Punch Drunk Love

On Sunday, someone punched Kim Kardashian.

That was a really fun sentence to say, but in actuality she signed up for it. Yes, both Kim and her steamy cup of hot chocolate, Reggie Bush, showcased their athletic sylings on national TV Sunday night. Reggie was winning a game that would send his team to the superbowl (GO SAINTS!), while Kim was getting rocked in the face for charity. It was an all around GREAT night for TV!

"Man" of the house, Bruce Jenner, finally got his revenge for being kicked around like a rag doll for the better part of his adulthood last episode when he signed the gang up for a celebrity boxing match. Poor Brucey... all he wants is a little respect (and maybe to get his balls back). Sunday's episode opened with an awards ceremony in Bruce's honor that none of the kids showed up for. Real nice. I'm pretty sure that if it were legal to punch your kids in the face, Bruce would have played Tyson vs. Holyfield with the Kardashian girls a long time ago. Instead, he invited the charitable public to do it for him. Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky.

The episode also previewed the fathering skills of Scott Disick, television's skeeviest slimejacket. Surprisingly enough Scotty boy's parental instincts weren't completely fucked. Ugh! Something in that guys very being makes my skin want to jump off and take shelter in an armored safe box. Is it the silk smoking jacket? The pretentious air about him? The complete lack of regard for anyone but himself? Hmm... on second thought it must be the name...

And Another One Bites the Dust

Gather 'round boys and girls as I tell you all the story of the most feared creature in all of TV land.

He flies. He bikes. He possesses the innate ability to make your nipples shrivel with his awkward conversation and nonexistent sexual maturity. He'll make you want to rip your ears off by saying things like "neat," "gee golly" and "holy cow." And most importantly, he'll pull the rose out from underneath you and drop you like a bad habit.

You guessed it! I'm talking about big bad Jakey-poo, America's dreamiest virgin pilot. Jake's been using his powers of aversion to the opposite sex this week as he sent home double the amount of ladies-in-waiting than he was supposed to.

During the dreaded two-on-one date with Kathryn and Ella, Jake went rogue and kicked both of them to the curb. While I did think he and Ella would have made a decent couple, I totally understand why he sent her back to singledom; I'll spell it out for you: K.I.D. Kathryn, though? I really liked her! She was funny and adoreable and didn't scream loser... Hmm... Probably the same reasons why Jake didn't pick her.

We also had to say goodbye to Jessie who weirdly we only heard talk for the first time on Monday night. Sionara, Jessie... We'll miss ya... I guess? And last but not least, the final bachelorette on Jake's hitlist was Ashleigh. We obviously knew she was getting the ax the second she touched Jake's upper thigh.

And now we have the final five: Tenley, Allie, Vienna, Corrie, and Gia. My vote for the final rose? Tenley. She's adoreable, simple minded, and without-a-doubt prude. Match made in heaven. Allie is really starting to piss me off with all of this Vienna nonsense. Vienna is a tranny, Allie... Get over it. Then there's Corrie, whose awkward spanking is going to put her on a fast track to roselessness. I'm actually a big fan of Gia; not in a I would want her to win kind of way (she's clearly too hot to spend a lifetime with Jake), but instead in a wow she dated a Yankee and I would like to be her friend kind of way. Yes, Gia used to romantically involved with Yankee pitcher Carl Pavano. She has also graced the pages of Maxim. Hmm... I wonder if Jakey knows how out of his league he's in?

The Case Against Kara DioGuardi

"Heresths the thing," Kara... Everyone hates you.

It's true. So far this season the only guest judge that showed moderate fondness of the black sheep on the AI panel has been Victoria Beckham. Interestingly enough, Poshy Poo was also the guest judge who coined the line "I believe you are a person that would excel in retail." Correct--she is incapable of being mean to anyone.

You know deep down Vicky Becks is aching to "slama body down and wind it all around" when it comes to Kara. According to teasers, next week they're bringing Posh back for another stint behind the judges table. My guess is that no one else agreed to sit next to Kara for more than :30 seconds. Poor Posh is going to implode; her frail little body doesn't look like it could internalize any more aggravation.

Case in point, my new idol... Katy Perry. Mah girl had no tolerance for the word vomit that consistently spews out of Kara's mouth. Her exact words: "[Kara], please shut up before I throw my coke in your face." Couldn't have said it better myself. While Kara denied the feud to Us weekly saying the two were "joking around" those of us who are not retarded know better. EVERYONE. HATES. KARA.

Other Kaka (typo, but it stays) haters? Simon Cowell... well... obviously. With every roll of his eyes, Simon is one step closer to escaping from her hellish existence forever. God save American Idol when that day comes. Another Kaka hater? Last night's guest judge and my personal TVGBFF, Neil Patrick Harris. NPH nearly punched a bitch's lights out within the first :20 seconds of last nights show. I have to believe that his little tiffs with Simon were the product misplaced anger. In reality, he wanted each jab at Simon to be an industrial staple to Kaka's mouth.

In an effort to stomach Idol this season, I offer Kaka a bit of advice: stop talking just to hear the sound of your own voice. Take a hint from Joe Jonas' judging debut last night; the shorter, the sweeter.

"Joe, yes or no?"
"Yeah"

"Kara, yes or no?"
"You know what? I really like you. I think you got something. I'm gonna say yes."

"Joe, yes or no?"
"Yeah"

"Kara, yes or no?"
"A hundred percent yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. You're my favorite of the day."

"Joe, yes or no?"
"Yeah"

"Kara, yes or no?"
"No, sorry sweetie. It just wasn't there for me."

Ugh! "Heresths the thing," Kaka, while you may talk around in circles, your voice makes me want to punch a baby. Do America a favor and put your tongue in a head lock. Or maybe we'll just let Katy Perry do it.

Dear Awards Season, I love thee.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm in love. Yes, my manfriend is beyond fantastic, but I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about Oscar, Globey, Grammy, and SAG. They're the perfect dates, really. They come to you, take you to a super-glitzy VIP joint, and give you ultimate lady tickles all from the comfort of your own couch.

I'm a big fan of this award season in particular because of all the Gleeks on the red carpet these days. After getting bedroom eyes from Cory Monteith at a Glee luncheon, he's been the predominate panty-dropper-status male in my life ever since. Now he's gonna put on a tux with a bow tie? Yes please. (Ladies... never underestimate the seductive powers of the bow tie). Mark Sailling could get it too-- I don't discriminate against bad hair.

Overall, I've been pretty happy with the four A's of red carpet season: Attire, attitude, awards, and alcoholism (the last is of course a nod to everyone's favorite pair of melons, Mariah). But true to Hollywood, there was definitely a fair share of "omigod no what the eff is she wearing?!" I've now taken judgement into my own hands:

Best Dressed at the Globes:

If one is to learn anyting from this lineup, it's never be afraid to show some gams. If this picture of Jen isn't making Brad's beard rip itself out I don't know what will.

Worst dressed at the globes:

Granted, my favorite colors are black and gold, but I feel like I'm in a raibow-bright commercial. First of, Diane Kruger would look good in a paper bag... she should have worn one. This dress makes me want to punch a baby. And Sandra? This looks like a sweet 16 dress straight out of Jessica McClintock's 2002 collection. Sadly, mah girl Tina Fey made the list here with her homage to little-bo-peep and Maria made the list because we got too much of a peep at her not-so-little-bos.

Best dressed at the SAGs:

Ah... ladies in white. Symbol of purity. Bah--Kate Hudson is totes the Hollywood bicycle. Thank you Carey Mulligan for bringing back the F-M-Red.

Worst dressed at the SAGs:

This goes to show you that sparkles and prints, though happy, can work to destroy you. Beware of them... they may be your red carpet demise.

Ah... Sweet Reality

For me, the beauty of The Bachelor is being intoxified by outrageously lavish and (usually) super original dates that... well... I'll probably never see in my lifetime. The only dates I find myself on lately involve smoking flows, eating perogies, and watching Lady GaGa music videos (Yes, my manfriend and I have a truly grown-up relationship). As I write this on a lovely Friday night, I'm sitting next to a noisy eater on a full bus to Philadelphia; off to meet my prince and travel to his post-collegiate frat house kingdom.

As I sit, in a clusterfuck of traffic and in the middle of a conversation about dysmenorrhea, I begin to wonder what it would be like if real life really was like The Bachelor? Moreover... what if real life was really like this season of The Bachelor? If that's the case, I would imagine this night going quite differently.

"Are you afraid of heights?" Jake would ask in his big-wet-noodle-voice, as he picks me up from the office. Of course I've been wearing a full-length sequined evening gown all day as my closet is an arsenal of special occasion dresses and string bikinis. We would then jump into a helicopter, like how all dates this season apparently begin. I'd ooo and ahh over the beautiful view and fly over Murray Hill to incite gut-wrenching envy into all the girls trying to sleep with my man(Though, in truth, the girls of Murray Hill are just trying to sleep with any man). Then the scene would jump to a candlelit garden; in hand, two oversized glasses of white wine. I'm getting drunk; he's just getting more awkward. We'd follow it up with a rendezvous in the hot tub where I would try to be sexy and probably get the heebies from Capt. Boner-Killer. He would then ask me to go home. Let's face it... we're not cut out for each other.

Ah yes... sweet reality. In all Jake's defense, at least we know he's here to find love. He's been cutting dead weight left and right and I'm excited to see who gets the ax next. Will it be Allie? My once-favorite, now-bitchy instigator whose attacks on Vienna lead me to believe she's in fact, sixteen. Or will it be Jessie? The Courntney Bancroft dobbleganger who's been getting roses under the radar with no camera time. Or maybe it will be Vienna? The Miami tranny that has every girl in the house scratching their own eyes out? My vote? Sionara, Ashleigh, for crying at the comedy club and bringing nothing to the table.

Who do I hope gets the final rose? Kathryn, Corrie, or Tenley. Kathryn and Corrie because they're funny as hell and Tenley because she's been re-virginized (you know Jakeypoo loves that). Truth be told, if I were kind, I wouldn't want anyone with that man-napkin. Oh well... guess we'll find out soon enough!

Heresths the thing...

In order that the true Idol viewer understand the below, I intend to write the entirety of this post in Kara DioGuardi speak:

Heresths the thing... American Idol is BACK. And ya know what? Youer actually not gonna miss Paula. Tsee, heresths the thing... I really thought that there wus gonna be tsomething miscing on the tset. But you know what? The judging panel isths true to itsths artishtry. The chemhisstry that they bring... on SET? Isths GOT the chops. TShur... we're all gonna misths Paula... but ya know what? The tshow isths gonna go on without her.

If you haven't tseen the tshow, heresths a look at tsome of thosths that didn't have the chops:

Buzzkill Status: Flatline.

Paging Dr. Shephard... We have a patient in need of emergency treatment for a mean case of blue balls.

Yes, let's say it all together: "Womp. womp. womp." Watching Thursday's Greys Anatomy was like ordering your favorite takeout only to realize the main course was missing. I wanted meat and potatoes and all I got was a crappy side salad. Who cares that an annoying cardio patient can't choose between a pig and a cow valve? Who cares that Bailey continues to not get any? Who cares if Alex thinks about trading surgery for some much needed nookie with a pre-pubescent looking doctor? Not I.

Though I was thoroughly disappointed with the entirety of the episode, I was most let down with the lackluster return of everyone's favorite gyno, Addison Montgomery. For a hot second there I was so sure I didn't have to wait until Private Practice to see McSteamy rolling around shirtless. This of course reminds me of how much I hate Private Practice. STOP HOLDING OUR OBGYN HOSTAGE, YOU SAD EXCUSE FOR A PRIMETIME DRAMA!

I'm hoping that last week's return from hiatus is the necessary placeholder before something truly heart pounding... much like New Moon in the Twilight saga (I KNEW I'd be able to finally throw a Twilight shout-out in the blog somehow!). In true Grey's fashion, the only action happened in the last :30 seconds of the program... Lexi and Alex get it on... Christina pimps out her boyfriend to keep "cardio god" around... Meredith outs the chief. Hm, the fact that everything always happens at the same time of night on Greys really makes me wonder about Seattle. Maybe the rain, fog and proximity to Forks has created some kind of witching hour. Boredom... boredom... boredom... and BAM!

The Groundbreaking Cultural and Historically Accurate Phenomenon that is Jersey Shore

Some of you have asked why I have yet to blog about the show sensation that is making people all across our great country “beat the beat.” The show that has people asking, “what the hell is GTL?” The television spectacle that, by its very nature, challenges the historical and cultural authority of our ancestors. To be honest, the reason why I have not yet posted about Jersey Shore is because its depth and intelligence is infinitely beyond my authority as a measly little blogger. Are you confused? I shouldn’t imagine you could be! Every tidbit of guido/guidette knowledge radiating out of the little house on the boardwalk defies our schooling and inherent street smarts. Before I could comment on such a groundbreaking piece of work… I had to do some research.

The beginning of my studies sent me to Ancient China, the formally known origin of what we have come to learn by name as, “the poof.” You see, on Jersey Shore, it’s been rumored that Nicole “Snookie” Polizzi is the sole creator of “the poof” hairstyle—a fact my simple brain could not begin to accept. But as research would prove, I now stand before you corrected. As you can see pictured, the intricate sketches would lead you to believe that there would be a poof of hair atop the heads of these women. Do not be fooled, however. The “poof” of hair shown is simply a mass of hair, or a “bun” if you will. The lack of airy poofiness of these “poofs” negates poof completely.I then thought to myself “surely big hair presented itself elsewhere in history.” And why yes! It surely did. Pictured below, you will find a portrait of Marie Antoinette circa 1770. A poof, you say? Wrong! Further research will tell that Marie Antoinette was a wearer of ornate wigs. Gripes—history has fooled us yet again.

Feeling monumentally betrayed by earlier poofs and their constituents, I jumped a few centuries in research, determined that THE poof would present itself in the later 20th century. I landed among the pages of 1960’s fashion magazines and found in the pages a hairstyle so poof-esque I was positive I had proven this “Snookers” wrong. As shown below, the hairstyle embodies all aspects of “the poof;” it has definitive height, is assembled with just some gathering of the hair, and is, in fact, NOT a wig. But is this style a “poof?” Sadly, no. It is defined in fashion articles of old as a “bouffant.”

I can’t explain to you all how discouraged I felt at that moment. There was even a time that I thought I, myself, may have even invented the poof before Snookie. I went digging through old pictures only to find the below… a deflated non-poof. Clearly I had not mastered the art of the poof prior to MTV phenomenon, and upon realizing this, I surrendered to the genius that is Jersey Shore.

That’s right. I discontinued all research aiming to discredit the wise words of guidos and guidettes everywhere. Because of this, I have come to grips with the fact that Italy is the center of the universe; not the sun. I now know that laws of attraction imply a man is only desirable if he be “tan, juiced, and a meat-head guido.” I am now aware that if one is to jump in a hot tub wearing a thong, it should be a thong bathing suit. Men are welcome to hit women in public and a pickle was never once a cucumber.

On The Wings Of Love

Ahh... it's that time yet again. The time of year some may argue is better than Christmas. The bi-annual sensation that couples love with alcohol and a problematic addiction to television. Yes, it is the magical season where ABC whores out the crazies who come from near and far with one mission: to make complete asses out of themselves.

Well... that is unless you're Channy Choch (no, not a joke), this season's token ho/minority. 29-year-old Choch's mission: to catch the bach in her well groomed snatch. Her Cambodian one-liner to the virgin pilot, ("you can land your plane on my landing strip any time") left nothing to the imagination. Yeah, Channy... we know you wanna get it on, but that's not what Jakey Vaginaphobia wants to hear. Sadly Ms. Choch did not receive a rose; No, Jake saved those for all the intelligencia with lines such as "You have something on your tie... SIKE" and "Hi! I'm Tenley... like... the number ten."

Not only are the of ladies this season particularly stupid, but they are also particularly crazy. Michelle? That bitch is about to blow the joint up. Someone get an interventionist to the mansion STAT. If anyone has a right to go schizo in front of the cameras, it's poor Chris Harrison. Sure he has to pretend to be concerned with the love life of a man doomed for relationship failure (quote: "I have a lot of first dates, but no seconds"), but now he has to play pin the scarlet letter on the house whore? Somebody get this man a raise!

Ultimately, the skanks and the dummies and psychos had me thinking: someone needs to reach out to the single ladies of America who are deciding to go on the show, and prevent them from making a mockery out of true reality show love. (Haha. What? I can laugh at my own jokes). In response to my own musings, I've put together a what to do/what not to do list for all future contestants:

1. Practice walking in your heels. Whoever said tripping was charming must have been a drunk.
2. If you're going to come bearing gifts like one of the three freaking wise men, at least make it cool. Peacock feather? Cool. A basket of parting gift treats for your future roommates? Not cool. Pilot wings for a pilot? Cool. Gonorrhea? Eek. Not cool.
3. Never pour out your deep dark secrets on the first night. No one is going to care.
4. If your ugly, be witty. If your pretty, shut up and make bedroom eyes.
5. In choosing your dress, never underestimate the phrase "tastefully slutty."
6. Save the sexual innuendos for the overnight date.
7. Limit yourself to 2 glasses of wine--something to take the edge off but not your panties (remember her?)
8. You probably shouldn't sleep with a "staffer"... just sayin'
9. If you're going to "steal him away for some one-on-one time," have an excuse. Don't just be that girl.
10. Again... you probably shouldn't sleep with a "staffer"... just sayin'