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"