The Only Sexy Ginger I Know

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!?!?!

Don't Do Drugs... Watch Rocky Horror

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.

Chuck Me

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.

Dear God, You're a Yankee Fan, Right?

Dear God,

You're a Yankee fan, aren't you? I mean 27 world series championships? It sure seems that way. Also, I noticed that when the bombers knocked out two homers in a row on Wednesday, the sky turned the most beautiful color (that was a nice touch).

I ask because I'm really praying for a win tonight. See (and of course you already know this), I'm on my way to Philadelphia where the fans are so abnoxious they probably make the Samaritans seem like lovely dinner guests (sorry... I know we're all your creatures, but I really don't know what went wrong with those guys). And God, if the Yanks win, I'll have a far better chance of tolerating the verbal diarrhea spewing out of their mouths this weekend (sorry again... I probably shouldn't say diarrhea mid-prayer).

Oh hey, God? I have another question. I get the ant eater, the blowfish, even the alpaca, but where the heck (notice how I didn't say "hell" there?) did the Phanatic come from? Lemme tell ya, if that's not demonic symbolism, I don't know what is. See, the Yanks don't have a "mascot"... That title is all yours (I'll even put in a word with Hal if you'd like to make it a little more official).

So God, I come to you tonight asking for a win. In return, I promise to spearhead an effort to teach the American people those words that no one knows in the beginning of "God Bless America." Why does the school system have to cheat you of your song, God? I sure was never taught those words growing up (my roommate even thought they were fake). Think about it ;)

I guess I'll leave you to enjoy the game now. You must have some kick-ass flat screens up there. Let's go Yankees!

Amen.

Savory Jackson Avery

Dear Readers,

I'm not going to lie to you... I'm drunk, pretty drunk. At least not drunk to the point where I'm mispelling words but I cannot attest for the latter half of my post. I'm bolting (yet again) but I've met a lovely man who shares my love for Project Runway and Hello Kitty so at least my ride to Philadelphia won't be so bad. However, when I told him I'm behind on my PR because I've been too busy catching up on my Greys he slapped my face and called me Barbara.

Luckily I had the intuition to immediately soften the blow with a picture of Jackson Avery (thank you, Bolt Bus, for your streaming internet). I took a page from my friend Ali's book and told him that Avery's eyes pierce my soul. For a hot second he thought I was trying to get him to join a cult but then he got a glimpse of Avery's bam bams and completely understood my hot flash.

Which brings me to my point: I'd like to open up a genetic factory where I can inter-breed humans to make specimens equal to or surpassing Avery ( $10 bucks says he was grown on a people farm). What does this mean in the long run? I dunno... Looking for a blue-eyed black man? I'm your girl. A Blasian? Again, give me a ring. An Italian/Irish/German bride? Sorry... We can't mimmic perfection here (but I'm still your girl ;) ).

So now I'm realizing the unfortunate affects of my own genetics. I fear that my GERD is offending my new friend. I keep trying to flirt my way back in the game, but just like Dr. Hot-for-Hunt won't stand for it, I don't think my new friend will either (granted my new friend is gay enough to share with me the street music to his Buddy Holly audition--but HEY). In the mean time, I'll keep trying to blow my Pinot Grigiburbs into the vent. Until then, tah tah.

Rendered Speechless With Excitement...

Britney and Britglee tonight...

...everyone hide your lady boners.

So Many Feelings

Last night, I think I finally understood what double-rainbow guy was talking about (without the drugs.... unless you consider sniffing magic markers a drug... in which case, suckit). I was so freaking happy you would think that I was the Pixyland.org Peter Pan (please only click if you are able to laugh at frighteningly inappropriate people).

What was it that allowed my heart to jump out and sprinkle fairy dust everywhere? Was it...

...Puppy on a pony? Nooo. Yet this does make me happy; probably not for the reason it should. I'm most happy to know that a real life Barbie exists and she really does live the fantasy life I've always dreamed for her (If you don't know what I'm referring to, check out sista-friend in the picture above. If those legs/shoes/dress aren't made of plastic then slap my ass and call me Ken). Back to the subject at hand: what DID make me so happy? Was it...

...A giant plate of meatballs?! Not this time. Most likely because I just finished a giant plate of meatballs and now I feel like I'm going to give birth to an 18lb food baby. Could it be...

Gus the bulldog? Nah. Look at that face!! I just want to squeezeeeeee him and shake him and eat his widdle cheeks! ...but then I will be in trouble with the ASPCA and they'll most likely confiscate my meat dress. Hmm... what about...

...No pants o'clock?! You know me so well! Of course I love to escape from the confines of clothing and truly experience the aerodynamics of the crotchal region. But unfortunately the workplace frowns on nudity during work hours. Not the winner, but could the winner be...

Tiny baby shaving?! I LOVE tiny babies shaving. In truth, I love seeing babies doing all sorts of grown-up things: dressing up in suits, telling jokes at dinner parties, helping me develop my e-trade portfolio. Also, seeing tiny babies shaving makes me feel less hairy... which reminds me that I'm hairy... which ultimately doesn't make me as happy as....

...you guessed it....

GLEE!! Ahh yes... the name really says it all doesn't it? What made Tuesday night's premiere more special than all the rest, you ask? Well, for starters, Quinn is back in the uniform and throwing bitches into lockers. I'm so proud of Quinnie; shedding off the never-existent baby fat in time for cheer season. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I DO believe she's back on top of the "pyramid" (which, by the way, should NEVER be referenced in the modern world of the Rah Rah sisterhood).

Tuesday night was also special to me because Rachel Barry got shown up... by a 6-year-old. Yes, it's been confirmed that "Sunshine Corazon" is in fact the "little girl" who sang with Celine Dion on Oprah. I guess we'll never know her true age... I mean... just look at the Chinese gymnastics team.

And SPEAKING of Asians, aren't you just the happiest little chopsticks that Tina and Mike were counselors at an asian summer camp? Hell... I wish I went to an asian summer camp; get all hyped-up on MSG and watch my counselors go at it. Niiiicccceeee.

Anyway, you already know all the reasons why this show makes me and everyone else in America practically giddy. Let's just enjoy the high, shall we?