Thursday, July 31, 2008
Friends, terrible news. Last night as I was on the bus back from the Counting Crows concert, when new and absolutely repulsive species of mandals revealed themselves to me. As you may remember, I had previously classified mandals into three categories: the Jesus maryjanes, the amphibians, or the medieval troubadour/Indian restaurant owner. It with extreme horror that I now add the above-pictured sandal to the mix. The elusive Flintstone only comes in the "slide on" variety and is typically worn by people with club or cave man feet with yellowed and ridged toenails that are actually fossils, as above. As might be expected, the Flintstone is a distant relative of the two-strap Birkenstock, also worn by people will club feet. Flinstone mandals may often resemble tortoises and were last acceptable during the middle paleolithic area, with a brief exception made for Brendan Fraser in Encino Man.
Um, well I just went to the diner on my block for dinner and ran into THE LEAD GUITARIST FROM COUNTING CROWS. Alert alert alert alert alert. Um, can someone take a gun, shoot me in the face twice and then bash a bottle over my head because this is the most AMAZING THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME. While some of you might think of Counting Crows as a cornbag lame band for guys who wear Hootie & the Blowfish 19991 tour shirts with cargo shorts and mandals, you're 100% right, except for the fact that they are the greatest band EVER. This is actually not a joke. Every time I go to their concerts I have a religious experience and I fall more deeply in love with Adam Duritz and I am getting VERY close to being his friend on Facebook.
In any event, en route to dinner I saw the lead guitarist Immy, and casting shame aside, I walked up to him, told him I was a GIANT fan, was going to their concerts today AND Friday at Jones Beach, and he said "Both?" and then I explained that I was a $45 per year Platinum Legacy fan club member and that my life had pretty much meant nothing until I met him and if he could act normal about this it would be greatly appreciated because I was having 30 panic attacks. He then said "thanks, you're going to see some great shows, we're on fire." I then told him that I could now die, and he said "dine?" and I said "die and dine" and he laughed and then I walked away and briefly considered killing myself because no other moment in my life has been greater.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
me: your mario post
is fucking hilarious
me: -1 world
Sean: did you even get it???
me: i mean, I’ve heard of some of these things
Sean: don't tell me YOU are aware of the -1 world?
me: i can’t make it past level 3
i am vaguely aware of it
never seen it
me: what does it look like
how do you get there
like hitting a block
a b a b
right left right left
Sean: i'm a hypocrite; i actually have never gotten there by myself; i've seen others do it
that's the 30 lives contra code
i had no idea you had video game dorkiness in you
me: i only know this from
my friend who attended
music convention and attempted to drag me with him
Sean: ha in what way does that lead to your knowledge of the 30 lives contra code
me: he just rattled that off
in world 1-2, before you enter the pipe that takes you back to the surface, you have to do this weird block breaking thing and somehow you end up next to the warp zone pipe and you go into it
and then you're in -1 world, which is an underwater level
Sean: and it goes on forever; once you beat it, it takes you back to the beginning of the underwater level
and then what
Sean: that's it
it goes on forever
it's very existential
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I take a spinning class twice a week and my crotch is in severe pain during it and afterwards. What can I do? Don't tell me not to go spinning, because it ain't gonna happen.
Dear In Pain,
That's alarming. I recommend that following spin class, you go home. Put on CD 101.9 Smooth Jazz and set out a crystal goblet filled with Fancy Feast for your cat which you should present on a tray with a silver dome top. Run yourself a bath filled with lavender and rose petals and douse yourself in sensuous oils made of the finest perfumes from Cathay. Following the bath, lounge around in a puffy white robe and turn off your phone, blackberry and computer except for possibly Facebook, and then call 7 people and talk about how refreshed and unbelievably relaxed you feel and that you have just spent an hour "pampering" yourself. This should incite extreme jealousy, which typically helps with pain. I hope this answers your question.
Several months ago, I reported on John McCain's face falling off and that I was onto his dirty Michael Jackson trick of trying to keep his face on by using bandaids. Well, apparently more of his face has fallen off, if that is even possible. I'm not sure exactly what has to happen in order for Americans to realize that John McCain is already dead, has been dead for many years, and that there is a Weekend at Bernie's situation going on here. If 80% of his face has already been removed, and by his own admission, he visits his dermatologist every 3 months to get more things biopsied and "nicked" off, by his second year in office he will no longer have a face at all. I'm no political analyst, but maybe people should stop calling McCain so experienced and amazing at foreign policy, because I have news for you - the number one most important thing in foreign policy is that you have a face, and I don't care if McCain rules at Risk and Diplomacy because if he looks like Skeletor in 6 months there will be major international problems.
Monday, July 28, 2008
I'm doing the Slim Fast diet plan, which basically restricts me to something like 600 calories a day up until 6 or 7 pm, and then asks me to choose a "sensible dinner." WHAT THE HELL is a sensible dinner?
I assume you are aware that Slim Fast is extremely late 80s/early 90s and are already comfortable with this fact. If this is the case, the way I would approach the problem is to ask yourself, what would the ordinary and reasonable person eat for dinner? Luckily I happen to BE an ordinary and reasonable person so I can tell you EXACTLY what I've eaten for dinner in the past week, which will hopefully give you a clear idea about what is and what is not "sensible."
Monday - Ritter Sport chocolate bar
Tuesday - salad with olive oil dressing
Wednesday - half of yogurt (thrown away due to discovery of apple cinnamon flavor), followed by ice cream and Lactaid pill
Thursday - Nilla wafers
Friday - nothing
Saturday - Arepa and mozzarella sticks
Sunday - pizza, followed by grilled cheese at 1am*
*Due to alcohol
If you have further doubt as to what is sensible, my suggestion would be to eat things that are extremely delicious and delivered by little men on bicycles. Hopefully this answers your question.
Here is where you come in: the way they're selecting the winner is by audience vote. There are three rounds to the competition - this week, next week, and - wait for it - the week after that. Each week we have to write some posts for the site and then proceed to get skewered alive by the ATL commenters. The voting polls will be open this Friday. At that point anyone who has ever read this blog needs vote for me or else. As the dreaded voting day draws nearer, I'll fill you in on the details, but rest assured if I get this job a) I will obviously continue to post on this blog and b) there will be a new sheriff in town at ATL - more scandal, more pictures, more humor, more shamazingness.
Can you pay my bills
Can you pay my telephone bills
Do you pay my automo'bills
If you did, then maybe we could chill
-Destiny's Child, "Bills, Bills, Bills"
Megan just gchatted me this article talking about how Comcast is now monitoring blogs for people complaining about their services and then "helpfully" suggesting to the bloggers solutions to their Comcastic problems. In the hopes that Verizon Wireless is also monitoring blogs, I have a serious bone to pick with them.
So today the spirit moved me to pay my Verizon phone bill because I felt like I hadn't paid it in a long time. So I dial #PMT (HAHAHA) and they tell me my account is past due as usual and that the CURRENT AMOUNT DUE IS $416.92 . IS THAT A FUCKING JOKE. I obviously throw out my bills without looking at them/paying them so it's not like I can confirm with 100% certainty what the hell happened here, but it appears that I have been calling Greenland 7 times a day, texting 987 votes to American Idol, handing out my phone number on the street and requesting people use up my minutes and accepting collect calls from all my friends in prison. I have never heard of a $400 phone bill and I'm pretty sure it's technically illegal to charge that much and rest assured there are going to be some MAJOR changes around here unless Verizon people read this blog and send me a formal apology along with an explanation of the charges and a $400 credit valid at Verizon or Ebay.
As we all know and I think can agree, parents have sex the EXACT number of times absolutely REQUIRED to produce children. For instance, my parents had sex 3 times - once for me, once for Aliza and once for Jenna - and if you're trying to insinuate that my parents had sex more recently than 20 years ago when Jenna was conceived, we should probably take this dispute outside. It is therefore highly disturbing that CNN posted this article about a 73 year old man allegedly having sex somewhere in Japan. While that fact is extremely alarming in and of itself, even more alarming is the notion that there is a genre of senior citizen pornography out there. According to my calculations, this means that elderly people might be having sex (in the videos), and people might be paying to watch it (based on the assumption that people typically do things for money). Obviously all of this is not acceptable and frankly if I find out that my parents are having sex for non-procreative purposes I will very calmly take a bottle of bleach, remove the cap, drink ten gallons of it, pour it over myself, light a match and then see what happens.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
"Keep It In the Closet" - Michael Jackson
I have some VERY exciting news to reveal on Monday. Let's just say that I'm shitting my pants about this and I've been throwing myself out the window for about two weeks and revealing my secret over and over to my pillow so I don't tell anyone by accident.
Papa, can you see me?
Papa can you find me in the night?
Papa are you near me?
Papa, can you hear me?
1. Punch myself out
2. Send the link to 8 people
3. Try and decipher who the jerks are that are bidding on the shoes
4. Check my checking account balance to see if I can afford them
5. Remind myself that I don't need them
6. Send emails to people of the male persuasion hinting that it might be a good idea to buy these for me if they know what's best
7. Upon receipt of emails saying "I'm not going to buy shoes for you," reply by saying "Consider our relationship over" and immediately block them from gchat
8. Review contents of closet to see if anything can be sold on ebay to offset the price of said shoes
9. Make shoes my computer wallpaper
Friday, July 25, 2008
For the first time in a long time due to the fact that I'm unemployed and have no place to go, I took the subway uptown to my friend Jen's party. Megan had warned me that the heat in the subway felt like the kitchen in the 9th level of Hades, but I attributed her description to her typical eggzaggeration and thought it might be slightly hotter than outside but certainly not the kitchen of the 9th level of Hades. Well, I was wrong. The heat underground felt like I was wearing a tin foil suit and walking directly into an Easy Bake Oven that had been on for 3 hours. It was basically unbearable and it was COMPLETELY disproportionate to the heat that was outside. Like it wasn't really that hot out yesterday, and yet somehow the subway was a total sauna.
The only reasonable conclusion I could draw from this was that the MTA has been turning on heaters on the subway platform in order to make it extremely hot. When I mentioned this idea to Megan, Megan said that that seemed ridiculous, like why would the MTA waste money putting on heat if it's already 1000 degrees out, and I explained that it was because if the MTA did this, they could save money on air conditioning the subway cars, which would seem ridiculously cold compared to the blazing subway platform. Megan then suggested that they wouldn't really be saving any money, because the money the MTA saved on the air conditioning would go toward putting on the heaters, and I then asked Megan if I looked like I worked for the MTA and that maybe instead of pestering me with questions about WHY the MTA decides to put on heaters, she should save her energy and ask the MTA itself and quit harassing innocent bystanders such as myself who are merely pointing out the obvious.
This weekend I have offers to go to the Jersey shore and the Hamptons. Which one should I choose?
In order to make a fully informed decision about where to go this weekend, let me provide a brief description of both the NJ shore and the SHAMptoms based on what I believe to be going on in both of these locations, despite the fact that I have never been to either. The NJ shore is perfect for people who are members of Gold's gym, have the Presidente Tanning package (unlimited tans, $75 a month) at Beach Bum Tanning, have at least 3 tribal tattoos or tattoos of butterflies, own 4 bottles of Dep styling gel, listen to DJ Tiesto, are constantly talking about getting both respected and disrespected, eat calzones twice a week, own several mockturtleneck t-shirts and/or juicy couture sweat outfits and work part-time at GNC and/or Claire's. The SHAMptons, on the other hand, is ideal for people who work in finance or fashion, tan on the roofs of their buildings in Murray Hill, tell their parents to "shut up" while on the phone with them and don't get punished for doing so, snort coke and braggg about it for 2 weeks after to all their friends and make reference to it in their tagged photos on Facebook, and frequently discuss boating or golfing. If neither of these places sounds like you, I would suggest staying in the city and writing bitter blog posts. I hope this answers your question.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
You know what? I was having a FINE day until People posted this picture of DeAnna the Bachelorette trying on wedding gowns at which point I became enraged. I sent the link to Megan, and Megan said "why don't we go try on wedding dresses this weekend, wouldn't that be fun?" and I told her that it sounded fun if this was Muriel's Wedding.
[Pacific Coast News via People]
This summer I took an abnormal psychology class at Pace University, and as part of the class we had to do a Powerpoint presentation on a varieties of illness. I got stuck with dissociative disorders (like amnesia) and sexual and gender identity disorders. As it turns out, all the shit you thought were medical problems - like erectile dysfunction, sexual pain, etc. are all classified as MENTAL DISORDERS. Alrighty. Based on my research, it appeared that nearly all of the men's disorders were solvable and women with sexual disorders were basically screwed because there was nothing on the market like Viagra or whatever that is proven to help.
This CNN article reiterates that if you're a woman with a sex problem, your options on how to deal with it are limited only by your willingness to throw science to the wind and immediately enter Narnia. As suggested in the article, why not take Cialis or Viagra, or better yet, strap on a testosterone patch and pray that you don't turn into Teen Wolf. If that doesn't work, try medicinal herbs such as ashwagandha, astragalus or panax ginseng purchased from the local side show minstrel, or, if possible, get an enchanted rose that will bloom upon the kiss of true love. And if supplements are ineffective, another way to combat lack of sex drive is to put on a hair shirt, take up the Cross, make a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, wash the feet of 10 beggars en route and kiss the forearm bone of St. James once you arrive. Is CNN a joke.
If you're wondering why there haven't been that many posts for the past few days, it's because I'm bravely battling a cold/cough/insomnia without "health insurance." It currently feels like the Keebler elves are inside my sinuses doing a tap dance instead of baking delicious rainbow chocolate chip cookies, but rest assured I will show them and NEVER give into the exorbitant COBRA fees.
In other news, lightning hit a tree next to my parents' house and the tree fell on the roof.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
A few months ago, I was dating somebody and the time had come to break up. One of the things that lit a fire under my ass to initiate breakupization was that this guy had scheduled a DOUBLE DATE WITH HIS CO-WORKER AND HIS CO-WORKER'S FIANCEE. Let me just clarify that I would rather die than go on a double date with anyone at any time, mainly due to the fact that double dates should only be performed if everybody is from Grease 2 and also due to the fact that I cannot deal with the corniness of having to talk to the other girl about celebrities and fashion and pretend to be interested in her boring career that she'll give up when she gets pregnant anyway while the guys chum it up and talk about buying low and selling high. Granted, I've never BEEN on a double date, but I think the entire thing might end with phony hugs and cheek kisses, and promises that everybody will Facebook each other and then the other girl will promise to send me that Perez Hilton article she was talking about tomorrow from work, and then everyone leaves and says "She/he seemed nice," waits for the other person to agree, and then qualifies the "nice" statement by saying that the girl was also mildly ugly, fat, dumb or fake. I actually can't deal with these situations so I obviously broke up with the dude prior to the date and gloriously avoided this double date.
Unfortunately, certain people were not aware of my firm policy regarding duplicative dating, so my friend told me that she and I and our respective "beaus" would definitely have to do a double date, and I told her that that seemed like a great idea and I was 100% on board IF I LIVED IN NARNIA and that there was no way on god's green earth that I would ever be going on a double date so if she could just accept that idea and move on that would be ideal for all parties involved.
Following up on your mandals post, are gladiator sandals acceptable? Please advise.
Dear L.E. -
First off, thank you for your question which addresses this very important and very timely topic. For the sake of argument, I will assume you are referring to gladiator sandals on women only, since, as already discussed in the mandals post, ANY species of men sandals is not acceptable. If you've left your house at any point this summer, you may have noticed that virtually EVERY woman is wearing these contraptions, making gladiators the official 2008 version of the Tory Burch flat that was completely ubiquitous last year. But as my mom Rusty said when I begged her to get my ears pierced and told her everybody else had earrings, "if everybody else jumps off a bridge that doesn't mean that you have to jump off too" and "we're not everybody else's parents." The take away from these cautionary words is that while gladiators may seem popular and you may feel like an unfashionable loser by NOT wearing them, unless your name is Marcus Aurelius, you drive a chariot, shop at the forum and live near an aqueduct, gladiator sandals are absolutely unacceptable. Last time I checked, the Punic Wars were over and Virgil was not on Amazon's top 10 authors list, so there really is no longer a need to wear these ridiculous sandals which make peoples feet look like they're in prison. I hope this answers your question.
P.S. If you have a question, send it here
At no point during this massage does "Sandra" dunk my feet in a tank of toothless fish and have them gnaw off my dead skin as part of the pedicure. If she did, I would very calmly take the nearest knife, cut off my feet and then walk home.
[AP via CNN]
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
On a serious note, Estelle Getty has died today. On a Golden Girls special a few years back, Dorothy, Rose and Blanche revealed to viewers that Estelle was suffering from dementia and I very clearly remember crying hysterically because Golden Girls is my FAVORITE SHOW OF ALL TIME. Click here, here and here for some amazing clips of Estelle doing her thing as Sophia. It just puts into high relief what pieces of garbage shitcoms like Two and a Half Men and According to Jim are. RIP Estelle, I'll miss you.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Because it is my fate in life to move reenact the Oregon Trail and move once a year, I have unfortunately become VERY well acquainted with the Craigslist apartment ads. Having looked at a total of something like 60 apartments, I am well-versed in the real meanings of certain descriptions of apartments that brokers put up in order to get you to see the apartment, and let me assure you that no apartment I have ever looked at was described in the ads as "repulsive dump on dangerous block." As a public service, below is a list of words and phrases used in Craiglist in order to describe apartments, along with their true meanings.
1. "Amazing Deal" = bedbugs
2. "Steps Away from Subway" = ground floor apartment with barred windows
3. "Sick Location...Sick Price" = illness will be due to lead paint and proximity to gas station
4. "Gem" = bathtub located in kitchen
5. "Marble Bath" = pack of marbles left by previous tenant
6. "Great Block" = ten blocks away from a decent block
7. "*Pictures may not be of actual apartment" = HAHHAHA
8. "No Fee" = no fee until you sign the brokers fee agreement form
9. "Cozy" = Murphy bed
10. "Bohemian Dream Come True" = painted by Helen Keller
11. "Lots of light" = directly across from Mamma Mia! sign in Times Square
This past Friday I was on a datetastic and since I knew that I was DEFINITELY NOT paying for myself, I starved myself all day in order to gorge on free food and delicious alcohol that night. So after 3 vodka gimlets, 2 refills on the bread basket and a pear, gorgonzola and apple salad appetizer salad that I requested to be supersized to an entree, I was pretty much about to explode. The waiter came back with the dessert menu and asked if wanted to have dessert, and my date looked at me and I made my usual throw up noises to indicate that I was exxxtremely fully, so the waiter took the dessert menus away. So as we're sitting there and I'm working the Marin Magic (TM), the waiter brings back the check and I pretend I don't see it when the waiter asks me if I would like the rest of my salad wrapped up to go. I look at him like he has just asked me if I wear underwear on my head routinely and I said "Um NO" because the last thing I want to do when I'm so full that I'm seriously considering lap band surgery is eat EVER AGAIN and least of all eat the same shit tomorrow that I just ate. Like if I'm about to die of fullness do waiters really expect me to say "Yes - I definitely want the leftovers" and then look like an obese loser carrying around food for the next four hours and pretend that I'm not extremely repulsed by the food and plan for the future by envisioning that tomorrow I might be hungry at some point because that will never be happening.
It's the same thing with brunch plans - like Megan asked me on Thursday night after I had just inhaled two of her delicioso enchiladas whether I wanted to do brunch on Sunday and I told her that unfortunately I could never imagine a time when I would be hungry again so my answer was definitely not and maybe she should check back in a few days and see if the situation had changed.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Yesterday for 45 minutes the Mister Softee truck was parked DIRECTLY outside of my apartment playing its slasher movie theme song. This is unacceptable. I don't understand how when people are wasting energy setting elaborate chatroom traps on To Catch a Predator and spending all their time petitioning the honest, hardworking perverts who actually show up to register with the local sex offender registry, everyone is perfectly fine with a truck roaming the streets covered in wieners with ice cream hats and playing alarming music that suggests that someone is being actively molested inside. Um, the NAME is Mister Softee and if this is not proof that this is a molester mobile then I actually give up.
Friday, July 18, 2008
After 15 minutes, Megan calls me up, and tells me that Stridex is now owned by Blistex, and she called the Blistex corporate headquarters and they revealed that the product was discontinued in 2006, left the shelves in 2007 and even if one could locate bottles of it, it was expired and people would have to call the individual stores to see if they had any left. As it was clear that the "expired" line was just some bullshit excuse to throw off the scent, Megan sent me a list of the Harmon locations, so I proceeded to call 8 of them and none of them carried it anymore. Megan then suggested that maybe I should just try to find "another" face wash. Well, I have news for you - I HAVE tried to use different washes, from exxxpen$ive shit like La Mer (increased zits and oil production) to Jessica Simpson-endorsed ProActiv (giant red itchy rash infused with zits that lasted 3 weeks and when I called ProActiv to threaten them they apologized and asked if I wanted to try their sensitive skin version), and absolutely NOTHING works for me EXCEPT Stridex Foaming Face Wash. In any event, Megan asked me what the active ingredient in the Stridex was besides virgin's tears and unicorn horn, and I told her it was Triclosan. Megan then informed me that I might want to stop using products with Triclosan because it resulted in birth defects, weakening of the immune system and uncontrolled cell growth, but on the plus side it also resulted in unhealthy weight loss. I then asked Megan whether it was worse to a) have zits until you die or b) die, and she agreed that a) was worse and so I rested my case.
If it seems strange to you that BOTH my facewash and my eyeliner have been discontinued in the past several months AND that my shampoo and conditioner are no longer sold at Ricky's, you are not alone with your hunches. It has become painfully obvious that someone is out to destroy me, and I know who it is and if my suspicions prove correct, I assure you my revenge will be swift and merciless.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Yesterday I woke up and saw a small tent outside my window and immediately had a panic attack that they were having one of those goddamn street fairs on my street. After further investigation I confirmed that they were actually just filming some new sitcom with nobody famous on my street and the tent was a craft services tent, but explained to the production crew that they gave me a panic attack because I thought they were setting up a street fair right outside my apartment. One of the craft services guys asked me what my problem with street fairs was and I said that street fairs are amazing if you like irregular tube socks, olde tyme pretzels, "mozzarepas," corn on a stick, and small potted herbs and enjoy pretending you're in a cartoon where the scenery repeats itself every 50 feet. Street fairs are also key if you like street closures and cab rides that take an extra 15 minute and $12 extra because the cab driver didn't realize all of Murray Hill was blocked off from traffic so that people can buy Hard Rock Baja sweaters from 1990 and greasebag funnel cakes. Let me just say that if there is EVER a street fair on my street, I will be setting up my own stand that sells gyros, cotton candy, irregular underwear, pretzels, bajas and crystal vortexes and put all these other ridiculous stands out of business once and for all.
Following the cumulative end of the The Bachelorette, I Love New York 2 and Rock of Love 2, I think it's fair to say that I lost the will to live. Every day I would disgust myself by watching DVR'd reruns of What Not to Wear, Wife Swap, Engaged & Underage and Denise Richards: It's Complicated, make myself a margarita and then hope that a new Intervention or Work Out 3 was on so that the hours of my life would pass more quickly.
Yesterday as I sat on my couch drinking a vodka gimlet and watching Say Yes to the Dress, I said a prayer to god, whom I last prayed to in the bathroom in Kindergarten when I promised to buy him a Transformer if he would prevent the other kids in my class from barging in while I was peeing because the door didn't lock. I asked god to please let my landlord renew my lease despite Perry's barking problem and also make Jason from The Bachelorette the next Bachelor, bring back New York in a spinoff show and to FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, let Bret Michaels break up with Ambre and have another Rock of Love because I actually can't take it anymore. I can't go on watching garbage like Ice Road Truckers about men driving trucks on icy roads, or The Singing Office which appears to be a piece of shit directly out of my ass. After I had said the prayer, I went about my business including checking my ebay auctions and refreshing People, WHERE IT WAS GLORIOUSLY REVEALED THAT AMBRE AND BRET HAVE BROKEN UP AND THERE WILL BE A ROCK OF LOVE SEASON 3. As I am apparently a direct conduit to god, I am currently taking orders for prayer requests, not to exceed 3 items each with the caveat that nobody is allowed to request Louboutins because I've already requested them and we'll look like idiots if we're requesting the same thing.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Um, I just got this ad on my Gmail. That's right, my computer has determined from reading my emails and gchats that I might be interested in dating other singles with Herpes. Apparently the way the algorithm works is that if you use the word "single" in all your gchats for 2 years in a row this indicates to the computer that you must have Herpes because no one could possibly be single for that long without having an STD. This reminds me of when Sean was trying to set me up with his "really hot and funny" friend and I so asked what this guy's problem was, and Sean said that there was no problem at all, he was tall, attractive, divorced and employed, at which point I asked Sean if my name was Emma Lazarus and whether people should just feel free to set me up with the poor, the tired, the struggling masses yearning to breathe free, divorced people, amputees and people living with AIDS. Unfortunately, several weeks later I made this joke in a bar to somebody else, and in a ridiculous turn of events, unbeknownst to me there actually WAS someone with HIV sitting at our table so I looked like a racist jerk. I later took a survey of people and asked them whether they would date someone with AIDS and everyone admitted they would not.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
A few nights ago, I came home drunk as a skunk so I went to the corner deli in search of very delicious food. So I'm standing in the chocolate section, and before me are the usual suspects: the repulsively amazing red Lindt chocolate truffles, the Ritter Sport chocolate bars: the chocolate of athletes, and the vast selection of British chocolate bars that routinely make no sense, like Yorkie, No Girls Allowed, Aero and Twirl. The main problem with British candies is that you never know what you're getting before you buy it because they're all packaged in the same metallic purple, white and orange wrappers, they don't say on the wrappers what's in them, and their names have absolutely nothing to do with the ingredients - like Yorkie isn't made up of Yorkshire terriers, No Girls Allowed IS available for purchase by women because I've asked, and Aero is not made of jet fuel.
In any event, because I like to live dangerously, I decided to get a Twirl bar, which is described by its wrapper as "The INTENSE Chocolate Bar," but I believed it to be akin to a Twix due to its two bar structure and the "Tw" letters. Well, let's just say that that will be the last time I am rolling the dice on British chocolate bars ever again, because Twirl is definitely NOT a Twix bar, it's actually a Twix-shaped chocolate bar with shitty chocolate nougat inside, leading to extreme chocolate overload that cannot be handled in one session of chocolate consumption. This entire debacle could have been avoided if the British candies could maybe stop tricking American customers and start changing their names from things like Lion Bar to something explanatory, like Reese's Peanut Butter Cup or Charleston Chew or at least write a helpful description below the name like "not very delicious" or "VERY delicious."
P.S. Someone on the street just tried to convert me with a pamphlet entitled "Kick Your Shoe Up into the Ass of the Devil" - HAHAHHAHHA
The bottom line here is that people only have Brita in case they hook up so they can offer Brita in the morning and look high class and make it seem like they respect the other person and weren't using him or her for sex. I mean, when you go to a restaurant and order tap and they pour it from a fancy glass jug to make it appear like it might be from a European aqueduct, if you think that it's NOT directly from the sink and that they stayed late for an extra 3 hours the night before to filter 94 gallons of water in industrial Britas, you're living in Narnia.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The absolute worst part of being single besides looking like a loser at other peoples' weddings is the vacation aspect. I routinely want to go away, but it is pretty much impossible to get someone to go to a place that I want to go to, coordinate vacation times, deal with peoples' budgets and get people to take off time from work. People are either always too poor, want to go to boring and lame places or erroneously believe vacations are for sleeping in instead of waking up at 7am and seeing some goddamn sites. So my vacation options are either going nowhere, or going somewhere alone and possibly getting raped and abducted. Today's harebrained idea is doing this trip, departing in 3 days. Thoughts?
A few months back when I had unfortunately taken myself off of Lexapro cold turkey and was 200% depressed, I booked a $3,000 bike/hike/rafting trip to Ecuador because I decided that I was the type of person who rock climbed to work, owned ten caribeeners and drank from Nalgene bottles. I went to EMS, bought a bunch of wicking crap and ugly "sport" sunglasses and some monstrous wool socks, got 75 vaccinations for obscure life-threatening diseases, and raked in the compliments from people who were impressed with my "adventurous spirit" and my obviously rugged and pioneering personality. Secretly, the entire time I was shitting my pants about being away from Perry for 10 days, bedbugs and being on a trip with 3 other people who might ostracize me. Luckily, work provided me with an amazing, true and convenient excuse to cancel my trip and go back to work, while simultaneously being able to blame my cancellation on work and still receive the braggging rights for theoretically attempting to go on this trip but being foiled at the last minute.
So on Friday night, Risa and I were doing the Trail of Tears around the East Village and LES, as usual wondering where the hell everybody went, why there were like 5 people (from NJ) in each of the 5 bars we hit up and trying to figure out which bar would have the highest number of R$CH men. Among our stops on the Oregon Trail was La Caverna, which plays SHAMAZING music but looks legitimately like a cave where the Flintstones might live, with like stalactites hanging from the ceiling.
As Risa and I are sitting on a banquette waiting for the rich and goodlooking men to arrive and be obsessed with us, an approximately 6'3" model wearing a spandex haltertop unitard walks in and stands RIGHT NEXT TO US. This is not acceptable. This brings me to my next question, which is why would god bother creating me when there are people like this roaming the earth? What is the point in my existing when there are members of the Ubermensch race going to the same bars I go to, ruining my life, blowing up my spot and in general beating me at my own game. Can someone explain the purpose in my spending hours and boatloads of ca$sh dyeing my hair, hitting the gymnasio, purchasing luxxxurious and exxxpen$ive clothing and bags, paying someone $8,000 to punch me in the face and give me a better nose and blowing $300 every six months on botox to deprunify my chin when I roll up to bars to compete with people who are one foot and three inches taller than me, who last ate in 2001 and who doesn't rely on smoke and mirrors makeup tricks like "contouring" and Sephora 209 eyeliner.
This reminds me of when I was interviewing for law firms and it was my last interview of the day at Paul Weiss and they showed me to this woman's office and her name was something boring like Alison Smith or something along those lines and so I presumed I'd be better looking and then I walk into the office and the most outrageously gorgeous person known to mankind is sitting behind the desk. She was 6 feet tall, blonde, thin, nice, funny and talking to me about the corporate department. I basically told her that while I was flattered she was impressed with my extremely impressive resume, unfortunately due to the fact that she was employed there, I could obviously add nothing to the firm and there was absolutely no point in hiring me when they had someone like her patrolling the halls and if she could excuse me for a moment there was a window that I had to jump out of.