with a few friends and a few co-workers about the evocative and magical allure of The Over~Share...

I, myself, am no stranger to the seduction of logorrhea. Scant are the times that I can answer a simple question without an accompanying anecdote or personal tale that may or may not relate. I am a talker. I talk. The sound of my own voice often annoys me. Come to think of it, I'm not altogether positive how I've managed to keep any friends throughout the years. In fact, I can say with a favorable degree of certainty that I'm a story or two away from being the neighborhood elderly with 16 shelter cats and a disconnected phone through which I jibber-jab to no one all the live long day... I won't even get trick or treaters.

This is hardly the point.

The point is that there HAS to be a line SOMEWHERE... Some societal agreement upon what we are and are not allowed to share with one another. Mostly, I'm lookin' at you COMPLETE STRANGERS.

I'm happy to nod along, feigning interest in the kitschy narrative of a pal or co-worker. I'm typically thrilled to engage in a silly allegory or third party recounting. And I expect the same courtesy be done for me. But when you and I have zero foundation on which to build upon, I request the conversation be kept to greetings and pleasantries and need-to-know info.

The line crossers are many, the details vulgar. And all induce cringe-worthy levels of awkward. But there are two major offenders that I encounter almost daily.

1) The Filter-Free-Killjoy:

When the answer is "If my asshole husband hadn't left me for my whore of a nanny in my third trimester, there would be" to the innocently posed question "Is there someone we can contact in case of an emergency?"

When the question "Why do you need to see the doctor today?" is satisfied with "I'm pretty sure I got herpes from the bartender I slept with last week. Cuz... ummm... my friend did, so I'm guessing I probably did too."

or the ever-popular completely unsolicited info-share such as

"Time killed my old lady last week. I'm probably next."
"My boyfriend and I just broke up. I put all his stuff in the street and called the police and told them he was stalking me. So I can't afford my insurance co-pay because I have to go bail him out of jail after my appointment."
"I've been shitting water for 3 days and I have terrible gas. And you might want to wash your hands, 'cause I have scabies"

(Actually that last one was helpful information. No harm, no foul to you, good sir)

2) The Ma'am-Are-You-Hoping-To-Lure-Me-To-Your-Boudoir-Via-An-Inappropriately-Excessive-Spattering-Of-Compliments? (usually adopted by middle-aged female former meth addicts and/or the pungently present elderly)

"You're eyes are hypnotizing... and I LOVE your eye make-up! Close your eyes. How do you do that? You Are Gorgeous. Look at you. I bet you hear that all the time. I love your hair too. It's so long... blah di blah di blah di blah...

These are just a few examples of... ya know, just a lot of information I could have gone my whole life without hearing. I'm prepared to lobby for some sort of worldwide frontal lobe information sharing filter. I haven't quite worked out the logistics, but I'm thinking a surgically implanted "invisible fence" type device that distributes an electric shock throughout the body at the inception of the Over~Share impulse.

I think it would make the socially awkward and generally apathetic folk, such as myself, much more comfortable.

Because I just can't keep my mouth shut...

2010-09-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

I'm gettin' down to brass tacks...

I've been meaning to complain about this for a while. And yet Sunday after Sunday passes and I find myself gripeless, or out of town, or busy laying on my couch. But today I read a little post a dear friend of mine wrote called:

"A list of things you no longer have in common with your single/childless friends…and why you love them anyways."

And my inspiration returned...

Her list included things that us "single gals" do that aren't her "cup of tea"...

Things like:

"Watching reruns of Snapped stuffing my face with chocolate and wondering why men aren't interested in me"
"Listen to my single friends talk about how waking up for work at 8am is exhausting"
"Empathize with a friend who complains that her Audi is in the shop while I man handle a God forsaken MINI VAN!" (This one is FO SHO about me, BTW)
"Go to a club dressed like a street walker in an attempt to find true love"

I have a sneaking suspicion that a majority, if not all, of this list is in direct reference and/or was inspired by me and my life. And while I appreciate and celebrate the importance of artistic license, and fully understand the neccessity of exaggerating for comedy's sake, I must speak to this... On behalf of single women EVERYWHERE.

To first address the list directly, ANY WOMAN out there who watches Snapped and wonders why men aren't interested in them is straight up twisted. Snapped is about women losing their shit on the fellas they have chosen to have and to hold, 'til murder do them part. If I was the single gal that came to mind when she wrote that, I assure you that she is grossly misinformed... And also, PLENTY OF MEN ARE INTERESTED IN ME, thank you very much. Just not any men that I choose to give up my single life for.

I would also like to say that ANY WOMAN who dresses like a street walker and goes to a club in an attempt to find true love is a dumb ass. Dressing like a street walker and going to a club attracts one VERY SPECIFIC type of man and his name is Scott Peterson... or Ted Bundy... or the Delta Sigma Phi Date Rapist of the Year...

As far as complaining about being exhausted when I get up for work, yes, I do that. But not at 8am. 8am is a vacation. 8am is a Saturday after two sleeping pills IF my upstairs neighbors are on vacation. 8am is an effing cake walk. I wake up at 5:30am... and I'm an insomniac so I fall asleep at about 1... or 2... or sometimes 3:30...

She did check her facts on one thing, though. My Audi WAS in the shop. And I did bitch about it. Mostly because I was without a vehicle for a week... and because it costs an average of $2000 everytime it goes to the shop... and being a "single gal" means that I am also a "single income family"... and $2000 is a LOT of pissin' money. And might I add that buying a mini-van is a choice... I have several friends with children that have chosen against it.

But with all that said, what really sticks in my craw... what REALLY pisses me off is the insinuation by some that my life is somewhat less than those with spouses or children or both. Or that my life is "responsibilty-less". I assure you, my life is quite full. And quite lovely. And chock-mutha-effin'-full of responsibility.

And I find it offensive that I am asked to justify my choices on a regular basis, or that I am asked to not voice the frustrations that go on in my single/childless life.

I am not an old maid. I am not sad or lonely or pathetic or sitting around waiting for a man to love me.

I am very much in love.

I am in love with all the possibility and all the freedom and all the dreams I have yet to fulfill.

And I make absolutely no apologies for that.

So bite me.

It's a three for one... and you'll still feel ripped off...

2010-09-09T20:02:00.000-07:00

I logged on today to write about Bachelor Pad... or ANTM... or the return of my one true love Vampire Diaries... but those will have to wait...

Ok, no they won't. We'll just truncate the shit out of it.

Bachelor Pad:

Everyone who wasn't in a couple was eliminated. So once again, the bullies win. I hate bullies.

The ONLY saving grace would be if the couples then had to eliminate eachother... and cause tears... and dramatic break-ups. But alas, the couples are now being eliminated together. It blows.

ANTM:

The new season began as they always do. The tall, skinny, ugly girls are called "high-fashion", the tall, skinny, pretty girls are called "commercial", Tyra shed her straight jacket long enough to break some already fragile anorexic hearts, and the J's were flamboyant. Let the drama commence.

The Vampire Diaries:

I don't even know what happens yet... The season premiere doesn't start for an hour and a half... but I'm so pissin' excited I can hardly contain myself.

My name is Jill. I'm 30. And I'm in love with a teenage vampire show. I am not ashamed.

...and this concludes my television reporting duties...

Now please move on to more important things... might I suggest my most recent post entitled "Because I just can't keep my mouth shut"

It's all fun and games until you have to name the worst boob job...

2010-09-01T19:49:00.000-07:00

Remember in the high school yearbook how they always had that bullshit poll? And the whole senior class voted on it? And the idea was to label your classmates with baseless titles that actually matter none the day after graduation? Most Likely To Be Seen In A Dream, Most Likely To Succeed, Most Changed Since Freshman Year, Cutest Couple, Class Clown, etc...

And, in the end, all the results confirmed was the same ish we knew all four miserable years we spent together... Most Popular Cuz They Hot, Most Popular Cuz They Smart, Least Popular Freshman Year, Most Popular Cuz They Been Going Steady For A Hot Sec, Most Popular Cuz They Funny, etc...

As you may have guessed... I was voted "Most Likely To Be Completely Overlooked In The Bullshit Yearbook Poll"... but that's beside the point...

The ACTUAL point is this... Bachelor Pad turned that shit on it's head for our delicious viewing pleasure...

This week's episode had us all wondering: What IS the best way to make someone feel like piss?

And we didn't have to wait long for an answer... It came in the form of a challenge geared mostly towards public and nationally televised humiliation... aka "honesty"...

The Sluts and The Man-Whores were each given a survey to be completed confidentially. Which caused Tenley to make this face... again...

Our hosts Chris Harrison and Melissa Rycroft-Strickland then sat The Sluts on one bench and The Man-Whores on another and forced them to write down the name of who they thought received the most votes for each question... and then show their answers... to everyone...

Genius.

The first Slut and first Man-Whore to guess the majority vote on four questions correctly won the challenge and received a rose...

The results:

Who do most of you believe is going to win?

Kiptyn...

"I mean it's nice, it's flattering to hear, but it makes you wonder if you have a target on your back."

Who is your biggest enemy?

Krisily...

"Of course it hurts, but, I mean, I've always been the one that was picked on."

Who is the most shallow?

Elizabeth...

"I don't ever consider myself shallow. I don't even know what shallow really means."

Who is the dumbest?

Gwen...

"It is what it is. It stinks that everyone thinks I'm dumb, and it upset me."

Who do you secretly have a crush on?

Dave...

"I almost want to lose a point if this is right..." (bullshit, bullshit, bullshit)

Who will be a bridesmaid, but never a bride?

Natalie...

"I mean, just, I want that very badly, and it just was like, you know, hard to, to see someone I like put my name up as someone who would never get married" (whimper, whimper, whimper)

Who is considered to be the biggest jerk by the group?

Wes...

"I've never known so many people so full of shit in my life. I mean, I'm not a jerk."

Who has the worst boob job?

Elizabeth...

"It's...(sob, sob) just...(sob, sob) so... (sob, sob) embarrassing (sob, sob)"

Tenley and Jesse B won.

Post emotional ass-kicking there were a lot of tears in closets and showers and basically whatever not-completely-public-but-also-not-remotely-private-enough-attention-whore-locale Sluts go to feel sorry for themselves after being called out by the very boys they spread their legs for daily...

Then there were one-on-one dates. Tenley's baby talkin', Kiptyn stalkin' dumb ass took... um... Kiptyn, obviously. I couldn't hear anything that was said on their date because I was deafened by the piercing and consonant-less nonsense that was spewing from Tenley's cram-hole. And I couldn't see anything that happened because I was struck blind by Kiptyn's ever-shine seven head and uncommonly prominent ears. What I do know is that they are an annoying as all hell match.com made in heaven... And may this be the last we see of both of them... Please God...

Jesse B. took Peyton on his date. Which started well. And ended as most of my "relationships" do, with Peyton realizing that Jesse's dashing good looks do not make up for what a Raging Douche-Lord he is. Nor do they void out his tendency to act a damn fool circa 7th Grade Maturity Level. Therefore, Jesse B. ended his night tweeter-free, and Peyton ended hers with dignity intact...

The rose ceremony was a convoluted bitch fit, per usual... There was scheming and lying and "strategy". All of which I didn't give a shit about, I just like to see people cry.

Wes got the ax from the ladies. Mostly because he pissed off McRageaholic by calling him out in a room full of people. And if McRageaholic ain't happy, ain't nobody happy...

Krisily was the sacrificial lamb for the fellas... not for any good reason, just because Kiptyn didn't feel comfortable voting for anyone else, and the other guys can't make their own decisions with all those fake tits around, so they did as The Ears hypnotized them to do...

And as a side note... Whoever the hell named these people should be pushed in front of a bus! I would like to volunteer my services to get this done...

Seacrest, out!

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

2010-08-26T20:33:00.000-07:00

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.

I complain on Sundays...

2010-08-22T19:10:00.000-07:00

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...

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

2010-08-21T00:27:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2010-08-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

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 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.

It's like Jersey Shore... with a budget...

2010-08-10T22:41:00.000-07:00

:Casting criteria for Bachelor Pad ~ Season 1:

Shameless Slut-tastic Not-For-Profit Hookers (will also accept Man-whore-Rific Douche Rockets)

Delusional Banana-Jamas willing to use black mail as a party favor

Borderline Elderly Space Fillers

Chemical Dependents that thrive on using deadly force against competitors

must employ phrases such as, "There is absolutely no reason why we shouldn't just tie him to a tree and kick the shit out of him", or "You started this, bitch, now I'm gonna end it"

And so began the journey I like to call JILL'S REALITY TV WET DREAM!

The rules of the "game" are simple... (Actually, they're not. They're convoluted and nonsensical and a little slap dash, but I throw no stones)

There are two teams: Slut-tastics vs. Man-whore-Rifics
The Sluts vote off the Man-whores and the Man-whores vote off the Sluts
Every week there will be a competition (this week: a nod to the 1970's with a friendly game of Twister... not kidding)
The winner of each week's competition will receive a rose, guaranteeing them immunity from that week's elimination
The rose also allows the winner to host a date with three Sluts or Man-whores of their choosing
On the date, another rose will be bestowed upon the Slut or Man-whore of the "date host"s choosing, guaranteeing their immunity as well
The Sluts and Man-whores then decide which Slut and which Man-whore will be sent home based on ABSOLUTELY NOTHING...
The last Slut or Man-whore standing receives $250,000.00
The secondary goal of said competition being a second chance at finding love ala the American Broadcasting Company

From what I'm gathering, the wizards at the helm of these shanagans were just looking for a reason to get all these asstards in the same house with cameras rolling. The "competition" is a beard. And the "second chance at love" after-thought is simply a ruse so that this shit show could slide under the radar as part of their ever successful Reality Dating Franchise.

I don't know about you, but if I'm gonna claw some bitches eyes out, it's gonna be for a quarter mil, certainly not for the affections of somebody else's third-round-elimination-bottom-of-the-barrel-Bachelorette-reject. But that's just me.

And yet, I am far too shallow to care about any of this. Because what we've stumbled upon here is solid gold.

As episode 1 opened Tenley Molzhan's anti-climactic ass was the first to arrive. A gal that fell in love with Jake Pavelka, who never dareth speak an unkind word, who's voice summons the attention of every K9 within a five mile radius, who meets not-a-one of the criteria listed above... Tenley's entrance did not exactly inspire confidence.

But one by one as the limos arrived and the doors swung open and the dysfunction emerged, you could almost smell the shit storm a' brewin'...

Those responsible for casting this Monday night delicacy, let's call them "American Royalty", got it oh-so-right. Old rivals, jaded one-night stands, cuckoo kachoo stalker types. Somehow they managed to enlist the who's who of WTF...

What came next was standard Bachelor/Bachelorette fare.

There was the inevitable Meat Market Mingle, where champagne and amateur pick-up lines flow like The Mississippi. And shortly thereafter the hard-earned effects of silicone and steroids were unveiled poolside. Then came the obligatory host introduction, to squelch any concerns that there might be someone out there dedicating two hours of their lives to this fiasco who was NOT already intimately acquainted with Chris Harrison and Melissa Rycroft-Strickland.

We discovered that Michelle has become no less of a terrifying sociopath in the last six months when she cornered Tenley behind a closed bathroom door threatening her within an inch of her life for starting a rumor that she and Craig had hooked up the first night. (Actually not a rumor at all, stone cold fact)

Which then caused Tenley to make this face...

We listened in awe as Elizabeth went on ad nauseum about the pure and unfaltering love that exists between her and Jesse Kovacs, a Jillian-Harris-throw-away who was earlier caught telling his fellow Man-whores that they had "hooked up two or three times, but were in NO WAY in a relationship". We then watched her burst in to tears on more than four occasions whilst discussing how poorly her boyfriend Jesse was treating her. Not to be outdone by the private conversation they had together where he told her he was single, and she responded appropriately by telling him she was in love with him. (You cannot make this shit up. This is 100% authentic crazy.)

And we suffered through the beginnings of what are sure to be history's shortest lived friendships and romances forged between our favorite throw-aways of seasons past.

In the end, Michelle's ability to strike fear in the hearts and sexual organs of men and women everywhere sealed her fate as the first Slut To Get Cut. Oh, but fear not, she had thought ahead and saved a little of her kooky sauce to pour all over her limousine confessional exit interviewer.

And it was an ill-fated, and poorly exited, one-night stand with Mutton Chops Magoo (Nikki) that sent Juan packing. Demonstrating, apparently, that the more you look like you might have a penis thanks to inexplicable and spuratic female facial hair, the more pull you have with the Slut vote. That, and Juan is a huge pansy ass.

Bachelor Pad, you are a star in my sky...

Mere hours now...

2010-08-09T16:44:00.000-07:00

It's been months.

Weeks.

Hours.

Since the seed was planted.

And now we are but mere hours from the first bloom.

The premiere episode of the much anticipated reality train wreck that shall henceforth be known as "The Bachelor Rad".

I am all a-flutter...

If this proves to be all I hope it will be, please to anticipate a delicious post tomorrow.

Until then... God bless skewed versions of reality and obnoxiously beautiful people...

We've come a long way, baby...

2010-08-03T23:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Ali,

Thank you.

Xoxo,

Jill

PS- I give it 3 months

-------------------------------------------------------------------

My dearest, hottest, wickedest, awesomest Chris,

I imagine there are quite a few sluts out there tripping over their hooker pumps, clawing each others' eyes out just vying for a taste of your sweet sugar. I assume that this is, at least in part, due to your smokin' hot bod... and piercing green eyes... and boyish charms. And in part due to the magic of reality television romance... and those fantastical dream dates... and the heightened, amplified, condensed emotion that is required for a 2 month televised relationship that ends with a proposal.

I pity those bitches.

They can only dream of someday finding the kind of love that we will share.

Ali did us a service simply by being a dumb ass.

And while you may not be fully aware of your destiny, I am. Fear not, my future arm candy, you and I are currently on a crash course... Destination: Ecstasy.

Now, due to the cunning expertise of ABC executives, you have unintentionally flaunted your hot ass to every triflin' ho with access to basic cable in these here United States. Because of this, if you are not extremely careful, you are sure to encounter any number of advances from desperate, single, husband-hunting women (read: stalkers)... this, of course, then increases your risk of frolicking through their blossoming fields o' STDs... and also calls for the oh-so-predictable publicity stunt known as "the pregnancy scare". In the interest of shielding you from this barrage of sad consequences, I write this letter.

The whole of America knows why I love you. And yet, I fear, you may not yet know why you love me. So I have enclosed a list of the top 10 reasons you can't wait to spend the rest of your life with me... Please feel free to reference the following whilst writing your vows.

1) I have a blog... which means I have my own life and won't cling to yours... and yet I'm WILDLY irresponsible about posting on any sort of regular basis... which means that it will not take up any "we" time

2) I am HI.Lar.IOUS

3) I am STD free! (subject to change)

4) My blood runs Italian... (read: exotic and able to fit in wit dat East Coast flava)

5) And yet I was born and bred in the Pacific Northwest (read: down-to-earth gal that can kick off her heels and sleep under the stars... for a long weekend, tops... any longer and we get divorced)

6) I watch A LOT of reality TV... (I assume this won't be a problem, considering how we met)

7) I've never been to Massachusetts... which means I haven't slept with any of your friends... probably

8) I can't cook (I'm still working on making that a positive. Bear with me.)

9) I work in a doctor's office... which means my life could not get any worse... and I'd be willing to quit tomorrow and move to Cape Cod

10) I hate landscaping... and math... but I love a man who knows how to do both (wink, wink, giggle)

Clearly, the list speaks for itself.

I'll assume you will be booking your flight to Seattle momentarily, and I don't want to keep you. But as you drift off to dream tonight think only of me and these wise words your father once told me (Episode 8: Hometown Visits), "Love is the ONLY reality".

Until we find forever,

Jill

PS- I'm keeping my last name.

Judge not, lest ye be judged... which I am... so I do...

2010-07-31T14:29:00.000-07:00

I'd like to think that I don't give a shit how people feel about me. That I am above all the petty opinions which literally matter none in my day to day. That I am confident enough and secure enough and kick ass enough to shirk all the whispers and eye rolls and silent judgments that are thrown like white hot darts at my already self-deprecating psyche.

Fact: EVERYONE gives a shit how people feel about them. And I am no exception.

But I am who I am, take it or leave it, right?

Not you, nor I, nor trendy-skinny-bitch-behind-the-counter-at-Nordstrom, nor humanitarian-African-orphanage-financial-and-spiritual-backer has it all figured out. And glass house or not, we all chuck stones every day of our lives...

And sometimes, rarely, but sometimes there is just no avoiding it.

Sure, there are instances where I might be well advised to keep my mouth shut. I could stand to not rely solely on my retelling of others' misfortunes in order to secure a laugh. I'm sure there are ways to entertain that don't involve sarcasm...

But that is NOT what this blog is about...

So to the haters, sippin' yo' Hater-ade, and hatin' on this hater... mind yo' business, and let me tend to mine.

Which, of course, is making fun of shit...

And today I choose to make fun of those asshole walking contradictions I like to call "The General Public"...

We all do it. I am not excluding myself from this mix. We, as a society, are morons. And the contradictions are everywhere.

We order diet soda with our fast food. We buy tampons and pregnancy tests in one transaction. We throw cough medicine and cigarettes into the same shopping bag. We buy a $5 coffee every morning on our way to the unemployment office.

We are logically retarded.

I once witnessed a man saunter into the gas station mini-mart, pull out $20 for gas, look outside to see which pump he was at, shake his head, squint his eyes, and then, and only then, did he realize that he had walked there. Giving the explanation that he knew he needed to get fuel for his car, so when he walked past the gas station he thought "Well now is as good a time as any..."

Ummmmmmmmmmm...

A woman in Tennessee was angry that her husband fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand. It had left a burn hole in the mattress. The next day she decided to leave her own lit cigarette on the bed to show him what would have happened had she not caught his in time. The house burned down.

Again... Ummmmmmmmmmm...

I deal with people daily that have abandoned all sense. People who come to see their doctor because they are feeling better. People who call the office and ask for the phone number. People who stop in to see if we're open so that they can call to schedule an appointment when they get home...

My dad has a pet parrot. I asked if it was male or female. My dad replied, "It's male... unless he lays an egg, then I guess I've been wrong this whole time." My response? "Parrots lay eggs?"

... Seriously...

I have a sneaking suspicion that if there is life on other planets, witnessing this shit storm o' incompetence we display, they will soon act on their Diabolical Planet-Wide Takeover Mission, as we demonstrate daily that they, indeed, are the superior species... They'd have to be... we're the dumbest thing goin'...

Wake me up when Roberto gets naked...

2010-06-22T12:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Ali,

You. bore. me.

Xoxo,

Bachelor/Bachelorette Superfan

_________________________________________________________

Dear Kasey,

Ummmmmm..... hmmmmmmm.... I know you can't hear yourself, but if you could you might fully realize why you have yet to find someone to guard and protect your heart. There isn't a woman in the world that wouldn't call her local police department after five minutes alone with you. You obviously have extinguished the life of every gal who's ever left you. You obviously store the bodies in your crawl space. You obviously have rosacea. And you obviously have been lied to on several occasions about your "vocal stylings".

I ask now, that you resume crafting miniatures in your mom's basement, only surfacing for your audiology appointments. I feel the world will be a safer place.

Many thanks,

Anonymous
_________________________________________________________

Dear Chris N.~

Food for thought: When telling someone that you're funny, it helps to not stare directly at them in a sort of "I could wrap both hands around your neck and watch as the last morsel of breath escapes from your petite and helpless frame" kinda way.

Also, when asked what your "guilty pleasure" is... the correct answer is NEVER "Mexican food".

And finally, are you sure you're not the boom mic operator?

Sincerely confused and concerned,

J

_________________________________________________________

Dear "Rated R",

You are a GIHUNGUS POSER and your flavor saver SUCKS. Someone should tie you to a tree and kick the shit out of you, on principle alone. You are the worst.

And PS- Entertainment wrestling does not a hard ass make. It's not even a real job.

Piss off,

Your Worst Nightmare

__________________________________________________________

I love the Bachelor/Bacherlorette franchise for oh-so-many reasons. I love the absurdity of 25 people fighting for the same pre-selected mate. I love the manufactured emotions and outlandish courting. I love the pissing contests. I love the shit out of some drunk ass slobs attempting to woo with cohesive sentences. I love our host Chris Harrison, all business to the untrained eye, but really just as shallow and insulting as I. I love the sorostitute trash that somehow passes the bevy of STD checks required for casting. I. Love. This. Show.

I also understand that after 20 seasons as a loyal fan, my judgment may or may not be a smidge biased. I have seen the best of them (i.e. Andrew Firestone) and the worst (i.e. "Prince" Borghese). I have paid homage to the bananner jammers of yore. I've winced at the bad poetry and impromptu acoustic singer/songwriter moments. I've laughed. I've cried. I've cringed. I've regurgitated meals.

But even taking all that into consideration, I have to ask... Who the hell made Ali Fedotowsky The Bachelorette, and have they been fired yet?

This bitch is boring.

She does not make for good TV.

At least, in the past, when ABC execs have committed gross misconduct unbecoming a United States Entertainment Company they swung that pendulum to the furthest reaches of WTF. They were fully invested in forcing my skin to crawl right off my body and light itself on fire. (I'm looking at you Jake Pavelka) But in choosing Ali as The Bachelorette, it's like they've just given up. And on behalf of crazy ass reality TV whores such as myself, I say "Eat Shit ABC! Get your head in the game!"

The only saving grace for this, the 6th installment of The Bachelorette, are the ASSTARDS in the ring duking it out for Ali... (and by "Ali" I mean, a lifetime of missionary positions and HGTV).

So hats off to you, the creepsters, the douche rockets, the awkwards, the deaf tattooed and clinically insane. You are the only reason I'm still here... Well that, and there isn't PISS on TV in the summer...

Headline: ABC casts Season 6 of The Bachelorette with To Catch A Predator alum...

2010-06-16T23:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is long overdue...

Yes, I suck at life...

Yes, I have YET AGAIN, let you down...

And frankly, I don't want to hear about it...

So take a moment, inhale a few, deep, tantric yoga breaths, release on the exhale all that animocity that has built up inside you regarding my negligence, and read on... 'cause you can't make this shit up...

Namaste.

The Bachelorette: Recap (in the style of Jill)...

Episodes 2-4 (I know, I know, the guilt is paralyzing)

What we've learned so far:

1) Apparently, during the exhaustive and excruciating audition process that potential Bachelor/Bachelorette contestants are forced to endure in what can only be described as a public rape of one's dignity in the town square, ABC Executives have been forgetting to ask one vital, and yet seemingly imperative, question... "Are you a homosexual?" And yes, I'm looking at you "Weatherman"...

2) There is an obvious and alarming drought in the Reality TV dating pool... Or at least the one our host Chris Harrison be fishin' out of. It's as if the "next generation" of adults have some new-fangled ideas about how and where to find love. I'm not quite sure who to blame. But be it Facebook, eHarmony, "the bar scene", or just good ole' fashioned fix-ups, someone needs to put a stop to this nonsensical ballyhoo.

EVERYONE knows that the way to find true and everlasting love is to sign up for a television show in which you share your potential future spouse with 24 other ne'er-do-wells, clawing and scratching your way to the front of the meager pack until you are whittled down to one of the two people that your potential future spouse has fallen madly and simultaneously in love with and then pray to whatever God in which you believe that when they flip that coin in the 11th hour, it lands on heads... and, of course, that you were assigned to heads.

Just ask Brett Michaels, I hear this route has proved extremely successful for him.

3) Ali Fedotowsky could win the "ARBITRARY UNCOMFORTABLE INAPPROPRIATELY TIMED EAR PIERCING CHUCKLE CONTEST" with both hands tied behind her back... And this still holds true if Jake Pavelka AND his stunning he/she fiance went toe to toe with her in a sudden death ARBITRARY UNCOMFORTABLE INAPPROPRIATELY TIMED EAR PIERCING CHUCKLE off...

4)........... ummmmmm........ okay, that's all we've learned.

On to the crazy... (rubbing hands together a'la Gargamel of TV's The Smurfs)

The sheer volume of Bat Shit Bananner-Jammers this season is staggering. We've seen The Crazy before. We relish in The Crazy. The sprinkling of coo-coo atop our bland yet delightful bowl of Average O's is just that certain je ne sais quoi that keeps us coming back for more...

But when the entire lot of suitors could conceivably have been cast via an open call at Camarillo State Mental Hospital, one is forced to wonder... Isn't Tyra Banks supposed to be here for this?

Case Study 294.5: Gollum... er... Hunter.... no, I was right the first time, Gollum~

In a splendid display of too much too soon, Gollum decided that their relationship, as of THE FIRST TIME THEY EVER SPOKE PRIVATELY, had progressed to the point that Ali no longer required her given name and it was time to exclusively address her using generic pet names such as "Darlin" and "Babe" and "Hun". This sufficiently creeped out our Bachelorette. Paired, of course, with the blatant and uncomfortably transparent absence of chemistry, emotional, physical, or otherwise... And back to Middle-Earth was he sent...

Case Study 706.14: Jonathan... "The Weatherman"~

As is true for most closeted homosexuals, the mere mention of touching tongues with a subject of the opposite sex is enough to incite PTSD. And so is the case with our resident gay, Weatherman, as displayed oh so unpleasantly at the Bare Naked Ladies video shoot (Don't even get me started on BNL... are they even still a band?!?! Were they ever?!?!) So to you, sir, I say this...

Jonathan, there is no shame in your sexual orientation. You needn't prove anything to anyone at KPRC Houston. You are a proud, petite, homosexual man, and it is OKAY. The only judgment being cast is coming from within yourself. Please to come out. There is a multitude of handsome fellas waiting to love you, with bated breath, no doubt... Also, in the off chance that you're not gay, you are for sure the most awkward person living. Please stop being so creepy... and whispering is only sexy when the person whispering is sexy... otherwise it's offensive... and uncomfortable... and menacing... and ew.

Case Study 154.3: Justin aka "Rated R"~

Hobbling down a California highway complete with crutches and a Orthotic boot is not hot. Nor is it endearing. Nor is it noble. It is, in fact, just super duper creepy. There are serial killers with more tact. And furthermore, we are filled to the brim with Coo-Coo-Cachoos in these here United States... please go tip the scales on your own soil. We're plum full.

Case Study 567: Kasey

Is this guy deaf? Seriously? Is there a reason no one has addressed this man's speaking voice? And listen (pun intended) I'm partially deaf. I cast no stones. But C'MON! Am I the only one that can hear this guy?

But that's just the icing on Crazy Kasey's cake... the batter is certifiable.

There have been no fewer than 76 occasions in which Kasey has uttered the phrase "I want to guard and protect your heart".

This is not a joke. He REALLY says those words... in that order...

The first thing Kasey said to Ali upon meeting her at The Bachelorette mansion, Episode 1... the FIRST thing he said was "Hi, I'm Kasey. I am here to guard and protect your heart". When speaking with the other contestants he often states "I want to guard and protect Ali's heart." or "I'm looking for someone to guard and protect my heart just like I will guard and protect their heart." On Kasey and Ali's one-on-one date he recited his favorite mantra no less than 17 times. In further cringe-worthy news, when Ali mentioned that she felt Kasey might not be sincere (not true, by the way, Kasey is sincerely moments away from a full fledged psychotic break) what Kasey ACTUALLY heard was "Go get a tattoo about guarding and protecting my heart to prove yourself to me."........... WHICH HE DID!!!!!!!!

And to solidify K.K. as the Craziest Crazy That Ever Did Crazy, there's this:

Confused? You should be. The moments leading up to this impromptu vocal catastrophe did not, in any way, instigate such behavior. While there was a film crew, this was NOT the filming of The Sound of Music: Part Deux... and while there was, indeed, a Broadway stage, it was actually NOT part of Kasey's date. But as they so often do, the stars aligned, the "moment was right", the "sun was setting", and I could not be more thrilled.

Now I'll be the first to admit that I've dated the lion's share of asstards in my day... but not a one compares to this lurid collection of Creeper-Doodles... (okay maybe one... two, tops...)

Dear Facebook, Can I have my job back? XOXO, Ali...

2010-05-27T20:24:00.000-07:00

Well... it's official... we have hit ROCK BOTTOM...

Apparently when they say that "there are plenty of fish in the sea", the "fish" they are actually referencing are really a smattering of asstards, douche mongers, and serial killers...

and when they say "sea", what they actually mean is "their mom's basements"...

And the "they" that is saying all this ish is actually a group of chat-room enthusiasts and match.com sadists...

The good news is The Bachelorette is back...

The bad news is that The Bachelorette happens to be Ali Fedotowsky post weekly age-regression serum injections that rendered her physically and mentally comparable to that of a socially dwarfed 5 and 1/2 year old... (insert ear piercing manufactured Ali-giggle and pouty face here)

The TERRIBLE news is that never in my 30 years have I been exposed to a more ghastly collection of Table 9 Mutants than the 25 jack-offs selected to win Ali's heart, save my mild and brief obsession with frat parties (I'm looking at you Sig Eps)

Listen, I can get past the first-impression-skin-crawl reflex that inevitably sachets across my body when some dick-wad puffs out his chest and regurgitates a despicable collection of lines intended to spontaneously drop panties to the floor. I've been known to date (shag) a guy on the basis of charm alone (I'm looking at you Sig Eps). But this shit show is a virtual revolving door of one malformed, mildly terrifying suitor after the next.

Ali, Ali, Ali, if you weren't everything I hate about intelligent, capable girls who dumb-it-down and baby-talk-it-up to get a guy's attention, I might pity you and the journey you have just embarked on... but as it stands now, all I can say is hahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha, dumb bitch...

Here are my faves... And by "faves" I, of course, mean "What The Shit Were You Thinking ABC?!?!.. And Thank You"... in alphabetical order... because I just can't choose... I can't be made to choose...

Craig

I'm fairly certain this guy is already married... to Tori Spelling... and his name is actually Dean... and he has already been on a HORRENDOUS reality show... and it's called Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood

Craig (yes, again)

Gave Ali some crusty ass yellow Converse key chain that he, no doubt, purchased at his local Dollar Tree with the preface that he had one too, and "someday they could meet back up and become a pair again"... and then upon second glance realized that they were both bloody left shoes and that he has just succinctly and unequivocally cemented his retardation for the whole of America

Frank

Takes residence in his mom's basement for sure. And lives amongst comic book figurines and dead hookers... that he has embalmed... and is currently concocting a formula for re-animation serum to bring them back to life... so that he can finally lose his virginity...

Hunter

Earned international fame playing the role of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Off-set he learned to play the ukulele... sorta... and write REALLY SHITTY songs that he would later sing on national TV...

John

I'm in theatre... I love my gays... And I REALLY love them when they step out of the closet and squash the "I'm fighting for the heart of a woman and am IN NO WAY doing this show so that I can participate in a 3 month slumber party with 24 other single men that may or may not get confused and lonely and in a fit of desperate solitude decide to reenact a scene from Brokeback with me" charade

John (yes, again)

I've seen this guy's drag show... in Vegas... I'm almost positive...

Justin (aka Rated R)

Self-proclaimed "Entertainment Wrestler"... which is...??? Not a "Professional Wrestler"... Not a "WWE Wrestler"... An "Entertainment Wrestler"... Alter Ego = "Rated R"... Ummmm... the jokes write themselves, bitches...

Monday night just can't come soon enough... (that's what she said)

Do I look like the kind of girl that shops at Home Depot?

2010-05-10T16:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Home Depot Hiring Manager,

I admit that I am not the most conventional member of the Handy-Peep Community. I am fully aware of how I look... and what I wear... and that I carry designer handbags... I, unequivocally, embrace and celebrate my allegiance to spiked heels and Nordstrom sales. I suffer no ambivalence in regards to my self-image. And I make no apologies for any of this.

I am also a bit of rock star when it comes to fixin' shit. I was raised by an I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar type. Independence was ingrained in me from the start. I have never been under the assumption that a man is required to carry, or repair, or reach, or program, or lift, or hang anything. Helpful, they may be, but necessary, they are not. I can take apart a vacuum and find out why it smells of burning flesh. I can repair a leaky faucet with a pipe wrench and a smile (that's what she said). I can program one remote control to serve as the mother board for a bevy of electronics. I have a tool box... with tools... that I use...

Which brings me to today's experience at your fine establishment. Now, admittedly, I did forget to don my paint-stained coveralls. And I retired my favorite carpenter jeans in 1997... (er... 1999... stop judging me). But in my own defense, I left the stilettoes and winged eyeliner at my place of residence. And as I strolled through your oh-so-warm-and-welcoming warehouse of fix-it yo' damn self paraphernalia, I was confident in my ability to "look the part" as it were. And then I was greeted by Paul. Oh, Paul. A man of roughly 48 years. Orange apron, work boots, stand-alone molestache. I smiled... like I do... with nary a hint of confusion upon my face, and Paul, in all his asstard chauvinistic glory responded, "Are you lost? You don't look like you belong here."

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.....

To which I replied, "No, Paul, I'm not lost... but I appreciate your concern."

His retort? "Ha... hu... well the mall is just down the road if you're looking for directions..."

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.....

Now, as the years wear on, and the memories blur, I have found it sometimes difficult to remember certain details of certain events, and certain names of certain people, and what I ate yesterday... However, I am confident that I would have recollection of strapping myself in to Doc's magic Delorean and flux capaciting my way back to 1954. And yet, I have no memory of this... which leads me to believe that I remain safe and secure in 2010.

Confused by this unsolicited character assassination, I checked to make sure I hadn't accidentally left the house with my polka-dot apron fixed to my torso, or my hot rollers fastened snugly to my skull... (Okay, I won't lie to kick it, I don't have an apron... I can't even boil water) And alas, Home Depot Hiring Manager, no such costuming was present. Just a typical gal, I was, being verbally accosted by Paul VonSexistPrick.

So I am writing this letter as a sort of Atta-Boy... to you, mainly. I would like to assure you that your clientele are undoubtedly thrilled with your decision to hire a man with the kind of integrity and forward thinking that is so lacking in this community. Rest easy in the fact that the manhood of your patrons has not been compromised by the likes of mall rats and damsels running amuck in your lumber department.

Well done, my friend, well done indeed.

~jill

And PS- I will continue to shop for my home improvement needs at your establishment, just to be witness as Paul's testicles crawl up inside his body to die and he is forced to chest bump and shotgun beers to prove his dominance.

I complain on Sundays...

2010-04-25T18:14:00.000-07:00

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

Due to my unscheduled hiatus I have had several weeks to stew over this particular point of contention...

And it is as follows...

OMG! WTF, ANTM?!?!?

As you may have noticed, my Next Top Model updates have been limited to... well, two. Two posts about the show that has, in the past, been one of my favorite guilty pleasures. This is partly because I fail at life, and partly because THIS "CYCLE" SUCKS JAVALINA TESTES!

(In case you haven't had the pleasure, this is a Javalina... or "Satan's Rat Pig" as it is sometimes called... by me. I will spare you the vision of it's testes)

Where's the drama? Where's the juicy, low blow, mascara tear inducing cat fights? Where are the attractive model types? WTF, ANTM?!?!?

It's come down to the sorostitues vs. the hood rats. A house divided. A shit ton of shrieky, shrill, nonsensical lunacy. Shouting matches about eggs and bunk assignments and fuck all... I can't even force myself to feign interest in these hookers teeny tiny little lives.

And what's worse? They're not pretty.

I pay a lot of money to watch attractive people do stupid shit. And every month, when my exorbitant cable bill arrives, I nod begrudgingly and say, "So effing worth it!" This cycle of whore bags is forcing me to reconsider my position...

I couldn't even type that with a straight face... Lies... NOTHING can come between me and my extended cable package... NOTHING!

(And yes, I had the same haircut as a kid... And no, I don't still resent my mother... And yes, that last part was a lie)

That said, however, I do tune in every Wednesday, teeth clenched, white knuckled, hoping against hope that something blog-worthy will transpire.

And there it was...

A pattern...

A fatal flaw...

A wounded gazelle...

Our favorite Bat Shit Looney Toon, T. Banks, has taken to the 80's onesie like Oprah to a trough o' chocolate frosting,

like Josh Duhamel to transvestite clown hookers,

like Jon Gosselin to Ed Hardy... and fat...

Oh, and she doesn't stop there. She marries this wardrobe ATROCITY with Robert Palmer Music Video hair and innocent, unsuspecting, fabulous stilettos that deserve more respect and reverence than Ms. Banks can offer.

This has gone on for WEEKS now. Doesn't this show have stylists? Isn't this an enterprise based exclusively on the fashion industry? Aren't we, as viewers, expected to look to these style icons as an example of luxury and grace? WTF, ANTM?!?!

I'm not ready to give up completely, my series recording shall remain intact. But I am losing my once unshakable faith in this particular "Bankable Production". The Reality TV graveyard is beckoning, and I'm ready to put down a non-refundable deposit to reserve the plot between Temptaion Island and Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire... Shape up, ANTM, or you'll be meeting your maker before Tyra can say something absurd in a poorly executed fake accent...

The bitch is back...

2010-04-24T16:25:00.000-07:00

Alright, listen...

I try to keep my personal life, personal. I try not to force my abundance of ish on the blogosphere masses (or the 63 of you that read my nonsense). And frankly, I can hardly force myself to care about my own shit, so I can't imagine that anyone else might.

But I feel you deserve an explanation. Thank you to those who have resisted the overwhelming allure of the "unfollow" button. And to those who could not muster the strength to man-up and go down with this ship, you are welcome back anytime. No questions asked... perhaps some name calling... and fair-weathered follower references... but no questions.

So here's the deal... not the excuse... the real deal Hollifield.

In February, my boyfriend of over two years and I split... boo hoo hoo, right? Everyone's got a sad story... Except I wasn't sad. Or I thought I wasn't. It was a long time comin' and all for the best. And I finally, somehow, managed to untangle myself from his infinite web of lies. But there was a life that had been created with him. There was a future that had been planned. And that was all gone.

Apparently, I coped by quitting life.

I mean QUITTING life. Or rather, my old life... the life I had with him.

I moved out of his rental house that I was sharing with his sister (ummmm... obvy... there is potentially no bigger shit storm than having an ex as a landlord), I stopped auditioning, I quit looking for a new job, I started going out every weekend with my ladies, I abandoned Facebook and email and returning calls, I forgot to eat, I drowned myself in Reality TV and age inappropriate dramas. And sadly, I bailed on the blog.

I just couldn't find anything funny to say. I couldn't find ANYTHING to say, really. I was too busy running.

I probably still am.

But it's time to face the G.D. music. I'm a grown ass woman. And it's time to rejoin civilization... okay, no it's not, but it IS time to seek out that which I love again (i.e. acting, blogging, NOT working as a medical receptionist.) This bitch is back, baby, buckle up... (and ps- that alliteration just kicked Shakespeare's ass)

So here's to the next chapter... 'Cause it's my memoir. So no one can write it but me.

Jill + Bob 4-Eva

2010-04-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

There are several benefits to working as a medical receptionist...

And by that I mean none... There are NO benefits to working as a medical receptionist... not even medical benefits, believe it or not.

So for 15 years, off and on, as I drag my sorry ass out of bed to the piercing sound of my alarm clock's devil cry, I have told myself that someday, SOMEDAY, something has to come of this personal hell I've created. That wading through the feces and the crazies and the tales of herpes simplex 1 would all someday prove to be worth my while. And I would cease to live a life of cynicism and regret. The burning hell fires of hatred would extinguish in my formerly hopeful heart, and I would once again see a glimmer of possibility.

That day came on Saturday. In human form.

As anyone who knows me, or doesn't know me, or that has perused my blog, or been within ear shot of my obnoxiously loud speaking voice can tell you... I am a reality TV whore. I will openly and proudly sell myself for a DVR'd episode of any number of trashy reality fare. I live vicariously through the effed up lives of others in a desperate search for their 15 minutes. Or Prince Charmings. Or size twos.

As an actor (or someone claiming to be an actor) I, unfortunately, cannot allow myself to participate in such juicy spectacles... for they are career suicide... wait, I have no career... hold on, I have to go nominate myself for The Bachelorette...

....

....

Okay, thanks for your patience...

Where was I?

So there I sat, all a twitter, waiting ever so patiently for the next installment of (insert name of dignity consuming shit show here) when I get an email from my dear sweet goddess of a mother, who works for the same company I do.

To: jill@hellonearth.org

From: bestmomever@hellonearth.org

Subject: New Wing Opening

Lilly~

We just booked BOB HARPER from The Biggest Loser to come speak at the opening of the new wing! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Invite the girls!

Love you,

Joe Mama

It felt like YEARS would pass before that fateful day when my gay boyfriend Bob (sexual orientation still unconfirmed, but c'mon now) would go rogue and propose to me in the ultimate Love-At-First-Sight-So-Intense-It-Forced-An-Impromptu-Team-Switch situation. But as I trudged along, day after day, hour after hour, I FINALLY had something keeping me going.

And then it was Saturday... the Saturday. I had hardly slept the night before, like a crumb-snatcher on the eve of Christmas... or a tween on the eve of the next Twilight movie release... or a Biggest Loser contestant on the eve of... a mountain of chocolate chip cookies...

My bestie and I arrive with the vain hopes of simply catching a glimpse of Bob's beauty in the flesh, or a lewd conduct arrest for bum rushing him onstage and dry humping his skinny jeans. Either way. Just being in the same room with him was reason enough to bring me to Satan's Lair (i.e. my place of employment) on my day off.

My glorious mother, who was one of the people in charge of the event, informed us that she had reserved us front row seats for Bob's inspirational hub-bub (which was "technically" not allowed... but my mom is a rock star).

She then showed us around the new wing, of which I could not have been LESS excited to see, and we took our seats in frenzied anticipation. Five minutes before Bob was to take the stage, my angelic maternal figure appeared with a sharp and terrifying "COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW!" And as we hustled through the masses, at mach speeds, my mind raced... Knowing my mother she was taking me to meet some medical big wig that she had told all about me, who's son was an actor in Paducha, Kentucky, and had just landed some local furniture commercial that was sure to be a hit. My hopes were not high.

But as she led my bestie and I through closed access doors and down hallways lined with security, my heartbeat accelerated ever so slightly... was this it? Could this REALLY be happening? And then the woman who bore me shoved me around a blind corner and I was face to chest with the one and only BOB HARPER (that mo fo is tall as shit). What happened next is a blur... I made a face that only belongs on registered sex offenders, which surely terrified him as the reaction on his face was one of "SECURITY!", I said "Hi, Oh my God, I'm Jill", to which he smiled and stuck out his hand and shook mine, my bestie introduced herself in a much suaver fashion, and we were whisked back to our seats, as quick as we had came.

Bob was then introduced to the masses, those poor insignificant peons, and we sat and "listened" (salivated) and felt snug in the knowledge that Bestie and Bob and I had an unspoken and unparalleled connection, and these other fools were just room fillers. We laughed, we cried, Bob talked some shit on the Biggest Loser bitches. When he told stories he made direct eye contact with bestie and I, and we had soon earned the hatred of every straight woman and gay man in the joint.

It was surreal.

There was a book signing, with a line that rivaled 4am at Wal-Mart on black Friday... which, of course, we didn't have to stand in, because our books were in Bob's "green room", awaiting his personal message.

And then it was over. Just as quickly as it had started.

We were later informed that minutes after our personal handshake meet and greet, Bob looked about the joint and asked "Where did those cute girls go? It was so exciting for a minute." And then he immediately added "Jill + Bob 4-eva" to his inked out torso...

And it all fell into place. 15 years of hell is a small price to pay for a soul mate. But you just can't deny kismet.

I complain on Sundays...

2010-03-28T14:01:00.000-07:00

And a writer's workshop to boot...

I'm all about killing two assholes with one bullet... or birds with stones... whichever's right...

That got weird... anyway...

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

AND... As an added bonus... I WANT TO BE MADE...

Jennifer Garner always bugged the shit out of me. I used to LOATHE Jennifer Garner. I didn't even know her real name. I called her "That home-wrecking slut Hannah".

That was her character's name on Felicity (One of the Top Ten Best Shows EVER). And while Felicity was actually the home-wrecking slut, I was on her team. Like we were homies. Like I had her back. Like stealing your dorm's RA from his long-time high school sweetheart was completely acceptable and forgivable, because it was meant to be... and who am I to fight fate, right? Turns out Felicity was destined to be with Ben Covington (my imaginary boyfriend) and "Hannah" and "Noel", the RA, got married in real life... go figure.

But that is neither here nor there... I COULDN'T STAND Jennifer Garner... She was whiny and obnoxious and manipulative and a stupid head.

Truth be told, I had no reason to hate her... I was just partially convinced that the characters on Felicity were real... and my friends... and I'm a loyal effing friend, yo!

Then a couple years passed and J.J. Abrams (if you're out there, HIRE ME!) the creative genius behind Felicity created a new show... it was called ALIAS... and it rocked my world.

I resisted at first. "That home-wrecking slut Hannah" hadn't earned my time. But after much cajoling from my BFF, I gave it a taste test. I was an INSTANT ADDICT. Like prime time crack, it was.

And that is when my entire world was turned on it's head. I didn't HATE Jennifer Garner. I WORSHIPED Jennifer Garner. I researched how to become a C.I.A. operative on the internet. I decided to join a gym to get all J. Garn Yoked Out (that never actually happened, but the seed was planted) I considered changing my name to Melbourne Bristow so that her character Sydney Bristow and I would be considered sisters (okay, again that never happened, but how amazingly crazy would it have been if it did?!?!?!)

Ever since that fateful night, my first screening of ALIAS, my life has never been the same. I have seen all her movies. I get excited when there's a celebrity spotting of her in my favorite gossip mags. I stop everything when a Noxzema commercial comes on because I'm sure she's talking directly to me. I own all the seasons of Felicity and ALIAS to get my fix while she's on hiatus. I am a J. Garn super fan.

Complaint: WHY AM I NOT JENNIFER GARNER?!?! Or at the very least, her best friend / I want to be made into JENNIFER GARNER or at the very least, her best friend...

For years now I have imagined what it would be like. J.J. Abrams in my back pocket. Kick ass body, kick ass roles, kick ass husband. She is the epitome of celebrity perfection. She's a no drama mama. And I could eat her in a pita pocket, she's so damn adorable.

I, on the other hand, am not Jennifer Garner. I am a medical receptionist. I am not married to Ben Affleck. I did not date Michael Vartan (if you're out there, MARRY ME!)

I do not have a six pack (on my stomach, I do in my fridge). I am as average as they come. But damn it, if I wouldn't consider punching an elderly in the teeth for just one day as J.Garn...

And I think I've earned it. I'm a good person (save the above comment about socking the elderly). I have my Bachelor's degree in Theatre. I have a contagious laugh. I've been told on several occasions that I "look just like Jennifer Garner"... (I've also been told that I "look just like Jeneane Garofalo and Alanis Morrisette and Demi Moore. People are idiots. They see long, dark hair and are blinded by the uncanny similarities to others with long, dark hair). But obviously the only comparison I really believe is the one about me and Jen. I DESERVE to be JENNIFER GARNER. And everyday that I wake up and I'm not, I'm pissed.

So, MTV and/or Jen, I think it's high time your lazy asses came and found me. I'll be at a doctor's office... dealing with other people's feces... and dry heaving whilst cutting myself in the back bathroom... screaming to the heavens "WHY ME? WHHHYYYYY MEEEEEE?!?!"... you can't miss me.

ANTM Update: Just a little late... (I made it rhyme on purpose, that's just how I roll)

2010-03-27T16:24:00.000-07:00

Have you had it up to here (puts right hand to forehead) with my shitty excuses yet?

Cuz I have...

I can't even come up with good one's anymore...

But seriously, I haven't posted anything about ANTM yet because my Grandma was on her way to my new place... and her bus got hijacked... by a flock of penguins... who forced her to smoke crack... and kill the other passengers with her bare hands... and then she whipped out her switchblade... and cut those penguin bitches... barely escaping with her life... and I was subpoenaed... and held in witness protection... until the trial... which wrapped just this morning...

Don't worry... Grandma was acquitted... And I blog once again... You're welcome.

On to the show.

Due to the heart wrenching and emotionally scarring family emergency that pulled me away from this here topic, I am faced with offering my P.O.V. on 2 episodes... I'll attempt to be brief, but let's be honest, I've never been brief in my life... (that's what she said)

The second installment of Kooky Kooks Bat Shit Looney Modeling Competition, or "ANTM" for short, provided us with two eliminations. And let's face it, watching freakishly tall, malnourished, ridiculously attractive hooker-bots cry is really what it's all about. So goody goody gumdrops...

At the top of the episode we said goodbye to St. Louis' own, Gabrielle. Way to represent, bitch. I thought you was gangsta... I thought you'd shank a hooker to get ahead... I was mistaken. Model FAIL. And she was sent back to da 'hood via public transportation, no doubt. You know Tyra ain't springing for no "Fierce Bus" to schlepp the rejects back to where they came from.

The jelly filling of the episode was typical Next Top Model fare. Screaming, cursing, feeble attempts at becoming the Alpha Model of the house. Basically a house replete with amazon sorostitutes fighting over the same frat douche, which in this case is named Wilhelmina Modeling Agency.

In the challenge, the "ladies" (term used as loosely as humanly possible) were made to walk in a runway show... but not just any runway show... the most EFFED UP runway show the producers could possibly fathom in the most sadistic caverns of their minds. The decision was made to swing giant pendulums at the rail thin contestants whilst trudging down the catwalk in 7 inch stilettos. And can I just say... BRAVO!

Our token plus-size, Alexandra, didn't even make it down the stairs before succumbing to the MOST MORTIFYING 3 MINUTES IN TOP MODEL HISTORY...

I will not pretend that I'm funny enough to do a play-by-play justice, so please to enjoy the real thing...

Meanwhile, my Cult-tastic favorite, Naduah, proved to be a menace. Apparently being born into a religious cult with 98 brothers and sisters and not a shred of legitimate parenting really messes with your sense of reality... who knew? She spent the majority of on-camera time spinning tales of asinine proportions about ludicrous happenings bordering on laughable... In short, BITCH IS PATHOLOGICAL. Oh and PS, she also takes a shitty picture. So I lose... or rather, she does, because she was sent back to that imaginary town she lives in to frolic amongst the unicorns.

This week's episode was much less interesting... which is to say, no one fell on their ass in front of millions of viewers... TWICE...

There was a photo shoot (obvy) where the girls were told to be inspired by a genre of dance. It was perhaps the most lackluster display of "inspiration" I ever did see. The make-up, hair, and costuming departments should get a raise, the "talent" should get their skulls cracked together ala Three Stooges. The only thing they "inspired" me to do was flip the channel to Cheaters on Fox Reality Channel... (if you haven't partook of that brilliance, I urge you to do so). Each gal was given one on one time with some professional dancer fella who taught them some basic steps to their assigned area of dance...

This information was immediately purged and replaced with daydreams of shiny objects and rainbows. I have never seen such a display of incompetence... And I watch A LOT of reality TV...

So without our Cult-a-licious Liar, and one Ghetto Skank down, we were left to feed upon a harsh dose of boo hoo hoos in the style of Emo-Ren...

Poor, poor, Ren... she's such a unique individual... no one understands her... she didn't know what she was signing up for... her mother never loved her until she made it on the show... being hipster is super hard... screw the system... eff this ish... I'm going to go be a cutter now...

And apparently Ren, in all her edginess missed the chapter on what the hell Disco was...

She wasted countless moments of my life whining about wanting to go home, and then when confronted by Tyra, put her hard ass tail between her legs and told her she wanted to stay... Luckily, whoever actually makes the decisions on that show decided to offer up her walking papers...

And we are now left with 10 of the least interesting characters to grace the CW since One Tree Hill... and Smallville... oh, and Life Unexpected... and 90210... and, of course, Melrose Place...

How does this network even exist?!?!

I finally got a piece of the pie...

2010-03-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

I don't deal well with change...

Never have...

I like consistency and familiarity and comfort...

I like knowing where I'm going and where I've been...

And then the last month happened. And everything I thought I knew was turned on it's head. And every molecule of certainty was drowned in piss. And every answer metamorphosed back into a question.

And for once in my 30 years I am embracing change... because it has bitch slapped me in the grill...

I just finished moving and unpacking and breaking down boxes. And by "just finished", I mean it's been 15 minutes. The process started 2 weeks ago. Moving is a bitch. And it has become very clear that I am NOT a minimalist... I have a SHIT TON of stuff.

But this move is good. I'm back living with my bestie. I'm out of the exes rental house. I'm obsessed with my fabulous apartment. I have a pool (which is enough in itself)... And I can't help but relish in the freedom. Like I can finally breathe again. Like the shackles have disappeared.

I was fully expecting a nervous break-down. I had already made some calls to Spears and Lohan's peeps to get the deets on thier looney bins of choice. And yet, here I sit, in my new room, full of content and possibility.

Growing up is a trip...

(I am posting this picture because when I typed "moving up" into Google Image Search I was greeted by Jack Nicholson in a shot that was clearly taken moments before he registered as a Sexual Predator per court order... You're welcome.)

Moving is a sucubus of time...

2010-03-22T23:21:00.000-07:00

I've been moving for the past 4 days...

I will post tomorrow, I promise...

I know... excuses, excuses, excuses...

But I'll also try to be funny, so there's that.

I complain on Sundays...

2010-03-14T19:19:00.000-07:00

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

Today it's ASSHOLES IN BARS...

And boy, oh, boy, am I heated...

Alright, listen, I understand that bars are not the place to go to find:

a) Lasting relationships
b) Girls that are nice to each other
c) A dude without syphillis
d) A quiet evening with your friends

HOWEVER, I do subscribe to the school of thought that I should be allowed to go to a bar with my girlfriends to dance, and laugh, and drink, and not be forced to punch some ASSHOLE in the teeth.

There are so many instances that I could delve into, but my current level of ire is about this ASSHOLE that took it upon himself to confront a friend and I last night with his ROYAL ASSHOLINESS...

The night started off with a bang, and not the good kind, so it would be fair to say that I wasn't in the best spirits right out of the gate. And I'm not a huge fan of the fellas right now, either. I'm in that jaded, bitter, bitch phase of a break up where there is elevated potential for castration if I'm even looked at sideways. But this guy... THIS GUY... grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

It is important for you to know that my dear friend Lola (wifey) recently chopped about 13 inches off her hair. Lola is stunning. Lola could sport a burlap onesie, moon boots, and not a stitch of make-up and STILL BE STUNNING. So when Lola chopped her hair into the most adorable pixie cut you ever did see, it was not a bad move on her part... She ROCKS it!

There we were, Lola and I, in line at the bar, minding our business, and this fella in front of us turns around to try out his game... this fella that could easily be the drunkest, ugliest, least clever fool in all of Washington state. It spiraled quickly and turbulently...

ASSHOLE: He better call you soon. Texting is stupid.

LOLA: Ummmm... what?

ASSHOLE: You were looking at your phone. He better call you.

LOLA: I was checking the time, but thanks.

ASSHOLE: Oooooo you're spunky... and eccentric.

LOLA: Thanks... it's the hair...

(ASSHOLE senses Lola's disinterest and turns to harass another group of girls equally disinterested)

ASSHOLE: (To Lola) Did you just cut in line? How are you gonna just cut in line?

LOLA: Nope. Not cutting. Please go ahead.

ASSHOLE: I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST CUT IN FRONT OF ME!!!!!

LOLA: Seriously, not cutting. You were talking to the ladies. Please go ahead.

ASSHOLE: NO! It's fine. I'll be a gentleman this time. Go ahead and cut.

LOLA: Okay. Thanks. But again, not cutting. I just offered for you to go ahead twice.

ASSHOLE: No really, you go. Cuz you can "kind of" pull this look off, so I'll be a gentleman. (as he is looking her up and down)

ASSHOLE: (To me) Aren't you glad that I'm such a gentleman to let you go ahead of me?

ME: I'm sorry? Did you just say that you were a gentleman?

ASSHOLE: Yeah.

ME: Hmmmm... All evidence to the contrary. You seem a bit ASSHOLE.

ASSHOLE: Oh, well you seem like a bitch.

ME: WE'RE DONE TALKING NOW! PLEASE TURN AROUND AND WALK AWAY!

ASSHOLE: (To Lola) Sorry I pissed off your boyfriend. Maybe you should tell her that you need to get spanked more.

(Deep breath, summon patience, open fist, grab drink, walk away, say nothing)

I mean, who the hell was that guy? Offering completely unsolicited insults of my friend's appearance and my demeanor...

I am NOT a fan of the ASSHOLE...

And so it begins... America's Next Never-To-Be-Heard-From-Again...

2010-03-11T12:25:00.000-08:00

I'd like to start by saying that it makes me sad when I lose followers... I don't have very many, and when they go away, a little piece of me dies. I realize this bloggy world is a fickle business, and that I'm just not for everyone, but don't you give up on me! I'll do better!

And to those who've clicked "Unfollow"... I don't NEED you anyway. I'm a strong, confident woman. You were holding me back from realizing my true potential. And don't you ever for a second get to thinkin' your irreplaceable.

I put your stuff in the yard, you best come get it.

xoxo

For the 63 of you still out there... this one's dedicated to you...

And it's all about Cycle 14 of ANTM... The world is right once again.

For those of you who do not partake in the sheer brilliance of the Next Top Model franchise, I urge you to reconsider. If this reality catastrophe teaches us only one thing, it is this... It don't matter how hot you are, "crazy" is non-discriminatory... And moderately attractive, circus freak tall, ghetto bitches are the key demographic for Bonker Sauce sales...

Last night marked the maiden voyage of the new batch of 13 genetically blessed contestants. At the helm, our fearless wacko, Tyra Banks... who is bat shit bananas, by the by... and her fabulously gay duo, Mr. and Miss Jay.

I've been watching the show since it's conception 13 seasons ago. Riveted as the former supermodel mentally deteriorates and horizontally expands with each new installment. And just when you think she couldn't possibly find another marble to lose, along comes a new season of ludicrous antics and absurdity.

Each new cycle finds itself neck deep in a theme, beating said theme within an inch of it's life, one more ridonkulous than the next. Cycle 14 decided to exploit the popularity of social networking sites with an introduction to a Tyra-inspired website called "myfiercepage.com"... yes, that's correct... "myfiercepage.com".

The "site" was capable of accepting only 13 Fierce Requests... clever, right? So of the 32 semi-finalists, 19 had to pack up their stilettos and head back to the harsh reality of Middle America Mall Modeling. The next 45 minutes were a blur of bad puns and Perez Hilton (Why Perez? You ask. If there were an answer, I would surely provide it. However, I too, am in a quandary...) Nonsensical words were tossed around like a hacky-sack in a Community College quad... Terms like "Ty-overs", instead of make-overs, and "Net-walking skills", presumably a play on "networking" and "cat walking"...(cue slow head shake and simultaneous eye roll)

In the end, we were left with 3 or 4 attractive model-types, 4 ghetto ass hoes who are sure to bring the sass, and about 5 or 6 SOMEONE-LIED-TO-YOUs. Ty-overs be damned, a few of these leggy hoes require more than a celebrity-sized re-vamp... Might I suggest some Spackle and an industrial strength power sander?

And as a preemptive strike against the defenses' interrogation that is sure follow this post : No, I am not a model. No, I am not tall enough, beautiful enough, skinny enough, or photogenic enough. Yes, I do know models that are stunning and smart and humble. Yes, I am most likely jealous. And yes, it's pretty good from the cheap seats. However, if you sign up for insta-fame via reality TV, you've earned my opinion.

The 13 ANTM Finalists: (in order from "I'd Consider Killing Puppies To Look Like You" to "One Way Ticket Back To Shutter Island, If You Please)

1) Naduah: Raised in a religious cult... Ambiguous dialect... Rocks that shaved head

2) Simone: Sorority girl like whoa... But when she shuts her mouth, stunning...

3) Ren: Edgy, bizarre, hard ass... That girl I've always longed to be... sans hairy pits...

4) Tatianna: Boring as all hell... but models don't have to be interesting, right?... they're just pretty to look at...

5) Jessica: Pregnant at 16... married at 17... Corn fed and innocent... Can't wait to watch her squirm...

6) Brenda: Saucy little minx... Tyra was sure to de-sexify her by lopping off all her fiery locks...

7) Alexandra: Our token "Plus-Size" contestant... and by that, of course they mean, "The Size of a Normal Human Being, save the 6 extra inches vertically"... Still waiting to see if she can pull it out in the clutch...

8) Krista: EAT A PIZZA!... this bitch needs some nourishment... and an attitude adjustment...

9) Raina: Eyes to kill for... Eyebrows to scrub clean every greasy pan in the Tri-State area...

10) Anslee: She got a little ghetto in her... Already making waves... And doesn't exactly have the goods to back her words...

11) Alasia: 90 minutes of her and I'm ready to crawl right out of my skin... Irritates the shit out of me... Too much of everything... Too loud... Too obnoxious... Too dramatic... Too hood rat...Too shrill... Too fake... TOO MUCH!

12) Gabrielle: Straight outta Compton... or St. Louis, whatev... She live the thug life and she ain't ashamed... This is the girl you become friends with in high school so a) she won't kick yo ass and b) she will cut a bitch on your behalf...

13) Angelea: And I'm terrified... TERR.I.FIED... This is the girl you just pray NEVER notices you in high school, 'cause you so much as smile crooked and you're swallowing teeth... Also, Thank You, Tyra, this one is sure to bring hours of viewing giddiness...

I complain on... Mondays?

2010-03-08T19:09:00.000-08:00

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

So I'm a smidge late with this week's sardonic rampage...

I'm sorry. Sick as a dog, I was yesterday. And the post would surely have been about my inability to function as a normal human being and/or breathe from the nose...

But never fear, complaining is here...

And this week I bitch about The Death of the Jingle (I will not lump The Death of the Sitcom Theme Song in with it, as I feel they are equally deserving of their own posts... But I assure you, next week, it's on)

That said, what the hell happened to The Jingle?!?!

When I was growing up there was a catchy little ditty attached to nearly every product out there, from tampons to Big Wheels... a no nonsense way to cement the necessity of useless objects into the minds of easily influenced and greedy crumb-snatchers... I miss that shit. I miss humming along. I miss the camaraderie of a spontaneous Jingle Sing-Along. I miss "Honey Combs big, yeah, yeah, yeah, It's not small, no, no, no"...

Who are these elitist bastards that deemed The Jingle unnecessary? Because they are morons. I hardly know what's for sale anymore. And perhaps this is why our economy has been in the shitter for the past... well, a while... (I won't even pretend to know when the recession actually began, I can't even remember what I wore yesterday)

The Jingle was the cornerstone of my shopping experience. I knew what "it" was, where "it" was, how cleverly "it" rhymed with other words, and how much I couldn't live without "it". Now I'm just some asshole roaming the aisles of the local Target, frazzled by the abundance of product that I've never heard of... It blows, and it's not very effective.

I have an impressive ability to recall the most worthless of information... always have. Useless trivia is my forte. And therefore, a large portion of my brain capacity is filled with Jingles throughout the ages. Nostalgic reminders of a simpler time.

Here are some of my faves:

You'll love the first bite, outrageously right, new Kudos granola snacks. Nutty or fudge. Chocolate chip or peanut butter. Kudos I love you over any other. Electrifyin'. Granolafyin'. Simply nutritious. Outrageously delicious! Kudos, I'm yours! I'm yours! Kudos, I'm yours!

'Tato Skins got baked potato appeal, cuz they're made with potatoes and skins that are real. Cheddar Cheese and Bacon, Sour Cream and Chives, blend it all together, you won't believe your eyes, they're made with potatoes and skins that are real, new Keebler 'Tato Skins, baked potato appeal.

Lite Brite, Lite Brite, turn on the magic of colored light, Lite Brite, Lite Brite, make a face to light the night.

O.B., it's the way you should be, keep it simple, and set yourself free, from the extras, that you really don't need, just try O.B. and you'll see.

Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun... and/or Big Mac, Filet o' Fish, Quarter Pounder, French Fry, Icy Coke, Cold Shake, Sundaes, and Apple Pies, you deserve a break today, so go to the one and only place, McDonald's...

And those are just the first five that elbowed their way to the front of my noggin'... there are thousands more where that came from... and all I'm sayin' is that my step has a little less skip in it then it did in the days of The Jingle... It is possible this is because I've aged 20 years, but I'm pinning on the asstards that put the kibosh on the only redeemable part of the commercial break...

Furthermore, what fate did The Jingle writer's of America face? They were already hacks. Failed musician types, hardly able to hold their heads up as they walked down the street, with the knowledge of their own spineless inclination to sell-out for a quick buck. Where did they go? Back to Mom's musty basement? Drafting kitschy, poetic personal ads, cutting themselves, and chugging Mountain Dew in the dark? Where lie the long forgotten Jingle Artists of our time? And did they ever receive the respect that was their due?

R.I.P. Jingle Geniuses... R.I.P.

I'm pissed on your behalf.

Slowly, yes, but surely all the same...

2010-03-05T17:59:00.000-08:00

I'm so happy it's 5 Question Friday... you have no idea... I'm fresh out of clever topics lately... or even remotely riveting thoughts... So I thank Mama M for her consistency and reliability on Fridays, you are saving my blog's ass!

On to the goods...

1. What's your guilty pleasure?

The correct answer is Reality TV... and shoes... and brownies... and bubble baths... and celebrity gossip... If there is exists the possibility of combining any or all of them, buckle up!

2. What is your favorite TV series?

Booooooooo! Unfair question! I do not play favorites with my televised entertainment... I have much love to give... But here are a few...

*Non-Reality*

ALIAS (RIP)

Felicity (RIP)

The Office

Flash Forward

Grey's Anatomy

Sex & The City (RIP)

Friday Night Lights

Brothers & Sisters

Gossip Girl

Vampire Diaries (yes, I'm that girl)

The O.C. (RIP)

*Reality*

The Bachelor

The Bachelorette

The Biggest Loser

American Idol

The Bad Girls Club

Top Chef

America's Next Top Model

Project Runway

To name a select few...

PS- How do I have time to live?

3. Can you speak any foreign languages?

Obvy... I speak fluent Pig Latin, elementary Sign Language, and broken high school French... I'm super worldly.

4. How many pairs of shoes do you own?

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha (breath)...

Bless your heart... like I even know...

5. What's your favorite kind of M&M's...peanut, almond, straight up regular, etc.?

I'm gonna give a shout out to Peanut Butter M&Ms...

and furthermore, big ups to the fella who decided that chocolate and peanut butter in one delicious mouthful was the stuff of gods. Without you, my thighs would be virtually non-existent... So Holla Atcha Boy!

Recount DEMANDED...

2010-03-02T19:33:00.000-08:00

Wait... there's only one vote?!?! We don't get a say in this calamity? After all the Monday nights and clever insults we've forsaken, the hours of Photoshop genius, and THIS is how it ends?

As if from the fiery pits of hell emerged a lone transvestite to sweep one sniveling commercial pilot off his feet, so it was in the final chapter of The Bachelor: On The Wings of Love. As inadequate a stag as there ever were, Jake Pavelka, lowered to one knee and proposed marriage to Vincent "Vienna" Girardi on national television last night, inducing the collective dry heave heard round the world.

__________________________________________________________________

Dear Jake,

Congratulations, you are officially the douchiest douche that EVER douched!

After months of chagrin, slowly and painfully banishing 24 women from The Bachelor Estate, 24 women that wouldn't look twice at your stupid ass if you weren't on TV, 24 women that out-hot you by a factor of 10... (I'm even lumping Jessie in there), you have made the WORST possible decision conceivable.

And because you are saving your purity for your wedding night, and therefore might not catch a pre-marital glimpse of your gal's bologna pony, I feel it my duty to inform you that YOU CHOSE A DUDE.

You are an asstard,

Jill
__________________________________________________________________

Dear Tenley,

You irritate the shit out of me. That is not the way your voice really sounds. You know it, I know it, the whole of this great country knows it. All the cutesy Disney princess shit that oozes from your pores is kryptonite to me.

I never, and I mean EVER, fathomed a situation where I would be rooting for you. And yet, as I sat watching, mouth agape, as you exited the helicopter first, there was an apocalyptic smell in the air. This could only have meant one of two things: Jake had lost his damn mind, or the end of the world was upon us... Turns out, both were true.

The only solace I can provide you in this time of utter confusion and disbelief is this... I'm fairly certain you and Jake are related. So kudos on avoiding a life of incestuous cuddling and chromosomally challenged offspring. You dodged a bullet, my friend.

Now go blow glitter out yo' ass,

Jill
____________________________________________________________________

Dear Vincent,

I can call you Vincent, right? I feel like I've earned at least that.

Week after week, I was forced to stomach your bullshit antics and your atrocious weave. The false-faced charade of femininity. The web of lies you entangled yourself in. Often humbled by the grace the other women exerted by squashing their palpable urge to kick your ass back to the swamp. Occasionally pleased that your new fiance was dense enough to offer you rose after cursed rose, presenting me something to blog about the next day on a shiny little platter.

I officially got nervous about three weeks ago... when you made the final four... hoping against hope that there was some sort of mistake, that Jake was not the incredible ignoramus I had originally pegged him for. My darkest fears were confirmed last night... Jake was everything I had made him out to be, and oh, so much more...

And then, an epiphany.

You're engaged to Jake Pavelka...

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha (labored breath) hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha (single tear)
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...

You both lose.

Oh, and please tell your dad that giving his own daughter a promise ring is not even a little bit appropriate.

~Jill

PS- You're a huge bitch.

____________________________________________________________________

Dear Ali,

Buckle up, hooker, you're next.

Xoxo,

Jill

I usually complain on Sundays...

2010-02-28T19:05:00.000-08:00

I can't complain today...

There is an excess of negative energy in me right now, I am drowning in it. So I am choosing not to strap on the cinder blocks and sink any deeper...

Instead I shall focus on the things I am grateful for... because that's what it's really all about anyway...

~Ro~

My best friend of 16 years... who ALWAYS has my back... who ALWAYS takes me in... who ALWAYS knows what to say... who ALWAYS helps me up after I've been knocked down... who ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS encourages me to be the very best version of me...

~Lola-Bell~

My "wifey"... my soul sister... who listens when I speak... who reminds me how to laugh again... who's beauty is infinite both inside and out... who always has a shoulder to cry on or a couch to sleep on or a clever insult aimed at whoever has made me sad...who's just like me, and I like her, and no one quite like us...

~Mags~

Me, just 6 years ago... who doesn't know her own strength even as I'm awed by it... who is a shining star in my sky... who speaks with reckless abandon and honesty... who knows just what I need and just when I need it... who isn't afraid of being exactly who she is... who loves unconditionally even when it hasn't been earned but especially when it has...

~My Mama~

My rock... who only wants me to be happy no matter what... who is ALWAYS cheering me on and holding me up... who is the strongest person I know...

~The Bachelor Finale~

Enough said...

~A Job Interview~

at a theater... NOT at a doctor's office... and not a movie theater, a REAL theater...

~A New Apartment~

with "wifey"... and hardwood floors... and a pool... and a view of the water... downtown...

~Cherry Blossoms~

blooming... which are just the happiest trees out there...

~Hope~

...and faith.

That it will get better... and that it's not really that bad...

and that

"Whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should..." ~Max Ehrmann

~Compassion~

and human decency... holding doors for strangers... picking up a toy that someone else's child dropped in the street and running to catch up to them and give it back... buying Girl Scout Cookies to send overseas... daily phone calls from friends just to "check in"... helping an elderly person up the stairs...

~My Fabulous Shoe Collection~

because they really are just FABULOUS...

~Creative Outlets~

acting... writing... singing... dancing... how sad a life without art might be...

~Laughter~

tear inducing... belly clutching... cheek hurting... laughter... and all those who bring that into my life... including me...

~Chick Flicks~

hope for the hopeless... that the fairytale really does exist... and that we all deserve it...

~Cab Drivers~

who tell stories in broken English... about how they can't watch people dance... because the music consumes them... and they just HAVE to grab the closest lady and hit the floor... as if a force more powerful than them is at hand...

~Forensic Shows~

because they are FASCINATING... and they keep my head occupied and searching and learning... because when all else fails there is Investigation Discovery Channel and truTV...