Monday, November 8, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I have a confession...
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
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!
Friday, October 15, 2010
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.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
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…
Monday, September 20, 2010
If there's one thing missing in the city that never sleeps it's more hair extensions and fake eyelashes...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
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?” ;)
Monday, September 13, 2010
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 21st 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"
Friday, August 13, 2010
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.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
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.
Monday, June 14, 2010
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!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
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...
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
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.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
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.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
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...
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.
Monday, May 3, 2010
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."
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I've always held a soft spot in my heart for JJ Abrams. No, it's not because he gave me Desmond, but because he's never compromised America's intelligence. In fact, in a number of interviews, LOST writers have said that one of the aims of the show was to never doubt the viewer's problem solving intellect. Welp... that is until now.
Well folks, the climatic reveal of the century was unleashed last night on to the sort-of-suspecting Gossip Girl audience. That's right, we've seen the face of William van der Woodsen and, oh my stars, it's JACK DONAGHY! Shit... no... it's one of those other, less-special Baldwins.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Alright, let me start from the beginning...
In my more recent years, the ill-will I've harbored towards those of the pre-teen variety has snowballed to a mass of epic proportions. Some might say that this increase in resentment is directly reflective to the increase in cellulite appearing in my more-than-ever dumpy ass. Whatever the case may be, I've made it my personal vendetta to strike war against the recently pubescent, those smug little twits with their super-sonic metabolisms, new perky boobs, and parent's money.
Think that's harsh? I sure don't. Because of them, I've been forced to listen to Tim "Teflon" Urban on American Idol WEEKS past his welcome. Well America, I'm happy to report that last week was the last. That's right; prince puberty has left the building--Victory is ours at last!
Well, it was truly a great group effort, banding together as one saggy unit to give justice and votes to the deserving 20-somethings. So give yourselves a pat on the back and wear your thigh dimples as a symbol of triumph. Sure they may have their whole lives before them, the world at their fingertips, and the ability to eat a big mac without growing another chin, but YOU, dear friends, have your pick of remaining idol contenders. And well... that's really all that matters after all.