Friday, February 26, 2010

Intelligence LOST

While most of you probably think I am a genius, you may be surprised to learn that my intelligence is just slightly above average. So while there is a strong possibility that I am significantly smarter than you (statistically, of course), there's a bunch of people out there a lot smarter than me. Hey, just stating facts here, people.

It's pretty evident, however, that I am not of Einstein intellectual standing when I watch LOST. 9 out of every 10 episodes I watch reminds me of something that I should remember but can't. For example, a friend of mine informed me that in the show's pilot episode, Jack leaves the voice mail played on Wednesday before Oceanic 815 ever leaves Australia. Yeah, don't lie... you didn't remember that either.

So what are we to make of this? Either that Jack is a shady, son-hiding bastard who has pretended to be childless this whole time (let's not forget that Jack told Hurley on Wednesday that he had no kids and would make a terrible father), or his fate has been completely clusterfucked now that the island no longer exists in this parallel universe. If the latter is holding true, things aren't looking too shabby for Jack... or Hurley for that matter.

But things are looking pretty dreary for some of their passenger-mates. Gin? He's about as good as anally raped at this point in parallel-world time. You know homebody is headed straight for jail. It's cool, though... Charlie's there too; I guess he's probably regretting that whole smuggling heroin on an airplane thing right about now.

Now on to those I can't quite figure out. Kate? Well she's back on the run, but the real question is: does she like it? See, Kate's probably as domestic as a dingo--there's a very strong possibility that she loves her life on the edge. I don't know how well this new life is working out for Claire, either. Poor girl gets held hostage, then stranded, then her baby gets rejected, and then BOOM! Ethan is her doctor? Sure, you'd think "ick," but these unfortunate circumstances have left Claire weirdly smiley... a striking contrast from her nutso island counterpart.

And then we have Locke. Sure, in a wheelchair. Sure, fired from his job. But he's planning a wedding with his live-in lova. I'm thinking that means regular BJ's for the dude so he can't be terribly unhappy. Who knows... it's a hard Locke life.

Because the Snow Makes Me Crazy...

This has nothing to do with anything. It has nothing to do with Bachelor, or Gossip Girl, or Greys. It has nothing to do with Idol, or the Kardashians, or LOST. No, it just makes me happy on this most miserable of snowy work days. Don't thank me, thank Bethany...

Happy Snow Day, you lucky bitches.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

SPOILER ALERT---Ha, Who Saw That Comin?

God, I just love New York. I love the sights, the sounds, the mysterious hot odors over subway grates. I love the smiling faces of drivers flipping other drivers off to the song of their abused car horns. I love how I get to pay at least 40% more for everything than those non-New York residing brethren. Hell, I even love my third floor walk-up over a rub-and-tug.

But I think perhaps my favorite thing about this magical city is that at any moment you can walk right into a hot set. And if you're really lucky, the hot set of your favorite show.

Last night, I got the following text from one of my guy friends:

"Gossip Girl. Lights. Cam. Action."

I should probably preface this story by saying that this guy is straight... or at least be pretends to be. The only things he truly loves about Gossip Girl are Blake Lively's legs... and Ed Westwick's crotch. Moving on...

So I stumble across the street to meet my friend in front of Blaire Waldorf's apartment building (No... I know... Gossip Girl is not real life-- blah blah blah). Which brings me to the next thing I love about this city... extras. No, I'm not talking about the extra city tax; I'm referring to the plethora of aspiring actors running rampant around Manhattan, ravenous for a chance to appear on film. As the cameras rolled, these fools tried everything to steal a few eyeballs. One guy sneezed as he walked past the camera. Some other bitch bent down to pick something up. And I swear, I actually saw a fool leap.

This poor production staff. Heaven must hold a special place for them... right next to Chris Harrison. You know they are all about the FML.

So... getting to why you are probably reading this--this is what I know: In an upcoming episode, Leighton Meester will sport a seriously killer brown ball gown and diamond bib necklace. She will be greeted by a lesser-dressed Penn Badgley in her lobby. He will offer her his jacket and they will kiss.

Ok, so I'm not 100% positive it was Penn Badgley. We all know how I think Dan is about as appealing as a colonic, so I'm a little skeptical if that dashing sexy beast could have actually been Penn. I guess we'll just have to wait to find out!

AH!!! I'm so flippin' excited for this shit to return. I've waited far too long for a Chuck Bass lady tickle. Let the countdown begin!

Monday, February 22, 2010

St. Chris of Bacheloria

I am writing today to petition for the social canonization of Chris Harrison. No, I'm not suggesting the church begin collecting relics in the form of long stem roses; I'm only saying that when you really want to hit a bitch, just think of St. Chris and perhaps you'll abstain.

Yes, St. Chris, patron saint of wanting to hit a bitch and holding back. Truly this is an angelic man. Last night, the bachelor contestant who got kicked off for not being able to keep her legs shut around men with power returned to the "Women Tell All" stage to duke it out with poor Chrissy-Poo. For those of you living under a rock (or have better things to do than follow this horrific season of The Bachelor), Rozlyn Papa was kicked off early in the season for "allegedly" (Ha!) having an affair with one of the show's producers. Yet alas, the burden of booting the ho fell upon the shoulders of St. Chris. (Please refer to the video below).

You know that every other thought that goes through poor St. Chrissy's head is "FML." His job duties entail dealing with the emotions of people doomed to never find real love (cough... Jake), dealing with the delirious, intellectual ingrates that actually believe they can find love on TV (cough... Tenley), and attention whores who come to the show solely to propagate their own mindless agendas (cough... Allie... cough). Now he has to go head-to-head with sociopathic, supermodel whores?! Someone call ABC--St. Chris needs a raise.

Rozlyn swears (on her child's life, no less), that this relationship she had with a producer was not physical. Me thinks that Rozlyn is a pathological liar, but for s&g let's give her the benefit of the doubt for a second; In that case I should suspect that Roz is some kind of super-whore who only considers "physical" relationships to be those which result in a litter of kiddies.

The ladies banded together last night to back St. Chris in his mission to slay the beast... the beast being Roz the Whoreable and the slaying being a stern, verbal lashing. The fight was epic, ultimately leading to Roz accusing St. Chris of cheating on his wife. Not so fast, Roz! Don't think that you can bring down St. Chris on your sinking ship of sloredom. Didn't you ever learn to never take a saint's name in vain?

The Armenians Take Gold in the Placenta Olympics

Last night on the finale of Keeping up with the Kardashians, Scottney had a baby boy...

...and Kourt singlehandedly pulled him out of her hoo-hah.

We've all heard it: birth is a miracle. But in honor of the 2010 winter games, Kourtney Kardashian just made labor an Olympic sport. We'll call it the Birth Canal Luge.

If you missed the show last night, I'll give you the play-by-play. Kourt's water breaks in the middle of the night. After laughing about how it's "dripping down her leg," she decides to spare the wood paneled floor of a goo spill and catch it in a cup, proving early on that she will be a staunch competitor in the placenta games. Then, remaining completely calm, she opts to take a shower so that she could shave. See! You can even ask Michael Phelps... nothing gives you speed and agility like a clean shave (especially when we're talking about the no-no parts).

Before heading off to the hospital, Kourtney applies a fresh face of makeup giving her yet another 10 points. The fact that Kourt has remained so calm despite how she is about to give birth to a half cartoon-character baby (from the child's parental side, of course) is truly remarkable.

At the hospital, Scottney is met by future aunts, Kim, Khloe, Kylie and Kendall as well as Grandma Kris. Hmm... something tells me Kris isn't going to be taking the title of "Grandma" too lightly. I should expect the baby will be calling her "Krazy lady who takes care of me sometimes" for quite a while.

And at last, the main event! Kourt is feeling pressure and it is time for the pushing to begin. As baby daddy, Scott Dickish, mans the video camera (and not his girlfriend), Kourt flies solo, pulling her knees to her chest preparing for the decent. All of a sudden, the baby's head emerges. Then in one valiant championship effort, Kourtney reaches down into her depths, grabs the baby, and pulls him out of the luge and on to her chest. Baby boy, Mason Dash Disick and a gold medal performance for team Armenia! Bruce Jenner will be so proud to learn there is another Olympic champion in the family!

Congratulations, Kourtney! You've always been my favorite Dash and I wish you all the best. As for the silk-robe mancreature baby daddy of yours? Well, let's just hope we'll never have to see this again:

Thursday, February 18, 2010

The Creepiest of Inhabitants

Not-so-bold-statement: A lot of creepy shit happens on LOST. In fact, whenever I watch an episode by myself I immediately need to follow it up with a Friends DVD. Polar bears in the jungle? Dead people showing up unannounced? A dude that never ages and always appears to be wearing eyeliner? ...Yeah, it's freaky stuff. But the creepiest aspect of the show is its nature to provoke thought; let me tell you, my mind is a twisted and scary place to spend a lot of time in.

Second to that, in my opinion, the creepiest of all creeps ever to step foot on the island are all under the age 12. Yep, kids. Kids are pretty freaking scary. No wonder why single ladies fear pregnancy--you need a man committed to you by vows under God to serve as a buffer. Think about it: The Orphan... The Ring... The Omen... anything that a young Dakota Fanning starred in? All proof that the littlest of people stir the biggest of chills.

This fact particularly holds true when it comes to LOST. In all five-and-some seasons, the one character that still gives me the heebie jeebies on command is Walt. Having trouble recalling the extent of his creepiness? Let me remind you that birds committed suicide in his presence, marriages broke up because of his mysteriousness, and it was Walt who summoned the polar bears to the island. Not only that, but he appeared to a dying Locke and has since been going through a particularly awkward phase of puberty.

My next example is sort of a covert creep; an under-the-radar-conductor-o-terror, if you will. I'm referring to Aaron, baby creep extraordinaire. Let's not forget what Claire's psychic predicted: if left in the wrong hands Aaron could bring the world to an end. Plus all of that poking and prodding and plane crashing that happened to him while in the womb must not have done him well either. Hmm... yep, that qualifies him as first-class creepster in my book.

Boys and girls, what we've learned thus far is that creepiest knows an age... and that age is youth. Even the two little kids from the back of the plane that were kidnapped by the others in Season 2 scare the poop out of me. And they didn't even talk! Slightly past a ripe, young age but another example nonetheless is Alex, Rosseau's birth spawn and Ben's adopted daughter. She pops up out of no where and is a little too anxiety-ridden for my liking, but more than that, Alex is a prime case of creepy face. Call me superficial, but if I gave birth to that, I'd put her back in.

This all brings me to my final point. Who the hell was the creepy bloody child from Tuesday night's episode? Why can't Richard see him? Why can Sawyer? Is he a young Jacob? Or a 'referee' in this twisted little game Jacob and the Man in Black are playing? Why can he tell smokey/Locke what to do? Most importantly... why does this show continue to keep me up at night fearful that scary little children are going to show up in my room in the middle of the night?

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Beggars Can't Be... American Idols

The setting: 4th grade slumber party. The year was 1995.
The mood: Tense. The host, with her early developed chest and enabling parents, was by far the most popular girl at school. I? Nicknamed "Hairy" and not even allowed to shave my legs or listen to TLC? Not so much.
The game: "Who is going to be famous"
The rules: Sing (a cool song), dance (provocatively), act (sexually), or call a boy (always a good idea) to impress the host and her posse of under-aged plastics so that they can ultimately decide your fate as a future superstar. Awesome.

As I sat in line, rehearsing the lyrics of "Colors of the Wind," I thought to myself 'Wow! This is my chance.' I mean, I had scored the leading role in the 4th grade production of Pocahontas opposite the elementary school equivalent of Brad Pitt. Despite my unusually hairy arms and un-proportioned sideburns, clearly I would be the most famous when I grew up. Without a doubt, the popular girls would deem me fame-bound and would want to be my bffs... ae.

I stood before the judges table, the host bitch's canopy bed which I would later learn she had peed frequently, and confidently sang my solo in the delusional likeness of Vanessa Williams (no... NOT the voice of cartoon Pocahontas). I awaited applause... but was only faced with booming laughter. "Nice song, Pocahairy." Womp womp. Isn't that what it always comes to? Fucking song choice.

Ah yes. Song choice: The key to American Idol success. Pick a wrong song and you might as well just stand up there and pick your dingle-berries. Sing Gwen Stefani when you should be singing Barry White? Well sweetie, you just sang success sionara.

The only thing more appalling than picking the wrong song is to beg the judges for another chance. Hello people! Have you seen the show?! (Warning: nerdy career-based learnings ahead) Based on the ratings for A18-49 I would assume so! In that case, there is NO excuse for groveling. Call it pride, call it arrogance, but I refuse to beg for anything (ever since the 4th grade, that is). "Can I sing something else?" "Lemme get another stab at it." "Comeon, Dawg this is my dream--give me another chance!" No... the answer is always ALWAYS absolutely NOT. Salvage any bit of dignity, man. Idiots.

Luckily for the viewing public, begging was at a tolerable minimum this week as the judges decided the fate of remaining Hollywood week contestants. What were we left with? A top 24 selection that would surpass a selection of 24 of anything--baked goods, hits of the late 90s, Westminster Kennel Club dog show finalists, etc. We were also left with a new Glee preview so nipple-ticklingly exciting that I had the pee-pee sensation for a whole 24 hours. I've provided both videos below. Yeah, I know... you love me.

Want more American Idol videos? Click here.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Clive Bixby

What is it about men in turtlenecks that screams "I'd like some sex please?" Maybe it's the binding nature of the silhouette? The often ribbed-for-her-pleasure fabric? All I know is that once paired with a smoking jacket, it's the stuff that sexual identities are made of.

In the case of Phil Dunphy, when the powers of the turtleneck and blazer combine, we are left with Clive Bixby, sexual predator in town for a conference. I probably would have been equally as excited by "English gentleman" or "esteemed business man" or better yet "Claire I tame tigahs no big deeel." Oh but I did love Clive-- Clive Bixby with his name tag and fake cigarettes. He sure knows how to show a lady a good time. He should meet Valencia, my sexual identity; naughty hotel maid extraoridinaire. Hmm... that was probably TMI.

So this whole "role playing" business really got me thinking: how can that translate outside the bedroom? I don't know... Let's say at the office? The idea came to me during a presentation where a co-worker named Ted introduced himself to a rep not as "Ted" but instead as "Kim." After we pointed and laughed for probably a innapropriate amount of time, I thought "huh... Why can't he be Kim?" I mean, he wasn't about to do any business with crazy cat lady with her looseleaf paper presentation; might as well get some kicks for the hell of it. I told a friend that next meeting I'm going to introduce myself as "Virus, assistant planner of death." My friend told me it was a bad idea and that my stupidity hurt his brain. To that friend I would like to say: bite me.

More than introducing me to Clive and Julianna, Phil and Claire Dunphy did something else for me on Wednesday's episode of ModFam... They made me seriously crave some garlic cheesy bread. So as I write this, I'm actually en-route to Philly in search of the city's best garlic cheesy bread. Manfriend may not know it yet, but he's getting hot, melty, cheesy carbs and garlic breath kisses this Valentine's Day. Baby, if you're reading this, I mean what I'm about to say: nothing says I love you like bread and cheese. Next year, you should probably re-think flowers. Hey... I wonder if they can make a cheesy bread boquette? Imma gonna write that one down...

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

What I Would Rather be Doing Today...

For me, city snowfalls are about as appealing as taking a cheese grater to my nipples. Streets are cleared in about .5 seconds and you're left with brown sludge that will never prevent you from going to work, but will definitely make your commute 10x times more miserable. Disagree? Well then you can suck it-- that either means you got to stay home today or that you're too dumb to be granted an opinion.

So, as I sat in my cubical on this crappy day, I began to think about all the other things I would rather be doing: having a snow ball fight in Central Park, watching people trip outside my building, making yellow snow... you know... the usual. But above all I would rather be roasting on an island beach... (Watch out--here comes the segue)... via Oceanic Flight 815.

A friend of mine has made it her mission to watch Lost from the show's season 1 beginnings. I'm pretty jealous... not because she has all the DVDs and something to do for the next hundred years, but because her experience of Lost has yet to be adulterated by the boundless labyrinth of mind games. See, I never asked questions when polar bears showed up on the island, or when Libby was revealed as a patient in an insane asylum, or the fact that Hurley has been able to remain rotund after over five seasons on an island--but creepy Ethan shows up as Claire's doctor in LA? Let's all say it together... WTF.

"I just don't want to have to stick you with needles if I don't have to." HA. Ethan, I reserve the right as a loyal viewer to never have to hear you say "stick you" ever again. That guy sends more chills down my spine than the snowpocalypse. It's interesting though, in season one Ethan was with Claire moments before she went into labor and Kate delivered the baby. How nice for them to share that moment off island. Coincidence? I think not.

I'm equally as perturbed with this "darkness" nonsense. First it claims poor sweet Claire and then Sayid? Correction... nothing "claims" Sayid. Sayid is bad ass to the inner workings of his soul; I have to believe that his cells will torture and take out any enemy threat. And another question: if one who is dead can be "claimed," does that mean that Claire had died at one point? And speaking of dead people, it's nice to know that Rousseau is a walking corpse. Has she been a carnation of the man in black this whole time? Holy hell what is this place?

Of all the questions I have from last night's episode, my most serious question is this: Did the casting director really think that we could take the guy from Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia seriously as a gun-yielding other with the name "Aldo?" On that note...

Monday, February 1, 2010

Good God Grammy

Well... if anyone had any doubts as to whether or not GaGa has a teeny weeny, I'm sure your questions have been answered after last night's performance. In a strategic move to prove to America that she is all lip and no tip, GaGa wore a frontal wedgie and not much more. Yet while I can verify she is no hermie, I can't verify whether or not she is human; her show-opening performance with Sir Elton John last night left me speechless (ignore obvious pun here).

Sigh--my love for the Lady is limitless and it was definitely ladies night last night. I say that because ladies night for me also involves taking off my pants. It's true... at no pants o'clock, when the crescent moon tangos with a rising sun after a night of raucous drinking, I demand the pants off and cream cheese out. Based on last night's red carpet, I'm more than positive that I could recruit some more ladies to my pantless wolf pack. Britney, Ciara, and of course, GaGa... all women who started getting dressed and half way through said "eh." Well done you. The Grammy gods also used their powers to raise all the hemlines this year--i.e. Heidi, Fergie and Lea Michele's sexy little numbers. I would shave off my eyebrows to own any of those dresses.

Speaking of the ladies, I was especially proud to have a vajayjay last night. The bitches tore up some serious Grammy stage, putting the boys to shame. We all know how I feel about the GaGs, but the B? Holy Sasha Fierce. There was a moment in her performance where I actually questioned my sexuality. And Pink? Wet... naked... swinging... more of that please. You know Pink has made her way in the world when my Dad says "I hope she sings Funhouse."

If I had anything negative to say about last night's show, it would have nothing to do with the performances, or the gowns, or the public display of inebriation--no... my problem is directed towards the lazy marketing staff who let maybe 6 people know that you would need 3D glasses for Michael Jackson's tribute. Here you go MJ... a beautiful rendition of your song with lots of green and red squigglies. I actually learned about the 3D performance after an intense google search of Grammy performers. My Dad and I then ventured on a wild goose chase to two different Target stores with no avail. We then decided to storm the movie theater and steal our glasses from those who go see Avatar instead of watching the Grammys... come'on they deserve it... sorry James Cameron. To my dismay, the stupid Avatar glasses didn't even work! Stupid Pandora. Stupider Grammy people.

And because I refuse to leave this post on a sour note like Taylor Swift's pitchy performance with Stevie Nicks, enjoy some of last night's truly spectacular spectacles: