The Only Sexy Ginger I Know

Ladies, hide your fair featured friends. Everyone's going to want a piece of the Coco tonight and the last thing we need is another Ginger. But with that said, pumpkins are in season and I've made it my mission to embrace all things orange (that means you, Coco-bear). Who's excited!?!?!

Don't Do Drugs... Watch Rocky Horror

I have a confession...

...It's not that I once peed on Lindsay Lohan's house (I'm not ready to confess that yet).

...Nor is it that I ever pooped my pants (Though, I can confess that my best friends are capable of such accomplishments).

...It's not even that I once told a doctor that my 8-year-old sister had a scorching case of herpes (Haha--that was a good one).

My confession is that before Sunday, I had absolutely no freaking clue what the hell Rocky Horror Picture Show was. I know what you're thinking: Me? The incredibly well versed entertainment enthusiast that I am was ignorant to the most notorious cult classic film in the history of American cinema?! Well I have news for you... NO ONE knows what Rocky Horror is about. Anyone who ever tried to understand the meaning of it was probably too high on their acid trip to create any semblance of thought. Even the weirdos who show up to revival theaters in full costumes with rice and water guns (cough... mom... cough) have no know idea what it's about.

After Jean Machine and I watched it about 85x on repeat this past weekend, I've been able to scrap together the following synopsis (to preface what you're about to read, no, I'm not on crack):

A newly engaged couple stumbles upon the castle/laboratory of Dr. Frankenfurter, a cross-dressing alien scientist from the planet Transexual of the Transylvania galaxy. They witness the unveiling of Frankenfurter's experiment, a sexy piece of man candy he creates using half of a delivery boy's brain. Frankenfurter murders the delivery boy (who miraculously is able to survive with half of a brain) with an ice pick. Then the whole gang, including a zombie handyman, a maid with a frizz problem, and a groupie in serious need of an eyebrow consultation, all has sex with each other and dance around in drag before the traitor aliens zap Frankenfurter with an anti-matter ray and he dies. Then the house blasts back to Transexual, Transylvania so they can do the time warp again. The End.

And people say our generation is fucked... HA.

Moving on, I now feel comfortable reporting on last week's Rocky Horror Glee Show. And what did I think? Bravo, Gleeks, Bravo!

Though Mercedes didn't have to flip the tip in her portrayal of Frankenfurter, the casting seemed to be spot on. Finn and his dumpy abs as Brad? Check. Sam and his chiseled-by-angels abs as Rocky? Check. Artie as Dr. Scott? Umm... duh. Yeah, yeah, all very exciting.

BUT if I'm going to be honest here, nothing thrilled me more than the performance we've all been waiting for... The Glee musical debut of Uncle Jesse. Did you hear me... I said UNCLE JESSE KATSOPOLIS). I knew the Rippers were gonna make a comeback one day. Someone is going to have to institutionalize me if he ever sings "Forever" with New Directions. Hmm... who's got Ryan Murphy's number? I have a proposition for him.

Chuck Me

Last night someone hit a home run...

No, I'm not talking about that dumbass baseball game that no one in America watched (Remind me why FOX didn't pull a Tonya Harding on Lumberjack Wilson's ass again? I'm sure they were less than thrilled about the world's most boring championship matchup). I'm actually referring to the queen of real diamonds and balls herself, Miss Blair Waldorf. On last night's episode, Blair rung in the big 2-0 with a big o-face (and I assure you she wasn't the only one enjoying her lady tickles).

Late night, piano top, hate chucking? Yes... If you haven't seen last night's ending scene of GG, you're probably missing out on the best sexytime that wasn't yours. How do I know, you ask? Try living in a one-bathroom apartment with three girls who miraculously all have to pee at the same time.

Alas, after the scenario-ing subsided I started to think: "Hmm... Is it reasonable to believe that anyone would engage in wild hate sex on a piano top in an NYC apartment that housed her mother, her maid, and her bff?" Let's count all the rediculous points in that sentence, shall we?

Point #1: Hate Sex
While we can all admit that foreplay beginning with the words "every nerve ending in my body is electrified with hatred" can be a turn on for some freaky deakies (guilty), what ever happened to good old "I love you?" You can bet your ass that if someone tried to woo me with "my body is about to explode with hatred," he'd be Lorena Bobbitted before you could even say Dorota.

Point #2: Piano Sex
Unless your the guest of Edward Lewis at the Beverly Wilshire, you have no business mounting any piano tops where others are trying to sleep. You want to play chopsticks with his chopstick? Do it on your own time, Beethoven.

Point #3: NYC Apartment
Sure the Waldorfs are an exception to the rule, but on the teeny island of Manhattan there's no chance you host the square footage that would prevent piano-sex pleasure moans from reaching your precious ears. Remember that when you opt for saxaphone sex, Blaire.

Point #4: Mom, Maid and BFF:
The last people you want privy to your sexual symphany is the woman who birthed you, the woman who's supposed to clean up after you, and the one who's going to have to end up hearing all about it the next day anyway.

So with that said, I'm gonna go watch it on repeat with a martini, a cigarette, and the AC on high.

Dear God, You're a Yankee Fan, Right?

Dear God,

You're a Yankee fan, aren't you? I mean 27 world series championships? It sure seems that way. Also, I noticed that when the bombers knocked out two homers in a row on Wednesday, the sky turned the most beautiful color (that was a nice touch).

I ask because I'm really praying for a win tonight. See (and of course you already know this), I'm on my way to Philadelphia where the fans are so abnoxious they probably make the Samaritans seem like lovely dinner guests (sorry... I know we're all your creatures, but I really don't know what went wrong with those guys). And God, if the Yanks win, I'll have a far better chance of tolerating the verbal diarrhea spewing out of their mouths this weekend (sorry again... I probably shouldn't say diarrhea mid-prayer).

Oh hey, God? I have another question. I get the ant eater, the blowfish, even the alpaca, but where the heck (notice how I didn't say "hell" there?) did the Phanatic come from? Lemme tell ya, if that's not demonic symbolism, I don't know what is. See, the Yanks don't have a "mascot"... That title is all yours (I'll even put in a word with Hal if you'd like to make it a little more official).

So God, I come to you tonight asking for a win. In return, I promise to spearhead an effort to teach the American people those words that no one knows in the beginning of "God Bless America." Why does the school system have to cheat you of your song, God? I sure was never taught those words growing up (my roommate even thought they were fake). Think about it ;)

I guess I'll leave you to enjoy the game now. You must have some kick-ass flat screens up there. Let's go Yankees!

Amen.

Savory Jackson Avery

Dear Readers,

I'm not going to lie to you... I'm drunk, pretty drunk. At least not drunk to the point where I'm mispelling words but I cannot attest for the latter half of my post. I'm bolting (yet again) but I've met a lovely man who shares my love for Project Runway and Hello Kitty so at least my ride to Philadelphia won't be so bad. However, when I told him I'm behind on my PR because I've been too busy catching up on my Greys he slapped my face and called me Barbara.

Luckily I had the intuition to immediately soften the blow with a picture of Jackson Avery (thank you, Bolt Bus, for your streaming internet). I took a page from my friend Ali's book and told him that Avery's eyes pierce my soul. For a hot second he thought I was trying to get him to join a cult but then he got a glimpse of Avery's bam bams and completely understood my hot flash.

Which brings me to my point: I'd like to open up a genetic factory where I can inter-breed humans to make specimens equal to or surpassing Avery ( $10 bucks says he was grown on a people farm). What does this mean in the long run? I dunno... Looking for a blue-eyed black man? I'm your girl. A Blasian? Again, give me a ring. An Italian/Irish/German bride? Sorry... We can't mimmic perfection here (but I'm still your girl ;) ).

So now I'm realizing the unfortunate affects of my own genetics. I fear that my GERD is offending my new friend. I keep trying to flirt my way back in the game, but just like Dr. Hot-for-Hunt won't stand for it, I don't think my new friend will either (granted my new friend is gay enough to share with me the street music to his Buddy Holly audition--but HEY). In the mean time, I'll keep trying to blow my Pinot Grigiburbs into the vent. Until then, tah tah.

Rendered Speechless With Excitement...

Britney and Britglee tonight...

...everyone hide your lady boners.

So Many Feelings

Last night, I think I finally understood what double-rainbow guy was talking about (without the drugs.... unless you consider sniffing magic markers a drug... in which case, suckit). I was so freaking happy you would think that I was the Pixyland.org Peter Pan (please only click if you are able to laugh at frighteningly inappropriate people).

What was it that allowed my heart to jump out and sprinkle fairy dust everywhere? Was it...

...Puppy on a pony? Nooo. Yet this does make me happy; probably not for the reason it should. I'm most happy to know that a real life Barbie exists and she really does live the fantasy life I've always dreamed for her (If you don't know what I'm referring to, check out sista-friend in the picture above. If those legs/shoes/dress aren't made of plastic then slap my ass and call me Ken). Back to the subject at hand: what DID make me so happy? Was it...

...A giant plate of meatballs?! Not this time. Most likely because I just finished a giant plate of meatballs and now I feel like I'm going to give birth to an 18lb food baby. Could it be...

Gus the bulldog? Nah. Look at that face!! I just want to squeezeeeeee him and shake him and eat his widdle cheeks! ...but then I will be in trouble with the ASPCA and they'll most likely confiscate my meat dress. Hmm... what about...

...No pants o'clock?! You know me so well! Of course I love to escape from the confines of clothing and truly experience the aerodynamics of the crotchal region. But unfortunately the workplace frowns on nudity during work hours. Not the winner, but could the winner be...

Tiny baby shaving?! I LOVE tiny babies shaving. In truth, I love seeing babies doing all sorts of grown-up things: dressing up in suits, telling jokes at dinner parties, helping me develop my e-trade portfolio. Also, seeing tiny babies shaving makes me feel less hairy... which reminds me that I'm hairy... which ultimately doesn't make me as happy as....

...you guessed it....

GLEE!! Ahh yes... the name really says it all doesn't it? What made Tuesday night's premiere more special than all the rest, you ask? Well, for starters, Quinn is back in the uniform and throwing bitches into lockers. I'm so proud of Quinnie; shedding off the never-existent baby fat in time for cheer season. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I DO believe she's back on top of the "pyramid" (which, by the way, should NEVER be referenced in the modern world of the Rah Rah sisterhood).

Tuesday night was also special to me because Rachel Barry got shown up... by a 6-year-old. Yes, it's been confirmed that "Sunshine Corazon" is in fact the "little girl" who sang with Celine Dion on Oprah. I guess we'll never know her true age... I mean... just look at the Chinese gymnastics team.

And SPEAKING of Asians, aren't you just the happiest little chopsticks that Tina and Mike were counselors at an asian summer camp? Hell... I wish I went to an asian summer camp; get all hyped-up on MSG and watch my counselors go at it. Niiiicccceeee.

Anyway, you already know all the reasons why this show makes me and everyone else in America practically giddy. Let's just enjoy the high, shall we?

Why is Carol Brady Flashing Me?

Yesterday I ate like the world was ending (Wait… let me rephrase… Yesterday I ate like the world was ending today). For breakfast I had a nutella sandwich on sweet ciabatta. For lunch, burrata mozzarella, prosciutto, fritto misto, and granny apple ravioli with lamb ragu. For dinner, my roommate’s boyfriend fed us raw clams, crabcakes, and wild salmon. Finally, we finished it off with some dulce de leche ice cream cones.

…then I saw Carol Brady’s boobs and threw it all up.

You heard it right, folks: Here’s a story, of a lovely lady, who was holding up two very saggy girls. Ok, ok… I’m exaggerating. In truth, at 76-years-old, Florence Henderson has got one rockin’ bod (and one awesome potty mouth). Did I need to see her Brady Bra? No. But then again, we also didn’t need to see the Hoff gyrating or Derek pretending to be straight, and what did we do? Tune in any way!!! Weeeeeeee!!!

Oh and am I glad I did! It’s been a while since I’ve scenario-ed meeting Mark Ballas at a bar, sweatily dancing the night away, and then doing it all again… horizontally. Thank the mirror ball that Marky-poo is recovered and back on the dance floor. However, if Bristol doesn’t step off my man soon I am seriously going to reconsider my political allegiances.

And as if Mark’s hiney wasn’t enough to keep me glued to the screen, the dancing chocolate meatball from the Disney channel made my night complete. I can’t tell you what his name is… nor can I tell you what he’s been in; But I can tell you that his precious pudge coupled with his bedroom eyes gives me some serious lady tickles. Not really… but really…

So what’s my prediction for this season? Well, first off I predict that the ridiculous star on the side of the Situation’s head is going to peel itself off. More importantly I predict Jennifer Grey taking it all… duh. Nobody puts baby in a corner. NOBODY. Speaking of which…

New York Needs a Kardashian

If there's one thing missing in the city that never sleeps it's more hair extensions and fake eyelashes...

...so we'll take a Kardashian for SURE!

It's no secret that my favorite Armenian, Kourt Kard, is taking up residency in the big apple. I have it on legitimate authority from my most reliable news outlet (/Perez Hilton) that Kourtney (/E!) is already hiring (/casting) for a NY branch of DASH. OMG I CAN'T tell you how excited I am to shop (/buy one hanky panky).

Last night on KUWTK, Kourtney and Scott Dickish took their chubby little nugget on a house hunting extravaganza... NYC style. I believe it was the moment that I saw an actual dining room in a West Village apartment when I was rendered speechless and paralyzed (making cringing at the sound of Scott's voice pretty difficult). Hopefully Kourtney will get one of my thousand letters to her, begging to be considered for the position of Mason's babysitter (/threatening to steal him).

If becoming Mason's babysitter doesn't pan out, I've already thought of another way to make my way into the Kamily: starting up an affair with Kylie. Poor girl gets ZERO camera time! It must be awful growing up with a model for a twin and half sisters that look like (/are) Kim Kardashian. There's no doubt that Kylie's due for a scandal. If the legend is true, once a Kardashian sister is caught up in a scandal, she develops the breasts of a Grecian goddess and the tukis of a rap guy's girlfriend. We've all got high hopes that one day Khloe's time will come too.

Until next week, satiate your kesires with this little gem Kourt posted on her site (ahh... another reason why I love her):

Kids Reenact: Keeping Up With The Kardashians - Click here for more home videos

Tales from the Geor-gyna

Shortly after my best friend, Liz, became a nurse, I became privy to all the sordid details of her gooiest patients. Now let me preface this story with the fact that my mom is a nurse and has never hesitated to come home at night with stories about where she stuck her finger that day. What’s the difference, you ask? I’ve never before heard about the lady-grundle-shattering perils of labor…

One day Liz called me in blissful tears saying how she just had the most beautiful experience of her life to date: helping a woman give birth. “That’s amazing!” I replied, and asked to hear more. After unveiling the descriptions of the poopy mess and hemorrhoids, she proceeded to describe the sound this lady’s chocha made when ripped from Geor-gyna to no-no hole.

…And that’s when I died inside.

On Monday night, however, I realized that helping a woman give birth could be worlds more devastating than the above… well… if that woman is Georgina Sparks, of course. Despite your standard cleanup, assisting the ice queen in labor would also involve having to take cover from her fire-breathing vajayjay and herp sores. That poor nurse probably locked herself in a padded room, shielding her soul from the spawn of Satan.

In truth, the baby in question is a far cuter baby than anything I could think would come out of Georgina. What’s clear here is that the baby isn’t Dan’s (Let me indulge in an “Urrrr DUH” moment here). See, everyone knows that two negatives make a positive... and despite my negative feelings towards the mindless goof, there’s really no arguing that Dan is relatively attractive.

But despite what Dan may look on the outside, I’m fairly certain that his mind must resemble a diaper. Sorry, but wouldn’t you assume that a published writer/NYU honor student would have the know-how to get his own G.D. paternity test? Apparently not. Someone give this kid a big, fat “F” for life skills. The time spent apart from Vanessa, Brooklyn Queen of street smarts, has not done Dan well.

Speaking of stupidity, since when do you cut ties with anyone linked to the royal family of Monaco? Yes, I’m talking about you, Blair Bear. Never hate the on the help… they’re your first class ticket to the palace (ESPECIALLY when they’re so obviously astute to pull a Princess Jasmine on your ass). Idiot.

And while we’re on the subject, whoever is dumb enough to believe that Miss Rent the Runway is actually Gossip Girl needs a lobotomy (or at least needs to catch up on their past seasons). The serial killer wall definitely doesn’t belong in the home of someone who tweets. Tweeting gives you endorphins… endorphins make you happy... happy people just don’t kill Serena Vanderwoodsen.

Well, I guess we’ll just have to tune in to next week to see if the Melrose Place reject really is capable of murder. More importantly, we’ll be able to follow the saga of the only person I really care about, Chuck Bass. I’m actually pretty happy for Chuck, being able to cut the cord to the money tree and start new in a beautiful European country and all. Didn’t you listen to Biggie when he said “mo money mo problems?” ;)

Let's Have a Toast for the Idiots

This just in: Kanye West writes new song about Ronnie Ortiz-Magro and the Staten Island Dump.

Well… not exactly…

In truth, Kanye practiced some serious lyrical diarrhea last night on the VMA stage. But seeing as he accompanied his “sampler” (aka keyboard for the 21^st chromosome) with ballerinas and rhythmic gymnasts, we’ll consider it “artistic.” BAH.

What do I think? Well… though the potty mouth is about as deep as a desk chair, I still have to believe that he is drawing inspiration from somewhere. The obvious answer is that he spent long hours in front of his MacBook Air with photo booth on, playing word association. However, I would like to present the idea that Mr. West also tuned in to the special Jersey Shore lead-in to the VMAs and, in fact, Runaway is about the following:

Ronnie Ortiz-Magro: Guerilla king of the D-Bags. Ronnie doesn’t like tests (I don’t know if you’re aware that’s the reason why he didn’t go to college). Instead, he likes to mind-eff his dumbass girlfriend with what must be a very teeny weeny. Pumping your 4’9” bod with steroids can’t really do anything for the ole’ sauseeeege. “Toast for the douchebags.”

Ramona: You broke Vinny’s heart… prepare to die. “Toast for the assholes."

Angelina Pivarnick or anyone who wears a fossil watch: Better known as the Staten Island Dump. As if I didn’t need another reason to despise Angelina, Wikipedia has informed me that she like to go by the nickname “Jolie” (Yes… as in Angelina Jolie). If I were Maddox, I would fly my fire-breathing unicorn straight to Staten Island and sizzle off the hooker’s voice box. “Toast for the scumbags.”

Jose: If the song had a line “Let’s have a toast for the newly diseased” it would really put this sucker in contention. For now, “toast to the jerkoffs.”

Grenade Grundle Chodes: Nothing much to say here… I just really wanted to write that.

Now let’s go eat a goddamn snack.

Editors Note: While I had zero intentions of even googling "Kanye" because I hated the below so much, I happened to stumble across this poop. Feel free to watch it if you want to throw up your half sandwich.

Runaway (Live): "Kanya performs an ode to himself at the VMAs"

If Stink Bombs Had a Voice...

Currently I'm en route to Philadelphia (the fakest city in America) by way of the Bolt Bus. Ah, yes... The Bolt Bus, Acela of the poverty elite. Sometimes I like to pretend that the Bolt is exclusive to the fiscally ignorant, like myself, who exude fabulosity despite the limitations of their minimum wage salaries. Luxurious leather seating, free wireless internet, why wouldn't you think you were traveling like a Kennedy? Oh... I remember... because sooner or later you'll come face-to-face with a real live animal/human crossbread who single handedly destroys any glimmer you had of a peaceful journey.

On this particular trip, these mongoloids I'm referencing are occupying the Bolt's last rows, as if it were a giant cheese bus and they were the "cool kids." While I'd like to remind the two cackaling hyenas that they were probably never cool, I'm too busy ripping fuzz out of my sweatshirt and sticking it up my nose. Why, you ask? Because these morons decided it would be funny to drop a stink bomb. I know what you're thinking and I can assure you, NO... It was not just a nasty poop and some after-gas. The scent sent me right back to my elementary school cafeteria the day I was pantsed and all of the fifth and sixth grade bore witness to the physical evidence of puberty. That day some juvenial half breeds launched a couple, making it the perfect segway to the involuntary unveiling of my no-nos. All the more reason why I am NOT amused... fuckers.

A similar sensation occurred last night when I sat down to enjoy the single most magical night of television of the year... The finale of So You Think You Can Dance. Only the best show on broadcast TV (notice how I've discounted cable as Jerz clearly surpasses all), this season has been by far the best in terms of talent, choreography, and peronalities. So of course I was expecting utter perfection televised.... That is until I heard it...

If stink bombs had a voice it would be the voice of Mary Murphy. Hearing her shrill verbiage sent me screaming back to the days when I was afraid to ride trains in fear that one would end up being the hot tamale train. Whosever idea it was to invite her back for the finale deserves that little boy to repeat his tap dance routine on his or her brain. (Ah--Wasn't he the CUTEST?!?!).

Despite my momentary lack of hearing, the show WAS amazeballs. All the best performances were showcased (meaning that 99% of the numbers were choreographed by either Travis or NappyTabs). It's no surprise that no Mandy Moore dances made the cut... You know... After she decided her strategy this season would be "let's see how lame can I get." Let's just hope that the verbal lashing she received on Wednesday will ensure that the audience will never have to sit through a number about "sneakers meeting up to boogie" again.

At the end of the day it was all good in the hood. My girl Lauren took home the title, and the dough, AND the Gatorade endorsement deal. She then proceeded to dump a bottle of my faveo lemon lime on top of her head which, for me, really displayed what it means to be a champion.

Well... It appears that this bus is taking a short cut to nowhere. If I don't make it out alive or if I linger perpetually of rotten eggs, I guess I'll see ya never.

Scrap This

Bros everywhere, rejoice. I've found a solution to the problem that's been plaguing you ever since you accidentally slipped "GTL" in real time conversation. You know what I'm talking about. You're embarrassed to admit it, but you've watched so much Jersey Shore that Snooki is starting to look less like Shrek's Italian daughter and more like George Clooney's Italian girlfriend. You've become accustomed to taking your shirt off at clubs and naming your abs "the circumstance." You've beat the beat enough to realize that you should probably invest in a pair of cushioned mittens. Live in shame no longer...

Spike took everything magical about the Jerz (big Italian personalities, outrageous accents and stupidity) without any of the dax wax, house music, or silicone implants. Then they added some hardworking meatheads, and dropped a few camera crews in Brooklyn--yes, the greatest city in America. What did they get? Scrappers, a guilty pleasure which doesn't really seem that guilty after all. I mean, it's a pretty tough gig these guys got going on (much unlike standing on the boardwalk in front of a t-shirt store for an hour a week... though, I would like to see Pauly D clearing out a job site without breaking a spike).

In truth, these guys probably have a combined IQ of a toothbrush, but they sure as hell get shit done. How do I know? (Insert shameless family plug here) I asked mah Dad! That's right, Big Steve made his television debut on the show's premiere as... well... himself: General Contractor Extraordinare. Though the role was small, it was groundbreaking (think Viola Davis in Doubt if that part was for an all-business Brooklyn builder and not Oprah). Anyway, a couple of scrappers, Mimmo and Dino (you can't make this stuff up), visited Papa T's job site in Brooklyn and hit it big. SO big, in fact, that you may be seeing Big Steve on the silver screen again soon!

There he is folks... Steve Tomaselli, making things happen since 1957. Think that's good? You should try his meatballs.

Happy As The Double Rainbow Guy

Greetings, O faithful readers. I write you from the confines of my livingroom after an epic, soul searching journey. You see, after the old bitch hit 100 I figured she needed to take some time, see the world, and frolick with the Dutch navy. Yes, my very own Eat.Pray.Love... With a little less pretty woman and a lot more slop tart. We'll call it: Eat.Eat some more.Pray. Love.Drink.Drink.Drink.Pass out.

Well, if I learned anything from my travels other than how to slug rum punches, it was that I have to stop thinking negatively and start exuding positivity. Which is why I'm not going to talk about how much I hate Ali "care bear nose" Fedotowsky. Instead, I'm going to talk about how happy I am that her chin is currently sporting a seriously volcanic white head. Like wash your face, dude.

All jokes and Proactiv products aside, I'm sure that by 10 PM we're all going to be watching a giggly, happy moron. Why? Well, because I'm 99% sure that Ali is going to choose herself tonight. In fact, she might look over in to the waters of Bora Bora and propose to her own reflection. I mean, who loves Ali more than Ali? Sure the show caters to love starved attention whores everywhere, but this one broke the mold.

Yes, this is my theory and I'm sticking to it. If it happens, there's no doubt that I'll be happier than the double rainbow guy. I can picture it now: falling off my Ikea couch, so overwhelmed with all things wonderful. DOUBLE RAINBOW!! WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?! Cross your fingers and hope for a sun shower, people! I'll catch ya on the other side of the rose.

Happy 100th Post, Sofalista!

Ladies and Gentlemen please join me in wishing Sofalista a happy 100... the old bitch. Yes, Sof’s has successfully avoided puberty, teenage pregnancy, and menopause at the ripe age of 100. Somebody get National Geographic on the phone; we have a medical marvel to feature topless on the next the cover (No worries… if Sofalista is anything like what I picture in my head, she has perky and ample breasts with the face of Megan Fox and the luscious locks of Russel Brand).

In honor of this momentous occasion, I’ve decided to take a look back on the better days of her youth. To do so, I give you a piece I’d like to call: “The Centennial.” In truth it’s just a look back on the top 10 best things about TV since Sof’s has come around… but that’s a pretty stale description for a celebration of centurion proportions.

10. Izzie peaces out: Not much more made me happier this season than saying goodbye to Katherine Heigl on Grey's Anatomy. I'm sure Seattle Grace Hospital didn't mind the decrease in second-hand-smoke either. I bet in real life Katherine smells like a cross between Amy Winehouse and a homeless person. But then again, if her personality had a smell, it would probably be crab cake vagina. While I'm sorry for Alex that his new bride high tailed it out of there without consummating the union, I'm sure he'll have no trouble finding a better doctor to take as a wife. You know... one whose most memorable surgery wasn't on a deer.

9. This word: Doppelganger: Over the past few months I've developed a pretty serious love affair with the cast of How I Met Your Mother. In fact, I would like to take them all (with their doppelgangers included) into my bed and engage in a giant, pirate-themed orgy ...I mean... not like I haven't scenario-ed that already or anything. But I especially love the show for giving me the word doppelganger. As a lover of the written word, it's only fitting that my television selections be reflective of my constantly growing vocabulary. Plus, before doppelganger, I used the word "bizarro" which for some odd reason reminds me of a fiery orange-head. Because I find that to be the highest form of offense, I'm really happy I've found a more intelligent solution with no connection to a fire crotch of any kind.

8. The life and times of Simon Cowell: This season marked an end to an era for America's highest rated program... Leave it to Lamas. Kidding. I'm of course referring to American Idol, and by "end of an era" I really mean I'm no longer watching with Simon absent from the judging table. Oh Simon--how I'll salivate for your cruel sarcasm and mutual hatred of Kara DioGuardi. Without you, how are we going to get her to shut her self indulgent, cavernous, pie hole?! They better replace you with Justin Timberlake or Jesus himself because if not, you can consider this viewer an ex.

7. Anything Travis Wall Choreographs: The closest thing to a television-induced orgasm I've ever had was watching Janine and Jason engage in what can only be described as artistic soft porn in the "heart dance" during SYTYCD's season 5. Luckily for us, Travis Wall continued to give us lady tickles all of season 6 (and now season 7) with routines that made us wish we were gay men (so that we could be Travis' lover, of course).

6. Snooki’s poof: While it disgusts me that a hair mass could garner so much attention (this of course stemming from my frighteningly hairy childhood), I couldn't help but be entranced by the "poof." Sure, I was probably more enthralled with the idea that people can actually survive with an IQ of -18, but I was captivated nonetheless. All in all, I'm highly anticipating the return of everyone's favorite GTL-ers, when the cast of the Jersey Shore hits Miami this upcoming season (...someone remind me why that's OK again?)

5. The threesome: Remember when Lizzie McGuire became a "real college girl" on GG by sleeping with boyfriend, Dan, and roommate, Vanessa, at the... wait for it... very same time. I'd love to meet anyone besides Hillary Duff who feels that their college experience wasn't complete until he or she menaged. And if I should ever meet one of those people, I would venture to guess the act in question would not have been with this person's roommate and significant other. Guess there's no need for a tube sock over the doorknob after that rendezvous. Talk about shitting where you eat. But in truth, this is why we love GG. Completely unrealistic plot lines mixed with steamy sex between beautiful people. Well done.

4. The presentation of Lily: The dawn of Modern Family this year was not only the crack rock that sitcom junkies like myself have been feigning for, but it was also the stimulus that led me to pee my pants for the first time since the 1st grade (Ah... I was so happy to learn that my prime days of elementary school were not far behind me). When Cameron, that big sparkly meatball, used the power of Elton John, Disney, and spot lighting to welcome Lily to the world, my heart smiled so big that it accidently swallowed my spleen.

3. This line: Dolphins are just gay sharks: Sometimes I sit up at night and try to remember a time before Glee. Was the world a little more gray? Did people know how to sing? I can only imagine that was the case. Who would have thought that a bunch highly attractive, mid-twenties divas would win over the hearts of America? Up until now, I thought that power could only be held by the "Can I Has Cheezburger?" kitty... or a really cute midget or something. For me, though, Brittany reins supreme. She represents all things I love in life: cheerleading, dance, the understanding of Lady GaGa, and other people's stupidity. Hearts!

2. When Kourt pulled her own baby out of her chocha: I think it's pretty safe to say that none of us will forget this image: a superhuman Kardashian sister reaching down into her underlings and pulling her own spawn out of her hoo-hah. Hm, I wonder what kind of vaginal reconstructive surgery that unimaginable feat required. Eh... they probably just threw it on Bruce and Kris' tab. You know... get 1,400 procedures and the next ones on the house. I just hope that Mason's underarms will not be permanently stained with with self tanner.

1. The answers… the ones we received and the ones we didn’t: Don't make me say it again... ugh, yes... LOST is over. While I'm still seeking therapy to help me with this loss, I can say with genuine gratitude that we've learned so much about the island this season. Most importantly, that it was real. It was, wasn't it!?! It was real! It really was!

Ahh yes, folks... the finest moments. Thanks for joining the ride. But before we say goodbye to this century of snarky television commentary, there are a few people in need of some thanks:

First, I'd like to thank my friends who dubbed this blog "Sofa-king-retarded.blogspot.com." Without their persistent teasing and cruelty, my critical and self effacing voice would not have been what it is today. Thank you... whores.

Secondly, I'd like to thank my superior teammates on the work force... Shelly, Shanaynay & Smam. These ladies have truly proven to be the backbone of the blog. Thanks for being my blogger gurus and principal water-cooler conversationalists. But now that you're all leaving me... yeah wait a second... never mind--I take it all back.

Third but no turd, I have to thank manfriend. Who despite whatever I may write about him in this blog, still laughs it off and loves me nonetheless. It's also because he probably doesn't read a single post... whore.

And lastly, I'd like to thank my momma... Sofalista's #1 fan. While she still doesn't understand that this is an actual blog site and not just some "email" that "pops up sometimes" in "that thing called her Google buzz," she still makes sure to make a big stink to her friends.... by forwarding my "pretty funny emails."

So happy 100th, Sofie... let's hope that without a summer of new prime programming you'll make it to 200 someday. LYLAS!

The Soundtrack to Our Lives

A few months ago I went to a Rolling Stone event where The Airborne Toxic Event put on a comped concert for the media poverty elite. I had lady tickles all over because the group sang my favorite song at the time, "Sometime After Midnight," which concequently was the only song I actually knew. Let me preface this story with this: To me, all musician types look the same; blindingly sexy and "unconventional." So when I thought I was bumming a cig off the lead singer of the main act I couldn't be blamed.

"Your songs are the soundtrack to my life," I told the 5'3 brunette Kate Gosselin head. He was so overly floored that I actually thought to myself, 'wow this loser doesn't deserve his band-status.' After that, he offered me his entire pack and probably would have serviced Star Jones if I asked him to. So there I was, with my "I'm with the band" tude and bummed cigarettes looking for other band members to make me feel even more entitled. I ran into another one, and again shot him my line. "Sorry," he said, "that's pretty sad." Fail. It would've been fine if the lap dog behind me didn't pipe up "Um. We're not in the same band." So, in effort to save my dignity I told them that their hair was stupid and that leather pants have been known to give grown men UTIs.

In truth, the soundtracks to our lives are crucial in evaluating the quality of our existence. Whenever something monumental happens I always wish my own personal DJ followed me around making the moments that much more memorable. I still remember when manfriend and I had our first kiss: Hammerjacks in Baltimore--Pour Some Sugar on Me blasted in the background while we poured beer on each other. Totally set the tone for our relationship.

But on to bigger and better things, I can only hope that a Queen medly plays when I have a baby. GOSH Quinn is so lucky! Her baby is going to come out a superstar with a welcome-to-the-world song like "Mama." She's already going to be the sexiest tot in the nursery with Puck and Quinster as birth parents. THEN Idina Mendzel adopts her? HO-Kay... The life lotery this girl just won is failproof. Puck on the other hand may not be so lucky; after taking a peek at Q's crowning chocha, he may never go within a mile radius of a vajayjay ever again.

Ahh Vocal Adrenaline. Now that's a Glee club I could really get on board with. Get swung around by beautiful men while Jesse takes all vocal responsibility and still win skyscraper trophies? Yeah, I'll take it. Plus, the coaching is clearly superior. I'll take Elfaba and Maureen over Briar-Patch head any day.

Disagree? Well I ask you this. What would you rather have as singles in the soundtrack of your life? Take me or Leave Me or whatever Matthew Morrison sang on Broadway? You chew on that. I'm going to go mourn a summer without Glee, my weekly morsel of eupheria. Hmm... I wonder what song that calls for. I'll start with the music from the finale...

Um, No Thanks

So it would appear that the new bachelorette, Ali (insert gagging noise), has requested that all of her potential suitors look like things that the sewer ate and later pooped out. With the exception of Jesse, sexy construction worker, and Roberto, former minor league baseball player, these guys seem to be collected from the "take my loser boyfriend" recycling plant. And not to say that the aforementioned bachelors are peaches either. Jesse is more inked than Jesse James' Hitler-loving mistress and Roberto, by his profession, is most likely a cheating, disease-ridden manwhore.

Also this season, ABC has made a bold move and invited a real NBC character to compete for Ali's heart. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I give you Michael Scott under code name "Johnathon the Weatherman." I really don't know how the network got away with this. I smell a law suit coming on, or as the Weatherman says, "something evil and dangerous."

Oh... and another thing... whoever says that the "Weatherman" is not gay is kidding herself.

But the real icing on the cake this go-around, is the bachelorette herself. I must say, Ali Fedotowsky is the most irritating, nausea-inducing, and unappealing bach to date. Upon further reflection, I've come to the conclusion that she has the face of some sort of bear-like cartoon figure (care bear, Paddington Bear, Winnie the Pooh, you take your pick) with the personality of a squawking parrot.

It's true; I've always had a real aversion to caddy bitches... especially those who lack the ability to feel comfortable in grown up clothes. When Ali was a contestant for Jake's season, her 8th grade sundresses made me feel like I was watching a reality show documenting a cracker factory. Now that the producers force her into big girl gowns, Ali looks just about as comfortable as a post-surgery Heidi Montag wearing clothes in public. Learn how to wear a real dress, you 12-year-old.

And that's really all I have to say on the subject. Seeing as I have no more GG or HIMYM in my life, my Mondays may have to be forced into this torture. Someone find me a solution---STAT!

Summer: Baby Making Season for your Favorite Things

The ladies and I have decided that summer 2010 would be the best summer of our lives... better known as BSOOL (we obvs totes heart abbrevs and acrons). So to kick it off right, I decided to step up my tan game and GTL before venturing off to the Jersey Shore (I mean... it's only appropriate). In the days following, my tan game was reflective of my sobriety: non existent. Upon checking the UV index (an 8), I thought that an SPF 4 would serve as a sufficient skin barrier. Now, sitting at my desk like a raw steak barbecued, I can say with confidence that I was wrong.

So what does this mean for me? Well apparently I've learned that when you get too much sun you start to have crazy dreams. Me? I dreamed that all of my favorite things were procreating... yes, doing the diggity and making babies. There were cream cheese meatballs and puppy marching bands. Yellow giraffes and sunshine margaritas. Yet, my subconscious could not re-create the coming together of my true favorite things. A feat so outstanding only FOX could pull it off. You know what I'm talking about... Glee gone GaGa. Oh sweet bad romance.

When Kurt pioneered the kick-ass rendition of BR in his Alexander McQueens I nearly wet my saran wrap (That's probably not as weird as you think; I busted out my makeshift Bubble-GaGa costume for the occasion). I actually did, however, wet my saran wrap with this line: "you look terrible. I look awesome." Ohhh Brittany, you ravishing comedic genius, you.

Speaking of Brittany, I've really begun to evaluate... scratch that... harshly critique the individual Gleek levels of dance proficiency. Brittany, by default, and other Asian guy, are clearly the shining dance floor afficianados of the group. Who is slacking on the groove train? Well friends, it gives me a little bit of happiness to say that Lea Michelle is as good at dancing as Danielle from the Real Housewives of New Jersey is at life. For all of those unfamiliar with the Bravo phenomenon, Danielle is a former stripper, drug addict, and kidnapper. Also, it pains me to say that my fellow former NYCHSAA member, Jenna Ushkowitz, is about as enjoyable to watch dancing as I would imagine Manuel Uribe is (if you don't know who this is, please don't Google if you are eating anything).

Well we'll be sure to further evaluate the moves in tonight's episode where Glee apparently goes "Funky." If someone doesn't get it on I'm gonna be pissed.

The Hardest Thing I Ever Had to Write...

...Is this blog post. Why? Because it means I've finally gathered my thoughts, gotten over the initial shock, dried my eyes, and accepted the fact that LOST is over. My professors will be happy to know that my thesis papers and short stories were walks in the park compared to the emotional vulnerability I have explored to get here.

However, I have to admit that I was a little skeptical about the finale before it aired. In fact, I had a post in my draft box urging America not to get their hopes up because ultimately we'd all be left saying: "eh?" I mean, the island is just a place that holds beautiful light and Jacob is nothing more than a glorified lighthouse keeper? Fuck. That. If that's the case, then I know someone who could do that job ten-fold... Lloyd Christmas. He's got enough gas to blue-dart that fiery hole till the polar bears come home.

Alright, enough with the negativity. In truth, the finale to me was more perfect than Taylor Lautner's washboard abs. So what do we know? Well most notable... the island is real life, sideways world is purgatory, and Ben is not going to heaven. It's perfect--absolutely perfect. This whole time everyone is asking "what is the island? what is the island?" when in fact, they should really be asking "what is this sideways world?" Of course the island is real life... this was the writers final "F-U" moment. How dare we ever doubt them; Shame. On. Us.

Alas in true LOST fashion, I'm still left with questions. Please feel free to comment with your thoughts, though I will most likely disregard them:

-Question #1: What the hell is up with Eloise Hawkins? She's about... hmm... 38-million-years old and hasn't made it to the afterlife? Is she just waiting around to kick it with Faraday while he commissions more has-been bands to accompany his mediocre piano playing? Perhaps she's waiting around till Charles pays his dues (Lord knows that guy doesn't have a first class ticket on the streets paved with gold).

-Question #2: Why am I the only person that thinks that showing the plane destruction after the credits meant something? There was not one person in sight yet all the wreckage was there. If memory serves me correctly, the passengers used all the materials to build rafts and shelters. Were they just trying to screw with our minds?! Probably...

-Question #3: Just because Walt went through puberty shouldn't mean he is now deprived of going to heaven with everyone. Sure, I bet he yanked the snake a little too often after leaving the island, but comeon'. Poor guy.

-Question #4: Do you think the amount of lines shared between Boone and Shannon at the end was directly proportionate to how much they were liked on set? After meeting Ian Somerholder I can say with confidence that he is as douchey as they come. Just something to think about...

Ugh! Now what? Every Tuesday I will have a hole in my heart until I too get to walk into the bright, white light. Jack, take me with you!

I guess I'll just have to start from the beginning, reliving the love, the loss, and all things smoky. I'll miss you, LOST!!

Just Another Day in the Neighborhood

You might remember that a few months ago I posted a spoiler alert about Gossip Girl. You don't remember, you say? Well then shut it and start reading... you clearly have a lot of posts to catch up on.

Anywho... last night, the episode of GG I watched being filmed finally aired. Because of this, I learned a number of things: 1. I need glasses because I was spit-slingin' sure that rugby boy coming to take Blaire on a date was Dan 2. I really need a hearing aid because I did not hear myself playing the "penis game" in the background and 3. I need to move because Gossip Girl has become a whole lot less glamorous now knowing that they film it in my neighborhood.

It's true... knowing that Serena Van der Woodsen resides just across the street from the humble rub-and-tug I call home, really brings down the wow factor for me. Hm, does that mean Rufus might have stumbled in to "Graceful Services" for a sweet rub down? Or Chuck for that matter?! I'll be sure to keep that in mind the next time I walk past the glass 2nd floor door and catch captain underpants readying himself for a massage. Do you think there's a lucrative opportunity here for tours? I'm down.

Last night I also learned that there is only one person on this earth more annoying than Serena: Jenny. Did she go through puberty overnight? Her boobs are all over the place and her PMSing is becoming too much to take. I mean, sorry you're not exactly bubbling over with happiness that your new life isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Perhaps it's because you've intentionally sabotaged the relationships you had with every member of your step-fam. But for future reference, you don't need to escape to Nate's to take solace. Next time, just open a window, let down your Mormon-status long hair and Rapunzel your ass down your own rat's nest (there's no doubt that your ponytail is at least 7 stories long).

And while we're on the subject of fairy tales, can we just take a moment to "ahh" over Chuck's Affair to Remember reference? (For those of you less cultured, this bold act of love can also be referred to as the Sleepless in Seattle reference). In celebration of this lady-tickler, let's curl up with an old classic and dream of what next week will look like...

Am I Living on the Island?

A lot of weird shit happens to me. It's probably because of my paralyzing fear of birds. They know all my secrets and use their powers of flight to create oddly ironic instances in my daily life. I'd like to think of a better reason as to why I witness 89% of all the crazy in the world... but I just can't. Any help would be well appreciated.

Here's an example: This weekend it was about 98045209580 degrees in Manhattan (not an exaggeration) and my 90283042980293802 year-old building (okay, a little bit of an exaggeration) heats up like an easy-bake-oven. So when I had this brilliant idea to move into the city on a pauper's salary, I never factored in that an air conditioning unit would bring my monthly spending from "barely" affordable to "stop-eating-you-penniless-ingrate" affordable. So as I sat in a pool of sweat in front of the industrial fan, I turned on the TV for some Seinfeld. You're probably asking yourself where the irony is here? The episode was about Jerry's parents refusing to use the air conditioner. I really didn't think much of it...

...That is until How I Met Your Mother came on. In the episode, Robyn's new manfriend asks her to move in with him. What a coincidence! My manfriend did too. Now, Robyn made the big-girl decision to ditch her friends and move in with the universe's biggest vagina. I'm sorry did I say big-girl? I mean big stumbling idiot. Granted my only friends aren't all ex-boyfriends of mine so the plot line differs quite a bit... but STILL! Is the universe trying to tell me something? Should I find NPH and make him my GBFF or something? I really didn't think much of it...

...That is until I found a bomb on my submarine! I mean WHAT ARE THE CHANCES!

Okay. In truth, the only reason why I posted this blog was because I've been listening to Alanis all day and needed an excuse to include this throw-back-vid somehow. Enjoy!

What the Flocke?!

The following post is lovingly dedicated to Kerry Miller Kearney... My great former boss who really loves her LOST.

When I was in the 1st grade, our school participated in one of those dumb-ass wrapping paper sales. You remember them; you'd go around to all of your neighbors showing them swatches of snowmen and the star of David but your parents would end up buying a decade's supply of paper just so you could get your prize of a pencil case and matching stationery? Well, this particular year I was on FIRE; selling wrapping paper like that shit was going to fuel the modern economy. Needless to say I had a great prize selection that year: a clear plastic phone and one of those magic doodle pens that made you write all scribbly (further research would show that these pens are in fact called "scribble spiral pens." I'm no longer impressed).

My teacher, Mrs. Foley, told me to follow my heart and choose the phone because it was what I really wanted. I, however, doubted her and believed my parents would never have the phone cord wired into my bedroom (don't ask me how I knew this at age 6). So I made my decision despite my teacher's advisement, handed in my envelope, and said goodbye to my life with an awesome, see through, light-up, big girl phone. Later that day I went home and found a phone cord popping out from the corner of my bedroom. OH THOU CANNOT DOUBT THOSE WHOM THEY ARE MEANT TO TRUST!!!

This analogy isn't really working, is it? Yeah I didn't think so...

Well after I picked up all the pieces of myself off the floor, cried a thousand tears for Sayid, Jin, Sun, and Lapidus (okay... maybe not so much Lapidus) and stipped naked to sleep comfortably in my 800-degree apartment (that last part probably didn't need to be shared), I started thinking about where this show is going. And while I can't fully answer that question in confidence yet... I think I'm starting to get somewhere.

Unless you're one of those people that believes the island is a hologram sent from the planet Xenon to sabotage mankind, you've realized the basics: the story of LOST is a story of contradictions, between good and evil, fate and happenstance, and God and nothingness. I'm crossing my fingers that good wins out in the ultimate battle here, but it's pretty clear that we're looking good in terms of fate and God. How do I know this? From Jack's enlightened change of heart.

And Flocke? Well that sonofabitch is undoubtedly the sneaky serpent, Lucifer. For a hot second there he had me charmed... but it all goes to show how deceiving evil can really be. It does make my heart extra happy, however, that Sayid never was fully "taken" by the flockeness monster. And of course by extra happy I mean victorious because I knew all along he couldn't be tricked. How... HOW is this show going to go on without him?!

Speaking of which, how is the show going to go on without Jin and Sun either?! I mean... kill me slowly, JJ, they BOTH had to die!? They have a baby! Sure, sure it was romantic and Titanic-esque that they couldn't live without each other. But here's the thing, Jin, Sun lived just fine without you.

Oh well, who am I to judge in the name of rational thought? I just spent the latter part of the hour seeing how many individual grains of rice I can fit on a fork spoke. That's not a lie. Speaking of which... I have a lunch to eat. Later, Others.

Sha-Bang, Sha-Boom, Sha-Bye

No need to refill your supply of antimicrobial foam earplugs for tonight's episode of American Idol... the velvet curtain has closed on the scream queen.

That's right, folks, Siobhan Magnus was booted last week despite votefortheworst.com's failed attempts of keeping her around. Take THAT, you despicable abuse of internet pestilence. Now the ingrates have dubbed Big Mike as their next "worst." While I do despise the site with every cell in my body, they always do have a way of getting it right. Bastards.

Well, if we've learned anything from Siobhan's stint on the show, we've learned of the potent, distracting powers of face sparkles and stupid-ass outfits. You know it too--if Siobhan hadn't had paraded around stage looking like Cindy Lauper on crack, we would have realized her voice blew a long time ago. We've also learned that we viewers are hypnotized by the sing-scream, a spellbinding exercise of voice perfected by the great Adam Lambert. In truth, when Siobhan wasn't screaming, I wanted to. Her low, monotone, sing-song voice made me think I was watching the audition rounds rather than the top 6.

The fact that people are surprised that Siobhan siobhounced last week really boggles my mind. My dad actually said the words "if Shabang leaves I'm not watching the show." I should have prefaced that with the fact that we're trying to convince my dad to get his ears checked. And by the looks of the below, David Letterman could use a visit as well. Let's remind their ears (and eyes) of what they're actually missing:

My Country 'Tis of Thee

Caught: I don't watch TV to "learn," my first reaction when I hear the words "educational programming" is to gag, and the extent of my historical knowledge is derived from the few episodes I caught of "The Tudors."

Luckily for me, however, the sneaky folks over at HISTORY (the channel... not just the noun) are giving me my life's dose of American history in the form of crazy CGI technology, sexy men, and jaw-dropping plot lines (and by plot lines, yes, I mean the factual account of how our nation was created). It's almost like they fed my prescription education pill stuffed in the middle of a delicious scoop of ice cream. Yep... just like Momma used to do it.

America The Story of Us premiered on April 25th to a record breaking audience for the network. It's no surprise really... especially when you take into account the Avatar-esque effects and delicious man candy selected to portray all of the colonial superstars (i.e. John Rolfe, Paul Revere, and Daniel Morgan just to name a few). It's truly amazing... before the show's premiere you could have told me that the colonists arrived to the new world on a ship called "The Black Rock," met these people called the "others," and broke bread with polar bears and dead people.

Yes, I'm exaggerating...

...well, sort of.

Anyway, if you have not been watching the show, you should; if not to be thoroughly entertained, at least watch it for some grade-A cocktail hour conversation tidbits. You can watch it Sunday nights at 9/8c on HISTORY. Do it for George Washington, do it for me, but most importantly do it for yourself... you great American, you!