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.