Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Enough with Fire Crotch Bomb Guy

Is anyone else completely sick of the excessive media attention of Mr Nigerian Bomb-in-my-britches? Granted this could have been a total nightmare, but it wasn't. He failed and if we keep obsessing over it the terrorists get the attention they so desperately want. Seriously, if I see one more blurry shot of him being apprehended in his dirty white Hanes tee shirt, I'm gonna lose my shit. Its 2009, didn't any of the passengers whip out their iPhones or Blackberry and get a better pic? I thought by now the entire ordeal would be up on You Tube set to some old Gangsta Rap.

That being said, naturally I have to put my own two-cents in about this crazy mo-fo.

1) Rumor has it Mr Hot Pants was educated at a London University and came from a wealthy family (although his dad was a Nigerian Banker which is code for "Spam email con man who sent you an email about a dead relative leaving you millions but first send him your life savings in unmarked bills). Had the wannabe bomber grown up in a hot desert cave without the finer things in life (you know like VH1 reality TV and the Bedazzler), I might understand the appeal of sticking 80 grams of exploding powder in my Fruit of the Looms, but this guy had it made, which is just plain crazy.I have a degree from the Univ of Arizona with a degree in Radio Television but I don't care if George Clooney promised to marry me for eternity in the afterlife, I'm pretty sure nothing could convince me that shoving a stick of TNT up my yahoo was a good and noble idea.

2) I'm not exactly how brainwashed he had to be in order to actually be convinced to put a bomb in his buns, but I can't help but wonder if on the way to the airport and during the 2-hour plus check in time that International Flights usually take he was praying to Allah (or whoever) "Please don't let me fart, please don't let me fart."I can guarantee you he didn't spend his pre-boarding time having the Burrito Platter at the Amsterdam airport's Chili's.

But enough about hot pant bomber CNN, I want my fun end-of-the-year moments. And for the love of God Larry King can we drop the three day marathon of Ben Stein and Ron Paul arguing about airport screenings and get to the bottom of Brittany Murphy's death already? Thank you!

TV Wasteland Part Deux

Can someone tell me why (at last count) I have over 400 channels of cable television yet day after day I find myself watching iCarly with my kids out of sheer desperation for just an iota of entertainment. Of course every once in a while I catch a preview of a show that I have somehow missed and say aloud "Why didn't anyone tell me Steven Seagal Lawman is an actual show?"

Needless to say I am counting down the days until American Idol and Celebrity Rehab part III (Heidi Fleiss, McKenzie Phillips and Tom Sizemore in one scrumptidalicious sugar-coated train wreck) come back in a few weeks. Even the new Bachelor is looking good right about now. Yikers!

In the meantime I am still obsessed with "Hoarders." I can't explain it, but nothing sucks me in more than a family of people living in a pile of their own crap and an assortment of animal feces. Inevitably, 99% of the Hoarders are either morbidly obese, over the age of 70 (often both) or crazy cat ladies. Cat people and Hoarders go hand and hand like peanut butter and jelly. I can't even count how many times the poor bastards from 1-800-JUNK have shown up with shovel in hands and scooped up cat skeletons - poor things usually flattened in between a Teddy Ruxpin and a box full of tax records from 1972. One Hoarder - an educated lady in her late sixties actually lived in her kitchen, strapped to a chair so she wouldn't slide and drown under a pile of Sunny D bottles and El Pollo Loco wrappers (don't even ask me about the diapers that she wore and disposed of by throwing into a pile in the corner by the linen closet for 2 years straight).

Holy shit....the new tv season really can't come fast enough.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Bad Santas

As Christmas approaches, what better way to celebrate than with pictures of Evil Mall Santas and their helpless victims:

Some of these pictures will haunt my dreams. Ho Ho Ho indeed. For more hilarous pictures of evil, drunk and perverted Santas, visit
Merry Christmas Everyone!

-Val & Parker

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

(Not so) Skinny Jeans

It's usually after Christmas when I feel enormous, however this morning I hit a new low and realized maybe the 4 large molasses cookies I inhaled yesterday was not such a good idea. I put on my Gap straight leg (i.e. "skinny") jeans and proceeded to stretch out their fresh-out-of-the-dryer stiffness with a quick hop and squat thigh spread. Immediately my body channeled Lou Ferrigno as the Hulk circa 1978 bursting out of his farm clothes. The result:

I soon my be stylin in DW's Gap 1969's if I don't put down the egg nog.


Saturday, December 19, 2009

Christmas Revelry (and all that Jazz)

This year (once again) I just can't get into the Christmas Spirit. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Macy's has had it's Christmas shit out since Halloween, or that the economy is down the tubes and spending money like Micheal Jackson at "Statues R Us" in Las Vegas is just not in the cards for me this year. Even today as I ran errands and the soft rock station played the top 101 Christmas Songs of all times I felt nothing....absolutely nothing.

Then I went to the salon and as I was waiting in the lobby a group of Christmas Carolers sauntered in like it was 1899. We're talking grown adults dressed to the hilts in top hats and long flowing skirts quite possibly made out of clearance bedspreads from Kohls. Of course since it is a chilly California winter day (80 degrees and sunny) they completed the look with green and red capes. I honestly can't imagine what horrible and cruel twist of fate caused these four uber-nerds to think it was fun to spend their days off dressed like extras from "Little House on The Prairie" and singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in operatic overtures. As they stood there with shit-eating grins singing so proudly (while the entire Salon ignored them or stared sadly with that "I'm so embarrassed for you" look), I of course frantically texted Parker and tried to figure out a way to take a picture of them without anyone noticing. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw it....the elder Frau-in-a-bonnet was holding a basket and inside I saw two $1 dollar bills. Oh my lord, I thought....they are singing for tips! Have they not grasped the concept they are in Southern California and not Mayberry? Eventually, they sauntered out of the salon (tipless), skirts bustling and top hats firmly on the gentlemens' heads, for a split fleeting second I almost felt a twinge of Christmas spirit. But then I came to my senses and laughed at what dorks they were. And yes, if you we wondering, I am one of those people who make fun of others in order to make myself feel better.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

There Are No Words

I came across this picture and I think it might be the greatest family portrait of all times. Seriously this is no "Olan Mills" shit, this is High Art. Other than that there really are no words:

Reclycled Post: Christmas Goodies

Between shopping, baking cookies and just drowning in Christmas Delight (i.e praying we had anti-anxiety medication), we haven't had time to bitch about anything, so in keeping with the Christmas spirit of "re-giving", here is a recycled post from last year. Cheers!

Last night I was watching TV and a commercial came on for "Chia Pet". These things have been around since the beginning of time (ok, 1982) and yet I don't know anyone who has ever owned one. Maybe I'll forgo the homemade fudge and just get all my loved one's Chia Pets instead. They really are the gift that keeps on giving (providing you water your Chia Ram every week).

Better yet, whatever happened to Ronco, the company that brought us the following Christmas gift gems:
  • "Mr. Microphone". I actually got this for Christmas one year. What a piece of shit.
  • "Glass Froster" (because putting a beer mug in the freezer for 10 minutes by yourself is such a pain in the ass)
  • "Smokeless Ashtray" (something my parents desperately needed when I was growing up. )
  • The uber-genius "Inside the Shell Egg Scrambler" (because we all know scrambling an egg ouselves can lead to carpal tunnel syndrom).
  • Ronco (or was it K-Tel?)also put out amazing album compilations full of the hottest Disco hits of the all time. I actually got the following album for my birthday in the mid-70's:

 - Star <span class= "Star Trackin' 76" was on constant rotation on my portable "Winnie the Pooh" turntable. I even put a round ball of tinfoil atop one of my mom's knitting needles, creating a make-shift microphone, so I could play DJ and announce the songs as they were being played. Just call me a young Samantha Ronson (but not as butch).

Anyone over the age of 35 will probably remember these fantastic Ronco ads from Christmases past. If you've never had the pleasure of actually seeing a Ronco product in action, you are in for a treat (check out the duds too - awesome):

Mr. Microphone
I Love the black guy who can simaltaneously boogie-on-down that steep hill, sing and carry a mini boom box all at the same time. I also just found out that the guy at the beginning of the commercial (the winner who actually pulls the Mr. Microphone out of his coat jacket) is none other than Nat - the owner of the Peach Pit on Beverly Hills 90210 ( I know, TMI). That is one talented thespian.

The "Auto Cup" was the shit, not a drop of vodka would spill from that full-proof device. But it was the smokeless ashtray that I so coveted as a child (you'd understand if you've ever stepped foot in my childhood home). Unfortunately the $16.88 price tag was too steep for my 11-year old budget.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Oh Honey! You Shouldn't Have.

CBS has been running the following Public Service Announcement for the past few weeks. Maybe you've had the pleasure of seeing it:

I don't know who this wise guy thinks he is telling my husband to give me a Pap Smear for Christmas, but I'm guessing he's never had the pleasure of having an ice-cold metal speculum shoved up his privates while the doctor makes small talk and then scrapes your innards something resembling a butter knife. Call me old fashioned but I'll take a bottle of CVS brand bubble bath or even one of those Zales gold medallion necklaces that say #1 MOM in lieu of a Pap this Christmas. And if by chance (and that would be like a one-in-a-billion chance) my husband does pick up the phone and call my Doctor (no worries, he has no idea who our doctor is or how to even get a hold of such a person) to schedule a Pap Smear for my holiday cheer, I will gladly return the favor with a Colonoscopy (sans the Valium) for Valentine's Day.


Saturday, December 5, 2009

(The Final) Tiger Watch

I promise this is the last post about Tiger (unless his wife murders him with a golf club, then all bets are off). But seriously, he seemed like such a nice guy. Who knew he was a sex maniac who would put David Duchovny and Hugh Hefner to shame. And can someone explain to me why his ex-lovers all of the sudden need lawyers? Of course my favorite tidbit is the revelation that he likes to "do Ambien" before sex. Really, "Do Ambien"? Ohh Tiger, you are a madman. Is it Tiger Woods or Mick Jagger in the 1970's? Because nothing says "wild and crazy" like popping a sleeping pill before doing the nasty. I've never had an Ambien (surprisingly) but imagine if I did I would be asleep in seconds with tossled hair and a river of drool leaking out the side of my mouth. Tiger, if that makes you hot then more power to you I guess. Meanwhile, your cute blonde wife is a freaking saint for not cutting off your nuts while you sleep.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Once, Twice, Three Times a Skanky Lady (And My Missed Opportunity with Tiger)

When the Tiger Woods "Ooops I crashed my Escalade into a fire hydrant and tree at 2:30 am" scandal came out a few days ago, I honestly didn't give a rat's ass. Then the slutty New York fame whore in the Ray Bans came forth and hired lawyer Gloria Allred (a surefire way to ensure you will be a guest on Larry King Live and Good Morning America). Even then, I was still a little bored by the whole scandal. But when that skanky girl from "Tool Academy" came forth, I was all over that hot mess. And just today, yet another girl came forth, totalling 3 so far. Ironically all those bitches work in the food/beverage industry.

Why do famous men always seem to cheat with skanks and then, to top it off, send them horny me-love-you-long-time texts and voice mails? Did Tiger really thinks a 26-year-old cocktail waitress who has appeared on "Tool Academy" had the ability to be discreet? Apparantly Tiger did not take "Common Sense 101" during his stint at Stanford.Of course all this covorting with waitresses makes me wonder if maybe I could have had a chance with Tiger back in the day.

The year was 1992 and I was a 22 year old waitress at a upscale Country Club in Arizona. Tiger was a 16-year old Junior Golf Champion playing in a tournament.  During their lunch break, the junior players had a choice between a Hot Dog and a Hamburger. I remember it like it was yesterday: (insert the sound of harps here): Tiger ordered the Hot Dog - and as he did so, I'm pretty sure he gave me the once-over in my hard to resist waitress uniform consisting of a khaki skirt that landed mid calf, white oxford shirt with a chili-pepper Bolo Tie (remember, this was Arizona afterall) topped off with the ever-so-sexy Leggs Suntan pantyhose and brown loafers. Had I known he was such an easy catch I most certainly would have unbuttoned my oxford and let that Bolo tie lay suggestively smack in the middle of my size AAA breasts, hiked up that stiff khaki skirt and whispered in his ear, "Here's your wiener Tiger. Do you like older women? Grrrr." And maybe, just maybe me and Gloria Allred would be dining at Spago this very minute negotiating my story with The Sun.  Oh, so many missed opportunities....


PS - for those of you Eastcoasters who are wondering what the hell is a Bolo Tie? Here's a picture of copper plated, chili-pepper bolo tie, clearly made by someone deep in the depths of hell.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Carbs, Skinny Jeans and Kathy Griffin

Every Thanksgiving is a 'free pass' to eat like you have a terminal illness and could die at any second. This year was no exception. While most people were having seconds of that delicious juicy turkey, I was saying (i.e. mumbling through a mouthful of half-chewed food like an old fat English King) "Screw the turkey and bring on thirds and fourths of anything laden with carbs". Garlic-cheddar mashed potatoes? Yes please. Candied Yams with enough brown sugar to put me in a diabetic coma until I'm 73? Bring it on. Stuffing so chock full of stuff that it is guaranteed to clog even the purest arteries? You betcha. Top it off with a few glasses of Pinot Grigio, some dinner rolls and a slice of pie and the next day I looked like Tony Soprano with a major case of the PMS bloats. Naturally this happens to be the same day my husband and I have a much-needed "date night" up in LA. 

As I prepared for our date night (we had tickets to see Kathy Griffin at Gibson Amphitheatre at Universal City Walk - btw thank you "C" for the amazing tickets!) I put on my biggest pair of "skinny jeans" (an oxymoron in my case for sure) and a really cute BCBG button down black dressy shirt and as I did a slo-mo turn in the full length mirror, I said to myself, "You look totally cute....for a 5 month pregnant woman." I actually considered just letting it all hang out and gently carassing my belly throughout the night so that people would walk by me and think "what a cute pregnant lady" until I realized that they wouldn't think I was so cute carrying that 32 oz plastic cup of beer in the lobby of the theatre. So I sucked it in and got my Tony Soprano ass in the car and headed up to LA.

As we arrived to Universal City Walk, surrounded by every tourist in the LA Metropolitan area, my husband looked at me and said, "Are those jeans supposed to be that tight?" Ok, Really? Not the best way to start the night. He made it worse with the immediate 'shit-I-need-to-save-my-ass' comment: "No, I think you look hot....No you look sexy!" "Hot? Sexy?" First of all it's  not 1978 and you are no Rod Stewart, mister. So please just quit while you are behind and lets go get a drink before the show.

We ended up at the Saddleback Ranch bar (its the famous bar with the mechanical bull in the middle) and I ordered a margarita on the rocks. What I got was a freaking Carafe of Margarita (pictured below). I know, I it famed landscape photographer Ansel Adams or me? 

Now I know why no one has any inhibitions about riding the Mechanical Bull like a drunken fool - they serve their patrons more alcohol then David Hasselhoff drinks in a month. I sucked down that monster like it was a tall cool lemonade (in fact I think it was - that $15 sucker was 99% sweet and sour mix with maybe a thimble of tequila). Good thing because had that been a carafe of a strongly made margarita I most certainly would have forgone the Kathy Griffin show in favor of stripping down to my "skinny jeans and bra" and rode that bull with my muffin top a jiggling like mad, all the while screaming to my husband, "How's this for sexy?"

We made it to the Kathy Griffin show where my husband, one of the only straight guys in the joint, met up with me in our seats carrying a giant plate of nachos and two humongous beers - probably just to establish that he is all 100% manly-man. In fact I think he even farted a few times just to mark his territory - although he adamantly denied it later.) She was great as always but I have to admit that when her show ended at 10:30 the only thing I could think of was "Shit, I'm not going to get to bed before 11:45 pm - I'll never recover!"

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

That's Hot

I was cleaning the house today, in preparation of Thanksgiving and listening to the 70's channel on my satellite music station when I looked up from my mopping and came face to face with this amazing flash-from-the-past  picture. I immediately had to take a snapshot with my cellphone:

For those of you who may not be familiar with the Rhythm and Blues (i.e. Disco) sounds of the 70's, this hot group of studs are known as the "Ohio Players". And while the Ohio Players are most famous for their one-hit wonder "Rollercoaster' they should have been known world-wide for their sense of style. Sure the 70's were all about shimmer and spandex but Ohio Players have taken it to a whole new level.

The hunkiest of the group has to be the guy on the left. Who knew satin dolphin shorts, spandex hose, a half-shirt and black knee high boots could look so breathtaking on a man of that stature. The porn stash and serial killer eyeglasses complete the look. Did he lose a bet?

The guy next to him clearly just got back from a Jazzercise class, or a bath house in San Francisco. And then there is Mr. Fabulous in the full body spandex jumpsuit with bejeweled collar. Of course no one is paying any attention to his collar because of the enormous "elephant-in-the-room" bulge fighting with all its might to break free of its spandex prison. As for his Afro? It makes Lionel Richie look like an amateur. The band also features a part-time boxer, a gigolo/extra from "Boogie Nights", a guy with epaulets the size of shovels a black polo player with graying beard, a.k.a. "the conservative one."

Clearly there was a time when we looked at these guys and didn't bat an eye. I can't help but wonder if 30 years in the future, my daughter will be pointing and laughing at me in a photo wearing my "boyfriend jeans" and long sleeve plain black Gap tee that I wear three times a week (when I'm not in drawstring sweats).

Incidentally, the Ohio Song that was playing while this picture flashed on the screen was called "Too Tight." Too tight indeed.

You Know You're Getting Old When...

  • You share a birthday with "Sesame Street"
  • You have a hot flash while Christmas Shopping for relatives in fu*cking "Hollister" (I'm never going there again)
  • You wake up at 3 am with your very first hemorrhoid. Holy shit how do you people deal with multiple of these.
  • You can't get out of a sports car without grunting, moaning and wincing with back pain
And so my 41st year begins!

Friday, November 20, 2009

Where the Hell is My Butterfly Confetti?

It's no secret that Mariah Carey is a diva with crazy demands everywhere she goes. It might even be justified if it were say, 1995. But someone needs to remind Mariah that it's 2009, she is 40 and it's time to grow the fu*k up. First and foremost, she should start by eliminating all spandex mini dresses from her closet. Everyone knows that Heather Locklear is the only over-40 year old who can get away with spandex minis. But what really chaps my hide is her recent list of demands during a Christmas tree lighting in London. The fact that she is willing to do a Christmas Tree Lighting at a Westfield mall should be her first clue that high-priced demands might be unreasonable. But we all know that Mariah lives in a world of sparkle, butterflies and free flowing champagne, so it makes perfect sense that she demanded the following for her mall appearance:
  • One hundred white doves and 20 white kittens surrounding her (health officials said no)
  • Indoor fireworks display
  • Pink Carpet and Pink Podium
  • Sparkly wand (to wave at her minions?)
  • 80 security guards
  • Pink and white butterfly-shaped confetti
  • $330,000 nightclub after-party, decorated with white roses, white drapes and vanilla candles
  • A chauffeured Rolls Royce 
  • $80,000 worth of Angel Champagne
You could cut this list in half and it still would be completely ridiculous. What the hell is "Angel Champagne" and can it possibly beat Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill in a taste test? Doesn't Mariah know that doves shit everywhere and kittens by nature are feral and at the first chance they get will make a run for the nearest 'Hot Topic', curl up and fall asleep in the "Team Edward" tee shirt bin? The sparkly magic wand I totally get because who wouldn't want a wand during an appearance at a mall?

Of course this got me thinking about all the demands I might have should someday I be lucky enough to be crowned master of ceremonies at a highway opening or the host a ribbon cutting ceremony at the local Quiznos. So, here it goes: Below are my dressing room/demands for any future appearances:
  • A leopard-print Snuggie bedazzled with 5,000 Swarovski Crystals
  • A 7-11 Slurpee Machine (with both Coca-Cola and Wild Cherry flavors)
  • Neil Diamond's Greatest Hits and Men At Work's first album on constant rotation
  • One unused, pristine "Inside the Egg Egg Scrambler" from Ronco (just to mess with them)
  • A Sharper Image $3500 Massage Chair
  • A bottle of Smirnoff Pomegranite Vodka (to mix with the Slurpee)
Click here to follow us on Twitter

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Body Fusion Is My Kind of Workout

I've always despised exercise. And then I turned 40. I could probably eat nothing but celery and ice for a week and still gain weight, so I caved in and did what I've feared for years....started to exercise regularly. And while I have to admit I am actually starting to kind of like my daily 2-3 mile walks, if I had my druthers I would get in a time machine and head back to the eighties where working out was more about brightly colored leotards and matching leg warmers and making sure you pile a crapload of Ocean Blue Cover Girl eye shadow on before heading out to Jazzersize.

Anyhoo, below is one of my favorite SNL Digital Shorts from a few years ago. Because this is how exercise should be done.

Rollercoaster and the Dog Shit Navajo Project

Because it isn't enough that I spend approx 3 hours every night helping my middle school-aged children with their mind boggling homework (yet another reason why there are so many alcoholic mothers), yesterday Daniel came home and told me he has to build a mother-fricking "Rollercoaster" for science class. This seemed daunting but not totally impossible (visions of toothpicks and popsicle sticks immediately came to mind) that is until he added it had to be a working Rollercoaster at least a meter high and strong enough for a small marble to complete the course without stopping. Oh and lest we forget, he also needs to do a verbal presentation with the formulas and physics explaining how the marble is able to manuever around the PVC track and at what degree  I'm sorry, but can someone tell me when eighth graders became experts in transportation engineering?

All this "rollercoaster hoopla" brought me back to my oh-so-important Navajo presentation in the 4th grade. While my memory is a bit foggy I do know that it involved me working diligently for a week straight putting together some sort of mud and stick hut along with a 15 page construction paper masterpiece documenting the life of the Navajo people. I also remember the panic that overcame me when the morning it was due, the Safeway paperbag that I had carefully put the project in was nowhere to be seen. The panic turned to shock and disgust when my mom took a drag from her Marlboro Light and calmly told me that the day before she had scooped up the dog poop in the backyard and put it all in a paper bag. A short trip to the garbage cans and lo and behold, there was my project, buried under a week's worth of our FOUR German Shepherd's dog shit. When you are in 4th grade and your project is buried under a pile of dog doo-doo, its practically the end of the world. Sure the mature approach would have been to have my mom write a note to the teacher and re-do the entire project, but the threat of turning it in late was too much to bear. Mom put down her cigarrette long enough to wipe off the poop with a moist paper towl (I can still see the grease spots that tainted my beautiful Navajo report) while I ran reconnaissance by getting her Price Club sized bottle of White Shoulders and spraying the bejesus out of that project. I think I got a "B".

Friday, November 13, 2009

My "Are You Fricking Kidding Me?s" of the week

Yesterday my daughter came home from school and informed me that her middle school is having (another) fund-raising event at their school. Not satisfied with whoring the pre-teens out in October by hitting up their relatives and every family friend with magazine sales, the school has equipped them with a War and Peace sized packet chock full of delicious factory made tubs of Cookie Dough for the rock bottom price of $16 each. $16 for a half gallon of lard speckled with chocolate chips? Are you Fricking Kidding me? While I appreciate the high kids get from selling $700 worth of cookie dough just to win something like a miniature univeral remote control (which retails for about $7.99 and can be found at the CVS "As Seen On TV" section), there is no way in hell we are shipping out the Cookie Dough Catalogs to our unsuspecting friends and family.

This week we celebrated Vetran's day, which was all the more emotional after what happened at Ft. Hood last week. The fact that "Major Fucktard" managed to kill so many people yet somehow survive in a place where almost everyone is packing heat is bad enough. Yesterday it came to light that he had his own personal cards (I guess that's like a "business" card, but for personal reasons, because Major Fucktard was smooth like that.) with his name and digits on it and the words (or the initials or some fucked up message) that read "Soldier of Allah." Hmm, red flag much? While the 17-year-old at Kinkos who processed his order was probably too stoned to bat an eye at that strange yet sublte remark, wouldn't someone else on the receiving end of that card think, "Wow, he's not only an American Soldier, but a Soldier of Allah as well. Conflict of interest? Could be!" Don't get me wrong, there are many peaceful Muslims, but when put the concept of war and religion together (on a businees card no less) you might be a fricking psychopath. On a side note, while I don't imagine a lot of military personnel read this web site (except my retired Air Force dad- who does occasionally read my snarky view of the world) - I would like to personally thank each and every person who has ever fought for our country.

Levi Johnson is officially the new Jon Gosslein (there simply is not enough room on this planet for the media to possibly be interested in both these idiots at the same time, right?). I love how Levi has stressed that his Playgirl layout will be "Tasteful." I can honestly say that I have never known one woman who has EVER purchased a copy of Playgirl. Does Levi know that he's actually posing for the gayest of the gay men?  Hot off the 'Playgirl spread' news, 'The Insider' sent Levi to New York city for a whirlwind tour and makeover where Levi revealed excusivley to one of their douchebag reporters that (hold on to your horses...) he is writing a memoir! First of all, I hope to god that Chess King sweater he is wearing in the above picture was purchased before the 'The Insider' waste-of-time-and-money makeover. And as for his "book", my guess is it is a pop-up book with lots of camoflauge, cardboard AK49s and the words "like" and "ummm". He also shared his view on finding a new love in his life, Levi said, " Right now I’m really not looking for a girlfriend. When the time comes, obviously I want someone smart. I don’t want no ditsy girl. I don’t need a high-class woman.” I'm starting to miss Richard Heene and his balloon.
  • -Val

Monday, November 9, 2009

Nicholas Cage, I'd Like to Introduce You to Willie Aames.

Poor Nicholas Cage. Rumor has it that he is "broke", which compared to you and me probably means he has to downsize to 2 houses and probably has a measly $2 mill in the bank.

Broke or not, I think perhaps Nic might have made some reckless and rash purchases over the past few years. Hmmm, did you really need those two islands in the Caribbean? How's that Bavarian Castle in Germany working out for you? Not so well. Oh, too bad, luckily you have that back-up castle in England (a picture of said shitty castle is posted, above). I'm not even going to bring up your Newport Beach crack-shack on the beach, the property in Louisiana and throughout Europe or your tiny 9,000 square foot Beverly Hills abode. Oh, and god-forbid you might have to sell your million-dollar comic book collection, a necessary staple for any man in his late 40's. I could go on, but I think you get the picture.

Sure, he owes the IRS a paltry $6.5 million, but considering he got paid $20 million for the movie "Windtalkers", I'm guessing he could whip out another shitty "GhostRider" flick or even "National Treasure III" and pay them back with a cool $13.6 million to spare.

Not surprisingly, like most 9th-grade educated celebrities, Nicholas is blaming his new found poverty on his business manager. While I'm sure the business manager is partially to blame, perhaps Nicholas should have paused to wonder, "Sheesh, do I need that 2nd deserted island?"

Luckily, I have some good news for Nic....VH1 just aired one of their top-notch reality/documentaries called: "Broke and Famous: Willie Aames" (I swear to god I didn't watch one second of this travesty) and rumor has it he is studying to be a "financial planner." If we could just get Nic and Willie in a room together, I'm sure it would be a partnership made in celebrities-gone-awry heaven.

On a side note, Parker's older brother once guest starred on an episode of Eight is Enough and had the magical pleasure of playing a bully who gets to punch Willie Aames in the face. I tried to YouTube it, but remarkably no one has posted this historical television moment. 

We joined Twitter (although at our age it is tres confusing!) Follow us anyway by clicking HERE

Friday, November 6, 2009

The New Housewives Have Jumped the Shark (but I'm still watching...).

My family has staged an "intervention" and won't let me watch the "Real Housewives of Orange County", but unbeknownst to them I've TIVO'd it and watched under the cover of darkness (ok - during the day while kids are at school and Tom is working). Like a bad crack habit, I hate myself for doing it, but I can't help but watch. Below, a brief running commentary:

I see that Vicky is back with her two ungrateful annoying children, and goodie they are going to go skydiving. Yawn...unless the shoot fails to open, I have no interest in this.

Jeanna is back and her youngest son is now the "voice of reason" in this econimical downturn. Because 16 year old Orange County boys really do have a grasp of the way the world works when it comes to budgeting. Sadly his car (BMW? Audi?) needs a new clutch and Jeanna doesn't know where she's going to get the $2k to fix it. As she says this, I can't help but look at the pink-faced Rolex on her tanned sausage arms and yell "Ebay, Jeanna, Ebay."

Gretchen is cleaning out her garage. So good to know that the red Harley that her dying sugar daddy bought her over a year ago is still in the garage with a blanket over it. She later tells us (several times throughout the show) that her deceased 65 year-old fiance sent "Slade" to her from beyond the grave. Okay, honey, let me tell you something. I'm pretty sure that your dead ex fiance didn't send a creepy, opportunistic slut man, 20 years his junior to "save you from your sadness." And after seeing this, I say to my own husband: if you should ever pass on (god forbid) and decide to send a replacement man, please dear god don't send SLADE.

Tamra is back with her husband Simon (who finally is wearing something age appropriate that doesn't look like it just leaped of the Hot Topic clearance shelf). He is also about 400 times more grouchy this season, which I attribute to his poor decision to quit his high paying job as a Sales Manager at the local Mercedes Benz dealership and instead start his own homemade Tequila business. Another bright idea in today's economy.  As for Tamra, I don't have a lot to say about her  expect when she cries about how her house is now worth less that what she owes on it, I want to scream, "Welcome to the club, cutie." Tamra lives about a mile up the road from me and we are all pretty much f*!ked when it comes to house values right now.

Lastly is Lynn. Lynn is gloating about how successful her "Cuff" jewelry line is. Seriously? A successful Cuff line? I live in Orange County and have never seen anyone wear a cuff (except the time a few years back when Parker was reliving her teens and bought a terry-cloth cuff that said "BLink 182" on it. I gave her shit for weeks.) Meanwhile Lynn's "Cuffs" are a hot mess of leather and metal with rhinestone hearts glued on. Hey Lynn, a 1990's rap video called and wants its look back.

The show ends with a dinner and "trunk show" of Lynn's hideous cuffs at the St. Regis resort (who have obviously bartered a free dinner with unlimited Turning Leaf chardonnay for the ladies in return for some free publicity - hence the close up on the hotel's name about a dozen times). If anything, it was worth sitting through the entire show just to watch the blank expression on Lynn's face as Gretchen and Tamra hurl insults across the table at each other. The show abruptly comes to an end with the dreaded words "To Be Continued...."  but not before Jeanna interrupts Gretchen mid verbal bitch-slap to ask her, "Are you going to finish that Mac & Cheese?" Hey, in this economy you gotta get your meals when you can.

We are now on Twitter. Follow us, by clicking on

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

F#*k, its that time of year again, filled with more useless shit I don't need. Without sounding too Bah Humbug, I so want to say, "Hey everyone, DW and I aren't getting you any gifts and we don't want anything in return, so Feliz Navidad and see ya in 2010," while we high tail it to the One and Only Palmilla Resort in Cabo or even just hide out in our master bedroom and channel Priscilla and Elvis for a week and just lay in bed. Since we don't have kiddos and everyone else does, we are somewhat ass-whipped by it all and I know it's around the corner when those dreaded spread sheets from whatever junk my-little-Johnnie is selling shows up at our office.

My first purchase has been from a co-workers daughter for a can of Gummi Bears (everything else in the catalog was chocolate candy with the least cocoa content allowed by the FDA.) The Gummi Bears arrived and were actually tasteless and not "gummi" at all. Now really, how can you f- up a Gummi Bear?

Next up, wrapping paper from my nieces and nephews. Finally, something useful although more than likely the thickness of tissue paper. If I'm paying $16 for a roll of wrapping paper, it better be the thickness of a 2x4.

Yesterday, I was handed the piece de resistance  from a co-worker: a catalog of faux Yankee Candles her daughter is selling; as if the real Yankee candles aren't bad enough. She actually had smelling samples, the least offensive of which happened to be, "Apple Streusel". As I signed my order I noticed that my piece of shit vomit tart smelling candle will burn for 75 hours...Super.

Most of the people that I buy holiday "goodies" from support me clerically so saying "no" isn't really an option. So instead, here's a message to the people that come up with this shit to sell: I don't need a 5 pound tub of frozen cookie dough, a nitrate injected sausage log or fruit cake in any form. Put an Alessi Cheese Grater in the catalog for crying out loud. A Diptique Tuberose Candle would be lovely. Williams Sonoma frozen croissants perhaps?  These things I will gladly pay for. A wisk with a snowman handle? Not so much.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Shut up Chrissie Snow

Yesterday I was at Borders and in the "Best Sellers" section, I came across this dandy book:

I've really had it with High School educated celebrities trying to be experts in fields where they don't belong. Here's a "news flash," Suzanne Sommers, you are a has-been actress not a Guru so please don't try to sell us a book on how to cure/prevent cancer.  God forbid, If I ever get cancer, the first place I run to will NOT be the library to search under "Author: Suzanne Sommers" for advice. Given the choice, I'd rather take advice from a crack addict on skid row then succumb to the wisdom of someone known for playing Chrissie Snow on "Three's Company."

I realize that Suzanne is into health foods (but so is acclaimed Interrogative Medicine Doctor Andrew Weil, who's book I would read) and that she has probably done some research (clearly she's had the time since she hasn't filmed a movie since Lifetime's "The Darklings" in 1999). And OK,  I see that the book says that she "Interviews Doctors" (so it's not like she's writing off the cuff, thank god because I'm guessing she's no John's Hopkins graduate). But then again, Larry King interviews doctors all the time and he isn't in any rush to pen "Larry King Bites Cancer in the Ass!".

Listen up Suzanne, stick with what you know: the thigh master, working with comic genius John Ritter and lunching with your retired celebrity friends in Palm Springs.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

What is "Halloween Superstar" and Why Am I Not Watching it?

While procrastinating my shower, root touch up, laundry and Halloween Decorating today, I came across this video. I'm not sure what 'Halloween Superstar' is, but my guess is it comes from some amazing far off land in the UK where gays compete to see just who can be the most Fabulous, you know, Scotland. I swear to god if this show aired in the US (maybe it does, but it is probably on channel 409 between the Fox College Sports Station and the station that shows Catholic Mass 24/7). Anyway, took this amazing show that we are all missing out on:

"Halloween Superstar!" Episode 4 Preview from Chris & John on Vimeo.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Technology Sucks

I bought myself a shiny new lime-green colored 15-inch Dell laptop for my 40th birthday (and because my son's MacBook had died the month before, I said we could "share it"). Hmmm "Share It", famous last words. 5 weeks (and one payment to Dell finance) later my son shows me the laptop with a black screen with the dreaded words "NO HARD DRIVE FOUND". He then admitted that he had rested his elbow below the keyboard and heard a "funny noise". Translation: He killed the hard drive. A quick call to India (aka Dell Tech service) was in order. Long story short, I had a new Hard Drive (under warranty - Sahib did not need to hear about the resting elbow scenario) a few days later. 

After proudly re-installing the hard drive,  reloading all my backup files and proclaiming myself "The New Bill Gates" for doing so, I was back in business. Cut to two days later. I am upstairs in bed having a "Calgon take me away moment" reading a book and enjoying the solitude. My son (aka Hulk Elbow) comes upstairs with the now 6-week old laptop, looks at me with puppy dog eyes and slowly opens the screen. I was Horrified at what I saw. A lovely Spirograph-colored array of pink and green pulsating lines over what looked like a large bullet hole with blood dripping out of it. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Oh MY GAWWWDDDD. What did YOU do?
Daniel: I'm sooo sorry. Dad came home and I shut the laptop but my earphones were on the keyboard and when I opened it it looked like this.
Me: Oh MY GAWWWWWDDD.. What did your Dad say?
Daniel: He said he loved me. 
*Side note: Dad would do something just like that, because he knew that Daniel would soon have to face the wrath of bitch mom.

I then calmly and maturely reacted by breaking out into sobs, saying "I can't handle this right now" and going to bed at 8:00 pm. (Because reacting like my family was lost at sea is how I deal with pretty much any bad situation, big or small).

Long story short: Another call to India, where I am told that Dell will replace the LCD screen to the tune of $200. Because it is a brand new computer, they kindly "waived" the additional labor and shipping fee of $159. I also went ahead and added the "One Year Accidental Damage Warranty" for an additional $99: a sure-fire way to ensure that there will be NO "accidental damage" until one year and 2 days from now. I then basically told Ashmir to just "go ahead and add it to my pile of debt." 

Yesterday during my son's guitar lesson, he plugged his electric guitar into the amp and nothing happened. His teacher looked up at me and said, "It's probably just a broken wire inside the guitar." Son of a bitch, I wonder how much that's going to set me back. 

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Who's Your Sugar Daddy?... and other "Glamorous Things".

Because we all can't have a "Daddy Warbucks" in our lives, I bring you the next best thing:

"Sugar Daddy Ken Doll" 

Rumor has it that this is an actual doll created by Mattel. God I hope so, because I have to have one. I would put him in my purse and take him shopping (he clearly has great taste and would surely offer advice while I change into past-season duds in the communal changing room at Loehman's). Plus his dog won't leave a mess on your newly buffed wood floors and unlike a real Sugar Daddy, you don't have to rub his feet, stroke his ego (or anything else for that matter- yukko). He really is the perfect man.

While were on the subject of "glamourous" things, here's a quick glimpse of Adam Lambert's new album cover:

Holy Celestial Glitter World!!! When I first saw his album cover (in the same font as Prince's 1984 "Purple Rain" album) I actually thought it was a picture of Pink in a wig after a visit to a Glamour Shots at the Galleria (do they still have Glamour Shots?) I love Adam Lambert and in my book he can do no wrong but this album cover makes "Sugar Daddy" Ken look like Hulk Hogan. If I'm being perfectly honest I preferred the "Bloated Elvis after a 7-day Barbiturate Binge" Adam that I saw at the Idol taping. I guess they don't call him "Glambert" for nothing. Also, I hope those centipede-leech things on his glove don't bite!

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

NY, U2 and Drinking on Planes

I truly hate to fly, it scares the shit out of me and being cramped in a seat for hours with little opportunity to pee is not my idea of fun. Inevitably there is a family near us who lugs bags of McDonalds on the plane creating a greasy stink-fest for all. Even D.W. refuses to pay the upcharge for first class, besides if the plane is going down what good does first class do anyway? If it crashes head on, first class is the first to go. I have a vivid imagination of different ways the plane could crash including it breaking in half over the ocean and the back half of the plane still flying for awhile- which is where DW and I and would be sitting (insert DW asking me for a quick blow job). This scenario (not the bj part) may defy physics but I'm convinced it could really happen.
We happened to be headed to NY from Dallas a few weeks ago on the day a very bad storm was hitting Dallas. I was already sweating watching the weather the night before. I literally had my hands over my eyes as the plane shook with turbulance. Once the bumps and drops stopped, I ordered a beer. It was 10 in the morning and I never drink on planes (too dehydrating to the skin) however in this case I would have literally tackled the beverage cart at that point for a beer. Our connecting flight in Detroit was leaving from gate 51 15 minutes after we landed at gate 3. DW and I huffed and like Rosanne and John Goodman trying to OJ our asses to gate 51. DW said he had to pee to which I turned to him and like one of those bitchy girlfriends on the Amazing Race and told him "No way. Hold it cutie!"

Once at our gate and covered with flop sweat our flight was luckily delayed. Dw and I both ordered a stiff drink as soon as possible on the connector to NY.We stayed with our very good friends Jade and Evan and their adorable kiddos, and had a blast walking around the city and just hanging. At the airport leaving for home we had the celeb sighting of Paula Deen and her father-time hubby. I so wanted to tell her that her Taco Soup Recipe rocks however her slow cooker mac cheese that I wasted 30 dollars of cheese on: not so much. She was incognito with glasses and a hat so I gave her a break. Also ever since Jack black was such a dick I'm gun shy on the "approaching celebs" thing.

The following Monday DW and I went to the U2 concert at the new cowboy stadium, subtly named "Jerrys World"(after the poverty-stricken owner Jerry Jones). The show was amazing. It also brought back great memories of Val and I going to their every show in Arizona as teenagers.  Val and I were typically too hungover to get up early to get good seats (were teenagers before the Internet and online ticket buying!). One time we actually got up at 6 am and drove 30 miles (hungover of course) to a tickteting location. When no one was in the parking lot, we literally thought we were first in line (ala the Griswalds slo-mo arrival to Wally World in "National Lampoon's Vacation") only to discover that we went to we the wrong location. As a result we were usually row 93z.  But we were there and that's all that really mattered

Today, as I lay on the couch watching TV completely exhausted from my whirlwind NY/U2 week, Im wondering these things:
  • What does Bono's house look like?
  • Why are they still airing Billy mays commercials when he's dead?
  • Why does everyone cry hysterically on the biggest loser .. Food deprivation?
  • Does anyone else think Marie Osmond is doing blow? Seriously she is way thinner than me and has the hollywood lollipop head. Have a hoagie Marie. 
I am now a believer of having a cocktail on any flight, dry skin or not. That's what La Mer is for.


Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Things That Are Pissing Me Off This Week:

I'm not going to talk any more about Balloon Boy except to say that I KNEW IT ALL ALONG. And if Mr. Richard Heene really wants to be on a Reality Show, I hear that "Tool Academy" is casting.

This is an actual headline (and has been reported on CNN ~ so you know its true):

Ms. California Sued Over Breast Implants: K2 Productions, which directs the Miss California USA pageant, is requesting the $5,200 it gave Prejean for her breast augmentation surgery.
There are so many things wrong with this story. First and foremost: you get free breast implants if you win a pageant? This is complete and utter bullcrap. Sorry cuties, but if you are stupid enough to shell out $5k so that Ms. Brainiac can look good in a string bikini onstage while Donald Trump gets a hard on, then she should be allowed to keep them. While we're talking about this, someone sign me up for the Mrs. USA contest. I'd love a tummy tuck and some liposuction.

David Hasselhoff and his lovely daughters have just signed a deal for a reality show. Hey David, how about you get off the sauce before letting cameras in your house 24/7? We all know that this can not end well and is clearly a sign of End of Days. The picture below definitely needs to be featured in the opening credits of the show (which should be sponsored by In-N-Out burger).

I just heard that 'NCIS' is the number one show on television. This shouldn't make me mad. In fact I shouldn't care at all, but I do! I've always had it out for NCIS. I've never actually seen the show but I have seen the commercials and always wondered "Why, CBS, why?" Does a show about Navy investigators seem worthy of being the top show on television? What do they investigate anyhoo? Realistically, have you ever heard of the Navy being considered "Tops" in crime solving? Did the Navy find out who killed Jon Benet? Was it the Navy who surmised that Balloon Boy (sorry I'm talking about him again) was a hoax? Has the Navy ever gotten to the bottom of Anna Nicole's early and suspicious demise? I don't think so Mark Harmon. Meanwhile there are actually a few really great television shows out there worthy of being number one ("30 Rock", "Modern Family" and of course "Hoarders" immediately come to mind. But I digress. The world must be filled with a shit load of old cat ladies in housecoats with Mark Harmon crushes.

Lastly: The Ralph Lauren Model who was fired for being too fat. C'mon Ralph Lauren. No one fired you for having white hair and BLACK eyebrows, which is for sure a fashion no-no. Here is a picture of model Fattie McSquishy (weighing in at a staggering 120 lbs!!!)

If I looked like that I would seriously go out every day to get my mail in the nude and probably wear a bra and thong to the grocery store and Parent Teacher Night. Apparently the people of Ralph Lauren thought she was a dead ringer for Natalie in the Facts of Life (look her up if you are under the age of 35) and went all sorts of crazy with the Adobe Photo Shop (and where can I get my hand on that software?) 

Here she is (photoshopped to get rid of all that excess skin and stuff) in one of their Australian Ads:

Can you say "Put another shrimp on the barbie?" (and while you're at it, add a juicy steak and some S'mores to the barbie). Hey Fat Model: Karen Carpenter called from the grave. She's upset because you are stealing her thunder (and probably her Ex Lax).

Way to go Ralph Lauren. I am now officially boycotting your clothing (and that includes your stupid "Chaps" brand that is being sold at finer retail stores like Kohls and Marshall's).

*Note: Stupid Blogger has changed it's formatting. Sometimes "spellcheck" works and sometimes it doesn't. Today it doesn't. Misspelled words are one of my majoh pet peeves, and while I tried to catch them, I'm no Harvard grad (UofA all the way) so there are bound to be some spelling errors. Just another thing that is pissing me off this week.


Thursday, October 15, 2009

I "Heart" Butter Boy

I love this little butter boy. Sure, his love of fried butter will no doubt result in him growing up to be riddled with Heart Disease and he will most certainly grow up to resemble a dashing John Candy or Ralphie May. But let's be honest, little  butter boy's dance says it all.....I had the same reaction after I ate a Ravioli with a gooey fried egg in the middle at Mario Batali's restaurant in LA (I also drank so much wine there that I now cannot remember the name of the actual restaurant). I also do this dance (internally, of course) every time I eat Foie Gras, really good Risotto or Chocolate Lava Cake. Also, I'm pretty sure this kid is a blood relative of Parker:

What Do you Expect from Wife Swap Contestants?

Today at work as I watched the boy in the silver bubble air balloon fly vicariously over the fields of Colorado on, I was horrified. How will they get him down? Will he crash into the Rocky Mountains? But as the Brady Bunch-like Space Ship twisted and turned I really started to doubt how it could possibly hold a 50 lb child. I mean, C'mon it didn't have a window or a visible door, and no tell-tale lump of a kids butt sitting in the mylar basket.

As it it crashed to the ground I looked over at my co-worker and said, "He's probably at home in the basement." I  love how the first reaction of the rescuers was to hit the balloon repeatedly with a shovel to incapacitate the balloon (head injuries to a small boy apparently were not a concern). Honestly, instead of a small boy, I  kept expecting Popcorn to explode from inside the Jiffy Pop top of the balloon.

Then, when no boy surfaced and news that his family had once appeared on "Wife Swap" began to surface, I really began to get suspicious. Call me crazy, but any family who has agreed to appear on Wife Swamp simply cannot be trusted. The words "Attention whores" immediately came to mind and I envisioned them telling their son "Falcon" (again: can you say "Attention whores?") to lay low with a box of Oreos and a Spongebob DVD while they notified the KFOX helicopter to track down their homemade Aluminum Foil balloon on live TV. (Word is they contacted the media BEFORE calling the PoPo).

Cut to 4 hours later....Falcon is found in the family attic. I'm no Einstein, but wouldn't a good search of the home be one of the first things they did? And while I 'm glad that "Falcon" is safe and sound, I can't help but wonder if his hippie parents were maybe concocting up a story to extend the 15 minutes of Wife Swap fame? Surely a People Magazine (or at the very least National Enquirer) cover is in their future. And that is so not cool.

Balloon Boy Update:
My dad is convinced that there is no hanky panky to this story and that the family legitimately thought Falcon was lost up up and away in his beautiful balloon. However I just came across this homemade family video on You Tube ( a must watch, below). This is the entire Crazy Jiffy Pop Balloon family singing some sort of homemade rap. I can't understand much, but there are some great stolen Elton John/Bernie Taupin lyrics about Farting and Fire Ants. The Sherlock Holmes in me thinks that when Def Jam records didn't come a knocking they pulled the balloon stunt in hopes for an uplifting (pun intended) Lifetime movie starring Jennifer Love Hewitt, Rick Schroeder and three of the Gosslin kids as the Balloon Brothers.

Balloon Boy (HOAX) Update #2:
Balloon Boy "Falcon" just accidently spilled the beans to Wolf Blitzer on CNN. Wolf asked the parents why Falcon didn't come out of his "hiding place" (aka the attic where he was supplied with a box of Oreos and a Spongebob marathon in return for keeping his mouth shut) and the boy said, "Well, you (the parents) told me it was all for a SHOW." And then Balloon Dad coughed and stuttered while his mail order bride shook her head and said "Nooooo.". This will be all over the news tomorrow. And I hope they send the balloon family a bill for the resuce attempt (which CNN calculated to be upwards of $28k).

And, I rest my case:

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Screw Project Runway

Sometimes life isn't funny, it's just a rat race pain in the ass. Hence the lack of posts from either Parker or myself over the past week.

Until we have some postworthy events, here is a fun video from 1935, predicting the fashions of the year 2,000. To this I say, "Screw You Project Runway." I'll take the dress with headlamp (for finding good men) over a dress made out of recycled newspapers anytime.

Ironically, my  husband has the exact same jumpsuit as the guy at the end of the video. Swish!

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

The Trojan Tee Shirt Tale

Val's  t-shirt story (below) reminds me of the time I brought home one of my boyfriends, Todd Jacobs to meet my mom Nancy. He was 17, 6 foot 4 with long blond surfer hair and probably weighed 140 lbs soaking wet. I thought Todd was beyond dreamy - perhaps I just wanted to feed him a good meal.

When I answered the door of our discreet turbo colonial-style house in the middle of the desert, he stood before me in a Trojan Condoms T Shirt. Holy shit you can't be serious, wearing that to meet my mom.
Without Nancy's knowledge, I had smoked stolen cigs and drank stolen beers from our fridge in my treehouse as a kid and smoked pot with val in my room, so being really observant wasn't exactly her strong suit.

Later that night, trojan condom boy dry humped my Levi button fly jeans so hard that he bruised my va jay jay. Apparently his tee was just for show, because he was bound and determined to dry hump me with clothes on for hours. This is just as well because I didn't want to lose my virginity to him anyway. That future suitor would at least need to wear a wife beater to meet Nancy.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Why You Shouldn't Surf the Web at Work

I hardly ever surf the web at work, but occassionally when I have down time I do check my personal email or when I'm feeling really devilsih check one of my go-to gossip sites. Yesterday, late afternoon and not much to do I decide to go onto - a fairly tame, snarky gossip website. Before logging in, I do a quick look to the right to make sure no one is approaching. The second the site comes up I am confronted with the following picture (on a 20 inch flatscreen monitor in glorious Technacolor):

And then I see out of the corner of my eye - a coworker approaching my cubicle. My thought process went something like this:

"Oh Hell No..... Shit, here she comes. Click the X, click the X...I'm clicking the X but nothing is happening. Why is it asking me if I want to close all screens -SHIT YES, close ALL screens NOW god dammit."

I've been on that website many times and this is the first time I've come across a picture of Pamela Anderson spread eagle with a giant star over her cooch. Naturally, one of my 50-year-old co-workers would peruse by my desk at that exact same moment. I might as well have had a Penthouse centerfold wallpapered on my cubicle walls. If she did see, she didn't say anything, but I'm sure she is now under the impression that I am a lipstick lesbian who cruises porn sites at work.

Later that day I cruised on down to the "Student Center" (by the way the "Student Center" at a community college might be one of the best people watching places on the planet). I stood in line to purchase my Diet Pepsi and the debenair young man in front of me was wearing a tee shirt with cut off sleeves with the following astute words on the back:
Stay Sick
Stay Fuck
Hail Satan

First of all, his mom must be proud. But most important, what on earth could a Satan worshipper possibly be doing at community college? Is he dabbling in accounting when he's not sacrificing small rodents and scratching pentagons on his arm with a razor? Is he taking a class on how to make websites, so that he can spread his wisdom to the rest of the world? Maybe he is studying to be a medical assistant? Or maybe his Jonas Brother's concert tee shirt was dirty and the Hail Satan shirt was the only clean thing in his drawer.

P.S. if you are surfing the web while at work and the above picture just popped up as someone is passing your desk, I apologize.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Tsunami Warning & How Your Toothpaste Might be Killing You

Last night I'm in the bathroom (plucking another whisker from my chin - my new nickname: "Billy Goat") when I hear the following: "Tsunami warning for Southern California. Details at 11:00"

Call me crazy but if the KABC anchor Michelle Tuzee is going to throw Tsunami threats my way in a cheery sing-song voice during the commercial break of Dancing With The Stars, she might want to get more specific. Of course the second I heard the word Tsunami I had a vision of me floating in a sea of angry waves clutching our turtle and dog, while my husband and children clung to life on a makeshift raft of couch pillows and styrofoam. 

Obviously the Tsunami warning was no big deal, but when will the scare tactics to gain more viewers stop? Every other night it's something different: "Is your toothpaste killing you? Tune in at 11:00" or "TV Star Arrested for selling crack cocaine!! Tune in at 11:00" (inevitably it is never anyone good like Charlie Sheen, but rather the lady who plays his housekeeper that no one has heard of. (Actually I do know her name and it's Concheta Farrell, proof once more that I watch way too much tv). My point however, is that  it's just not cool to throw the word "Tsunami" around when the chances are 1 billion to one. Shame on you Michelle Tuzee.... 

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Dexter's Garage

After a long and rather uneventful weekend one thing became very clear to me. I'm almost certain that one of my neigbors is "Dexter" (or at least Dexter like). Truly there is no other explanation.

On Saturday I decided to finally take the 4 black Hefty garbage bags of old clothing to the Good Will, thus cleaning out a small portion of my very cluttered garage. In my defense my garage is really the only cluttered part of my house, but that's what garages are for, right?  As I stuffed the giant bags into my Prius I looked across the alley at my neighbors' open garage door and there is was: The most sparkly-could-eat-off-the-floor-clean garage I've ever seen. Seriously it was diabolical. Over the years I've seen the wife actually vacuuming said garage on almost a weekly basis. For Christ's sake they've lived there for like 8 years. Aside from a small television mounted in the corner and a wall where they hang tools (i.e. scapals for cutting up their victims?) the garage is completely empty.

I don't really know these people well, except for the stink eye they give me when they happen to get a glimpse of my open garage, but there most certainly is something wrong with these people.  The most likely conclusion is that they kill people and surgically cut them to pieces in their pristine germ free garage. Dexter would be proud.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

TMI Mackenzie...TMI

Mackenzie Phillips is on the "I Had Sex with my Dad" publicity tour - hitting Oprah today to hype her new book. While I love seedy Hollywood gossip, even this goes beyond the limits of my taste and decorum. I therefore am compelled to write an open letter to Mackenzie:

Dear Mackenzie:
Is it not enough that we all know you've been a heroin addict since like the age of 6? You've also proudly admitted to having a one-nighter with Mick Jagger as a teen (Mick must have had some major 'beer goggles' on that night because I'm pretty sure he could have gotten someone who didn't have  the body of a 12 year old boy and acne scars). Then last year you brilliantly went through LAX security with a dozen syringes up your pant leg (Kudos!). At least that stunt got you a gig on Celebrity Rehab.

But that's not enough is it? It's obvious to me that your Bank of America Interest Maximizer Account with the residuals of "One Day At a Time" has dried up, and what better way to make a buck than to spill the beans about shooting up and doing the nasty with your creepy, jaundice-skinned, junkie dad? What's even worse is that it continued for 10 years (10 years?) and he even impregnated you (Holy vomit-in-my-mouth). Listen up Pizza Face: This is TMI (too much information)! Schneider would be so disappointed in you.


Monday, September 21, 2009

Is it That Time of Year Again? A Play by Play of Dancing with the (so called) Stars

Every year I try to watch "Dancing with the Stars" and usually make it through the first three weeks and ultimately give up. This year will probably be no different. Tonight is the Season Premiere and I'm determined to stick it out to the very end (or at least until a better show premieres on Monday nights). Anyhoo, here's my play-by-play of episode one: (Note: a cocktail -or two- may have been involved, so if you disagree with anything, blame it on the vodka:

  • Aaron Carter: His Meth Face is looking much better. My High School Graduation dress was made of the exact same lace fabric as his shirt (no - seriously).
  • Chuck Liddell: I only know who he is because he once guest starred on "Entourage".  He dances like Frankenstein (if Frankenstein were to be in a dance competition. Likely)
  • Iron Chef Guy: Naturally he danced to Kung Fu Fighting, no racial profiling here. He's actually good, although I kept expecting him to pull out a Samarui sword - or at the very least stop, open a chest and scream some random food product like, "SQUID".
  • Ashley Hamilton: Self-claimed "actor/comedian". I will shell out $100 if anyone can tell me a comedic acting roll this guy has ever been in. Sadly I do remember that he was briefly married to Shannen Doherty. All I have to say about him is, sorry cutie you won't go far on your looks alone. By the way, his score was "15" ~ coincidentally the same number as his IQ. 
  • Donny Osmond: Words cannot describe the hate I feel for Donny Osmond (second only to the "Hoff"). I'm not sure why I despise him so much, but the second he comes on the air my brain tells me is the time for my "third cocktail."
Yikers! they just did an audience shot of Marie Osmond and Jermaine Jackson. Hard to tell who has had more plastic surgery.
  • Snow Boarder Dude: Good Hair, not so good dancing. See ya later dude. Actually I kind of like this guy - he reminds me of my ultra-shy musician son with the shag hair. I might have to vote for him (if only I knew what his name was)
  • Michael Irving: Didn't know who he was (athletic me) but Parker filled me in. She has met him a few times and says he is ultra conceited. Therefore he must be eliminated. 
  • Tom Delay: Looks like the creepy uncle who wants all the little-girl cousins to sit on his lap at the family reunion. Ca-reeeeppy.