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.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
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.
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.