If Stink Bombs Had a Voice...

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.

Scrap This

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.

Happy As The Double Rainbow Guy

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.

Happy 100th Post, Sofalista!

Ladies and Gentlemen please join me in wishing Sofalista a happy 100... the old bitch. Yes, Sof’s has successfully avoided puberty, teenage pregnancy, and menopause at the ripe age of 100. Somebody get National Geographic on the phone; we have a medical marvel to feature topless on the next the cover (No worries… if Sofalista is anything like what I picture in my head, she has perky and ample breasts with the face of Megan Fox and the luscious locks of Russel Brand).

In honor of this momentous occasion, I’ve decided to take a look back on the better days of her youth. To do so, I give you a piece I’d like to call: “The Centennial.” In truth it’s just a look back on the top 10 best things about TV since Sof’s has come around… but that’s a pretty stale description for a celebration of centurion proportions.

10. Izzie peaces out: Not much more made me happier this season than saying goodbye to Katherine Heigl on Grey's Anatomy. I'm sure Seattle Grace Hospital didn't mind the decrease in second-hand-smoke either. I bet in real life Katherine smells like a cross between Amy Winehouse and a homeless person. But then again, if her personality had a smell, it would probably be crab cake vagina. While I'm sorry for Alex that his new bride high tailed it out of there without consummating the union, I'm sure he'll have no trouble finding a better doctor to take as a wife. You know... one whose most memorable surgery wasn't on a deer.

9. This word: Doppelganger: Over the past few months I've developed a pretty serious love affair with the cast of How I Met Your Mother. In fact, I would like to take them all (with their doppelgangers included) into my bed and engage in a giant, pirate-themed orgy ...I mean... not like I haven't scenario-ed that already or anything. But I especially love the show for giving me the word doppelganger. As a lover of the written word, it's only fitting that my television selections be reflective of my constantly growing vocabulary. Plus, before doppelganger, I used the word "bizarro" which for some odd reason reminds me of a fiery orange-head. Because I find that to be the highest form of offense, I'm really happy I've found a more intelligent solution with no connection to a fire crotch of any kind.

8. The life and times of Simon Cowell: This season marked an end to an era for America's highest rated program... Leave it to Lamas. Kidding. I'm of course referring to American Idol, and by "end of an era" I really mean I'm no longer watching with Simon absent from the judging table. Oh Simon--how I'll salivate for your cruel sarcasm and mutual hatred of Kara DioGuardi. Without you, how are we going to get her to shut her self indulgent, cavernous, pie hole?! They better replace you with Justin Timberlake or Jesus himself because if not, you can consider this viewer an ex.

7. Anything Travis Wall Choreographs: The closest thing to a television-induced orgasm I've ever had was watching Janine and Jason engage in what can only be described as artistic soft porn in the "heart dance" during SYTYCD's season 5. Luckily for us, Travis Wall continued to give us lady tickles all of season 6 (and now season 7) with routines that made us wish we were gay men (so that we could be Travis' lover, of course).

6. Snooki’s poof: While it disgusts me that a hair mass could garner so much attention (this of course stemming from my frighteningly hairy childhood), I couldn't help but be entranced by the "poof." Sure, I was probably more enthralled with the idea that people can actually survive with an IQ of -18, but I was captivated nonetheless. All in all, I'm highly anticipating the return of everyone's favorite GTL-ers, when the cast of the Jersey Shore hits Miami this upcoming season (...someone remind me why that's OK again?)

5. The threesome: Remember when Lizzie McGuire became a "real college girl" on GG by sleeping with boyfriend, Dan, and roommate, Vanessa, at the... wait for it... very same time. I'd love to meet anyone besides Hillary Duff who feels that their college experience wasn't complete until he or she menaged. And if I should ever meet one of those people, I would venture to guess the act in question would not have been with this person's roommate and significant other. Guess there's no need for a tube sock over the doorknob after that rendezvous. Talk about shitting where you eat. But in truth, this is why we love GG. Completely unrealistic plot lines mixed with steamy sex between beautiful people. Well done.

4. The presentation of Lily: The dawn of Modern Family this year was not only the crack rock that sitcom junkies like myself have been feigning for, but it was also the stimulus that led me to pee my pants for the first time since the 1st grade (Ah... I was so happy to learn that my prime days of elementary school were not far behind me). When Cameron, that big sparkly meatball, used the power of Elton John, Disney, and spot lighting to welcome Lily to the world, my heart smiled so big that it accidently swallowed my spleen.

3. This line: Dolphins are just gay sharks: Sometimes I sit up at night and try to remember a time before Glee. Was the world a little more gray? Did people know how to sing? I can only imagine that was the case. Who would have thought that a bunch highly attractive, mid-twenties divas would win over the hearts of America? Up until now, I thought that power could only be held by the "Can I Has Cheezburger?" kitty... or a really cute midget or something. For me, though, Brittany reins supreme. She represents all things I love in life: cheerleading, dance, the understanding of Lady GaGa, and other people's stupidity. Hearts!

2. When Kourt pulled her own baby out of her chocha: I think it's pretty safe to say that none of us will forget this image: a superhuman Kardashian sister reaching down into her underlings and pulling her own spawn out of her hoo-hah. Hm, I wonder what kind of vaginal reconstructive surgery that unimaginable feat required. Eh... they probably just threw it on Bruce and Kris' tab. You know... get 1,400 procedures and the next ones on the house. I just hope that Mason's underarms will not be permanently stained with with self tanner.

1. The answers… the ones we received and the ones we didn’t: Don't make me say it again... ugh, yes... LOST is over. While I'm still seeking therapy to help me with this loss, I can say with genuine gratitude that we've learned so much about the island this season. Most importantly, that it was real. It was, wasn't it!?! It was real! It really was!

Ahh yes, folks... the finest moments. Thanks for joining the ride. But before we say goodbye to this century of snarky television commentary, there are a few people in need of some thanks:

First, I'd like to thank my friends who dubbed this blog "Sofa-king-retarded.blogspot.com." Without their persistent teasing and cruelty, my critical and self effacing voice would not have been what it is today. Thank you... whores.

Secondly, I'd like to thank my superior teammates on the work force... Shelly, Shanaynay & Smam. These ladies have truly proven to be the backbone of the blog. Thanks for being my blogger gurus and principal water-cooler conversationalists. But now that you're all leaving me... yeah wait a second... never mind--I take it all back.

Third but no turd, I have to thank manfriend. Who despite whatever I may write about him in this blog, still laughs it off and loves me nonetheless. It's also because he probably doesn't read a single post... whore.

And lastly, I'd like to thank my momma... Sofalista's #1 fan. While she still doesn't understand that this is an actual blog site and not just some "email" that "pops up sometimes" in "that thing called her Google buzz," she still makes sure to make a big stink to her friends.... by forwarding my "pretty funny emails."

So happy 100th, Sofie... let's hope that without a summer of new prime programming you'll make it to 200 someday. LYLAS!

The Soundtrack to Our Lives

A few months ago I went to a Rolling Stone event where The Airborne Toxic Event put on a comped concert for the media poverty elite. I had lady tickles all over because the group sang my favorite song at the time, "Sometime After Midnight," which concequently was the only song I actually knew. Let me preface this story with this: To me, all musician types look the same; blindingly sexy and "unconventional." So when I thought I was bumming a cig off the lead singer of the main act I couldn't be blamed.

"Your songs are the soundtrack to my life," I told the 5'3 brunette Kate Gosselin head. He was so overly floored that I actually thought to myself, 'wow this loser doesn't deserve his band-status.' After that, he offered me his entire pack and probably would have serviced Star Jones if I asked him to. So there I was, with my "I'm with the band" tude and bummed cigarettes looking for other band members to make me feel even more entitled. I ran into another one, and again shot him my line. "Sorry," he said, "that's pretty sad." Fail. It would've been fine if the lap dog behind me didn't pipe up "Um. We're not in the same band." So, in effort to save my dignity I told them that their hair was stupid and that leather pants have been known to give grown men UTIs.

In truth, the soundtracks to our lives are crucial in evaluating the quality of our existence. Whenever something monumental happens I always wish my own personal DJ followed me around making the moments that much more memorable. I still remember when manfriend and I had our first kiss: Hammerjacks in Baltimore--Pour Some Sugar on Me blasted in the background while we poured beer on each other. Totally set the tone for our relationship.

But on to bigger and better things, I can only hope that a Queen medly plays when I have a baby. GOSH Quinn is so lucky! Her baby is going to come out a superstar with a welcome-to-the-world song like "Mama." She's already going to be the sexiest tot in the nursery with Puck and Quinster as birth parents. THEN Idina Mendzel adopts her? HO-Kay... The life lotery this girl just won is failproof. Puck on the other hand may not be so lucky; after taking a peek at Q's crowning chocha, he may never go within a mile radius of a vajayjay ever again.

Ahh Vocal Adrenaline. Now that's a Glee club I could really get on board with. Get swung around by beautiful men while Jesse takes all vocal responsibility and still win skyscraper trophies? Yeah, I'll take it. Plus, the coaching is clearly superior. I'll take Elfaba and Maureen over Briar-Patch head any day.

Disagree? Well I ask you this. What would you rather have as singles in the soundtrack of your life? Take me or Leave Me or whatever Matthew Morrison sang on Broadway? You chew on that. I'm going to go mourn a summer without Glee, my weekly morsel of eupheria. Hmm... I wonder what song that calls for. I'll start with the music from the finale...

Um, No Thanks

So it would appear that the new bachelorette, Ali (insert gagging noise), has requested that all of her potential suitors look like things that the sewer ate and later pooped out. With the exception of Jesse, sexy construction worker, and Roberto, former minor league baseball player, these guys seem to be collected from the "take my loser boyfriend" recycling plant. And not to say that the aforementioned bachelors are peaches either. Jesse is more inked than Jesse James' Hitler-loving mistress and Roberto, by his profession, is most likely a cheating, disease-ridden manwhore.

Also this season, ABC has made a bold move and invited a real NBC character to compete for Ali's heart. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I give you Michael Scott under code name "Johnathon the Weatherman." I really don't know how the network got away with this. I smell a law suit coming on, or as the Weatherman says, "something evil and dangerous."

Oh... and another thing... whoever says that the "Weatherman" is not gay is kidding herself.

But the real icing on the cake this go-around, is the bachelorette herself. I must say, Ali Fedotowsky is the most irritating, nausea-inducing, and unappealing bach to date. Upon further reflection, I've come to the conclusion that she has the face of some sort of bear-like cartoon figure (care bear, Paddington Bear, Winnie the Pooh, you take your pick) with the personality of a squawking parrot.

It's true; I've always had a real aversion to caddy bitches... especially those who lack the ability to feel comfortable in grown up clothes. When Ali was a contestant for Jake's season, her 8th grade sundresses made me feel like I was watching a reality show documenting a cracker factory. Now that the producers force her into big girl gowns, Ali looks just about as comfortable as a post-surgery Heidi Montag wearing clothes in public. Learn how to wear a real dress, you 12-year-old.

And that's really all I have to say on the subject. Seeing as I have no more GG or HIMYM in my life, my Mondays may have to be forced into this torture. Someone find me a solution---STAT!

Summer: Baby Making Season for your Favorite Things

The ladies and I have decided that summer 2010 would be the best summer of our lives... better known as BSOOL (we obvs totes heart abbrevs and acrons). So to kick it off right, I decided to step up my tan game and GTL before venturing off to the Jersey Shore (I mean... it's only appropriate). In the days following, my tan game was reflective of my sobriety: non existent. Upon checking the UV index (an 8), I thought that an SPF 4 would serve as a sufficient skin barrier. Now, sitting at my desk like a raw steak barbecued, I can say with confidence that I was wrong.

So what does this mean for me? Well apparently I've learned that when you get too much sun you start to have crazy dreams. Me? I dreamed that all of my favorite things were procreating... yes, doing the diggity and making babies. There were cream cheese meatballs and puppy marching bands. Yellow giraffes and sunshine margaritas. Yet, my subconscious could not re-create the coming together of my true favorite things. A feat so outstanding only FOX could pull it off. You know what I'm talking about... Glee gone GaGa. Oh sweet bad romance.

When Kurt pioneered the kick-ass rendition of BR in his Alexander McQueens I nearly wet my saran wrap (That's probably not as weird as you think; I busted out my makeshift Bubble-GaGa costume for the occasion). I actually did, however, wet my saran wrap with this line: "you look terrible. I look awesome." Ohhh Brittany, you ravishing comedic genius, you.

Speaking of Brittany, I've really begun to evaluate... scratch that... harshly critique the individual Gleek levels of dance proficiency. Brittany, by default, and other Asian guy, are clearly the shining dance floor afficianados of the group. Who is slacking on the groove train? Well friends, it gives me a little bit of happiness to say that Lea Michelle is as good at dancing as Danielle from the Real Housewives of New Jersey is at life. For all of those unfamiliar with the Bravo phenomenon, Danielle is a former stripper, drug addict, and kidnapper. Also, it pains me to say that my fellow former NYCHSAA member, Jenna Ushkowitz, is about as enjoyable to watch dancing as I would imagine Manuel Uribe is (if you don't know who this is, please don't Google if you are eating anything).

Well we'll be sure to further evaluate the moves in tonight's episode where Glee apparently goes "Funky." If someone doesn't get it on I'm gonna be pissed.