Monday, November 8, 2010
Ladies, hide your fair featured friends. Everyone's going to want a piece of the Coco tonight and the last thing we need is another Ginger. But with that said, pumpkins are in season and I've made it my mission to embrace all things orange (that means you, Coco-bear). Who's excited!?!?!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I have a confession...
...It's not that I once peed on Lindsay Lohan's house (I'm not ready to confess that yet).
...Nor is it that I ever pooped my pants (Though, I can confess that my best friends are capable of such accomplishments).
...It's not even that I once told a doctor that my 8-year-old sister had a scorching case of herpes (Haha--that was a good one).
My confession is that before Sunday, I had absolutely no freaking clue what the hell Rocky Horror Picture Show was. I know what you're thinking: Me? The incredibly well versed entertainment enthusiast that I am was ignorant to the most notorious cult classic film in the history of American cinema?! Well I have news for you... NO ONE knows what Rocky Horror is about. Anyone who ever tried to understand the meaning of it was probably too high on their acid trip to create any semblance of thought. Even the weirdos who show up to revival theaters in full costumes with rice and water guns (cough... mom... cough) have no know idea what it's about.
After Jean Machine and I watched it about 85x on repeat this past weekend, I've been able to scrap together the following synopsis (to preface what you're about to read, no, I'm not on crack):
A newly engaged couple stumbles upon the castle/laboratory of Dr. Frankenfurter, a cross-dressing alien scientist from the planet Transexual of the Transylvania galaxy. They witness the unveiling of Frankenfurter's experiment, a sexy piece of man candy he creates using half of a delivery boy's brain. Frankenfurter murders the delivery boy (who miraculously is able to survive with half of a brain) with an ice pick. Then the whole gang, including a zombie handyman, a maid with a frizz problem, and a groupie in serious need of an eyebrow consultation, all has sex with each other and dance around in drag before the traitor aliens zap Frankenfurter with an anti-matter ray and he dies. Then the house blasts back to Transexual, Transylvania so they can do the time warp again. The End.
And people say our generation is fucked... HA.
Moving on, I now feel comfortable reporting on last week's Rocky Horror Glee Show. And what did I think? Bravo, Gleeks, Bravo!
Though Mercedes didn't have to flip the tip in her portrayal of Frankenfurter, the casting seemed to be spot on. Finn and his dumpy abs as Brad? Check. Sam and his chiseled-by-angels abs as Rocky? Check. Artie as Dr. Scott? Umm... duh. Yeah, yeah, all very exciting.
BUT if I'm going to be honest here, nothing thrilled me more than the performance we've all been waiting for... The Glee musical debut of Uncle Jesse. Did you hear me... I said UNCLE JESSE KATSOPOLIS). I knew the Rippers were gonna make a comeback one day. Someone is going to have to institutionalize me if he ever sings "Forever" with New Directions. Hmm... who's got Ryan Murphy's number? I have a proposition for him.
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.