Saturday, December 31, 2005
Fergie pissed her pants. End of story.
The Black Eyed Pea who garners the vast majority of my loathing is the odious Fergie. When the Black Eyed Peas didn't sell very many of their first few albums, they decided that they needed a talentless piece of ass with a penchant for capri-length (but generously cut), plaid, old-man pants to get people interested in them. Enter Fergie, who was thus resurrected from her previous career on the cast of "Kids:Incorporated" and a horrendous early-90s girl group called Wild Orchid (not to be confused with the fine Mickey Rourke film of the same name), had massive faciocranial plastic surgery and a tit job to make her look like a drag queen, and fake'n'baked her skin to the tone and consistency of a dried apricot. Suddenly, every time I turn on the radio I'm being tortured by one of the Black Eyed Peas's nightmarish symphonies of the spuriously multicultural damned.
Anyway, I was delighted to read over the summer that Fergie is a drunken idiot and pissed her pants while performing in California. Last night, I got into a big argument with J-Sexy and Neo, who are staunch Fergie apologists and are convinced that this is sweat. This debate has been going on ever since August, when I dug up these photos from some of the gossip whore websites I frequent. So let's play name that excretion, is it urine or twat sweat? You be the judge:
And in case you're not sure:
THIS IS URINE, PEOPLE. The alternative explanation, that this is a sweat stain, is not plausible. For one thing, if she's worked up a crotch sweat because of her presumably vigorous stage routine, why doesn't she have equivalent stains on her armpits, or under those synthetic jugs of hers? Why does no other part of her body appear sweaty? BECAUSE IT'S PISS. For another thing, I've been a chick all my life and never once have I had to worry about the problem of copious vagina sweat. Nor have any of my female friends ever complained of this, and I went to a fucking women's college. If pussy perspiration was something that happens, believe me, I would have heard bitches whining about it at Smith. You wouldn't believe the kinds of disgusting female shit I heard about there. I will ultimately defer to Occam's razor, the principle that "given two equally predictive theories, choose the simplest." Thus, I have just scientifically proven that Fergie pissed herself.
Since J-Sexy and Neo are scientists themselves, I don't see how they can argue that this isn't piss when confronted with my impeccable logic. Still, both continue to defend Fergie because they think she's "hot," and shouldn't have to put up with "haters" like me. In fact, I might just be jealous. Because I'm often jealous of tanorexic trannies with bladder control problems. It's a burden I've learned to bear.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
"Starlicious" is a stupid, made-up word
They have to REALLY stretch to make a 5-episode countdown of these makeovers. It's really a good thing that they invented a word to describe how these makeovers are loosely ranked, because there is no coherent system at all, and most of the "makeovers" on the list are strongly subject to debate. For example:
#50-something: Danny Bonaduce. All the E! pundits are like, "He started boxing! And now he looks great!" Have you seen Bonaduce lately? He DOES NOT look great. He looks like a beat-up baseball mitt on steroids. I guess anyone looks better after they stop living in their cars with crack pipes.
#40-something: video games. I don't consider technology improving a makeover. What are they going to do next, say that the DVD is a hot makeover from shitty-ass VCRs? They cite how great Grand Theft Auto looks compared to Pong. Give me a break...Chutes and Ladders looks better than Pong. I guess that it's considered a "makeover" when advances in computer processors allow you to steal cars, kill cops, and slap around hookers instead of hitting a pixel back and forth between two monochromatic lines. The E! pundits (including the nefarious Joel Stein) also make fun of Galaga, which totally ruled. I loved Galaga, especially the tractor beam.
#40-something: Tina Yothers, who apparently now sings for a punk band called Jaded (very creative). She looks exactly the same except with black hair. How antiestablishment.
#40-so
:::A Trimspa commercial comes on in which a woman is giving a testimonial about how much weight she lost for her wedding, then shows footage of said matrimony, which shows ANNA NICOLE SMITH giving away the bride! How much diet meth do you have to take before that starts sounding like a good idea? I mean, I know most girls dream of being given away to their husbands by a mentally retarded, gold-digging, redneck stripper-whore, but then I guess I'm not most girls. Sheesh. Stay away from that Trimspa stuff if that's what taking it gets for you.:::
#30-something: Jane Fonda. I just love that E! has found an excuse to incorporate footage of Fonda kicking it with the VIPs of the Viet Cong and characterizes it as "Starlicious."
#20-something: Carnie Wilson. That gastric bypass she got a couple years about doesn't count, because she's fat and wearing mumus just like in the good old "Hold On" video days.
Okay, I have to stop because the teaser indicates that I can now look forward to Janet Jackson ("she admitted to rhinoplasty"...duh), Nicole Kidman, and Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. I guess "Starlicious" means plastic surgery gone horribly wrong, so thank God it's 5 o'clock and reruns of "90210" and "Melrose" are on SoapNet.
Travels with Chingy!
Chingy!'s doting grandparents decided that in the spirit of the holidays, they would pay for his Christmas castration. So now little Chingy! is pugging around with a sad, deflated ballsack and a row of stitches. He still hasn't lost his arrogance, though.
The vet told me something else: Chingy! had an ear infection, and I postulated that perhaps he's always been such a disobedient little fuck because he couldn't hear me. However, it's now been over a week on the eardrops and the little bastard still doesn't listen to a damn thing I say.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Fuck you, Smith College Alumnae Fund
Yesterday, my firstborn dog Caesar stepped on a piece of broken glass at St. Nicholas Park while running around in the bushes and began bleeding profusely on a dirty New York winter snowdrift. I don't get squeamish at the sight of blood, so I calmly took him home, leaving a trail of bloody pawprints in our wake. I thought, "A lot of blood isn't necessarily a big deal...I'll just see how bad it is once I get home." I washed up his wound, which appeared pretty superficial (though in hindsight it was hard to tell because it was still quite bloody), smeared it with Neosporin. Since I haven't gotten around to stocking my apartment with a first aid kit yet, I dressed it in one of my favorite wife beaters that I ripped up on the spot to stop the bleeding. The bleeding stopped, so I figured (quite reasonably) that the biggest risk was infection; I just had to keep the wound clean and thoroughly Neosporin-ed and it would heal fine. I put a sock over the ghetto bandage I fashioned and hung out for a little while to make sure Caesar was okay. He ate a treat, jumped on my bed, stole Chingy!'s toy, kicked Chingy! off the bed, and went to sleep. Consequently, I figured he was feeling fine and went to work, but nonetheless spent all day worrying more about Caesar than about whether or not I can give mice the common cold. I finished work as quickly as possibly (which is to say, not quickly at all because I have assloads of shit to do), and rushed home.
When I arrived home, I checked my mail and saw with a groan that Smith had tracked me down again: a nefarious Smith Alumnae Quarterly was in my box. Seemingly innocent with its Martha Stewarty cover depicting an unassuming arrangement of pear shaped candles and winter berries, its presence in my mailbox signifies that something far more sinister is afoot: Smith has found me. And their first order of business is to remind me why I'm glad I don't go to Smith anymore:
[Image removed at request of the copyright holder]
In this edition of our money-grubbing 100-page glossy bacchanal of shameless pro-Smith propaganda, I can read letters from my fellow alumnae on such scintillating topics as "The Thrill of Rally Day." There's also a story about how then hottest thing at Smith recently was that the Lyman Conservatory had a corpse flower bloom and everyone came to enjoy "the stink of rotten flesh...capable of making grown men faint." Well, good thing there's no men around! (Yeah, I know, that joke sucked). There's also an interesting (but not so much) article about how some girls who are about as spicy and interesting as a bowl of lumpy Cream of Wheat love living together at Wesley House, and how they all hang out on the "party porch." Apparently alumnae care about stupid bitches Tej Bindra '07 and Katie Deasley-Peluso '07 and the room they scored by dumb luck in last year's housing lottery.
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder]
Yes, there really is nothing that screams awesome college experience more than seeing these self-righteous snatches come home from "sharing volunteer work at the Hampshire County Interfaith Homeless Shelter and responsibilities for the student global AIDS campaign" than a porch you can decorate with lights to "add a festive touch", drink chamomile tea, and have deep discussions about boob mashing with those cuh-RAZY girls of Haven-Wesley house. I know, I know. You're saying, they can't hang out on that porch ALL the time with their PACE pride flag (BTW, not sure what PACE stands for, that was after my time). Don't worry, because "they enjoy the porch at all times and weathers: using sunglasses at lunch, and a lamp at night." THANK YOU. I'm so glad to see the SAQ adequately describes the true value of a Smith education. It is that type of decisive thinking that makes all of us Smith graduates look really, uh, decisive. It's definitely worth $30+K a year for such a sharply honed intellect. For example, if you are outside and the sun is shining (as it is wont to do during the day when there's no clouds), then put on some shades. Conversely, if you're outside and it's dark, plugging in a lamp may just alleviate that. I know that if my parents would actually swallow their sense of dignity and moral worth long enough to read my website, they would be incredibly proud that their $120K was so well spent. Of course, that's just how you roll if you're the most popular uptight punani on the Chapin (not the Cutter-Z) side of Elm Street based on your kickass room: "At lunch time, as students leave Chapin with their grab'n'go lunches in hand, Katie and Tej (as they're known)"--since those are these uber-Smithies' names--"keep a lookout for their friends." God, that makes me want to give money to Smith. There's nothing that inspires me to open my wallet like seeing a couple of studious Scarlett Johansson fans try to look smart and serious, with just a dash of haunted determination fresh off an Ani DiFranco album cover:
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder]
Way to color coordinate those tabs on your copy of The Second Sex, Tej. In particular, I like the way it complements your anal retentively-folded quilt. Why Smith chooses to showcase the lamest bitches as a reminder of how much I miss life at Smith (and therefore would want to give them money), I will never know. But I have to say one thing for the folks at Smith: they have an unbelievably efficient means of tracking people down. I don't know what that means is, but they always get their alumna. They have found me everywhere I've gone without so much as a word, a forwarding address, or a single dollar from me to encourage them or give them anything to go on. In my experience, the fact that I have received this brokeass issue of SAQ indicates that Smith is about to commence a shock-and-awe bombardment campaign of anger-inducing junk mail.
After an elevator ride leafing through the SAQ and becoming increasingly pissed, I arrived at my apartment door. I should have known that Smith's finding me was a harbinger of doom. At some point after I left for work earlier, Caesar ripped off his wife-beater bandage despite my admirable Florence Nightingale-esque battle field dressing skills, and had completely licked the wound clean of clotted blood and Neosporin. The result was absolutely horrible. I had made a terrible mistake earlier when I concluded that the injury was superficial. A superficial injury would at worse breach the dermal layer (the pink underlayer of skin), but on Caesar's leg I could clearly see not only exposed muscle, but a tendon as well. Not only did this provide a high risk conduit for infection, but without stitches I wasn't sure this wound would heal. A number of appalling Caesar-related morbidity scenarios were playing out in my mind: Caesar succumbs to bacterial sepsis, Caesar gets gangrene and loses a leg, Caesar has permanent muscle and tendon damage which prevents him from ever experiencing his greatest joy (chasing things). Obviously my veterinary trauma-diagnosing abilities are lacking, and my poor, sweet Caesar dog was paying the price. I replaced the bandage with sterile gauze and tape that I snagged from the first aid kit at work, and called the vet, who was closed, but whose machine recommended a vet clinic all the way downtown that, without a car and at this time of night, would cost $70 to get to. Due to severe financial constraints, I prayed that my second, slightly less ghetto bandage would hold until the next morning. I cuddled up with Caese on my bed and tried to communicate my deepest sympathy for his pain, and make him as comfortable as possible in exchange for my lacking a car and funds to go to the 24-hour emergency vet.
I tried to relax with my old tried-and-true opiate, television. Alas, it was to no avail. Thursday night TV sucks now that "Survivor" is not on anymore: "The O.C." is about as exciting and unpredictable as an Amish quilting bee, "CSI" is unequivocally the worst show on television (which is probably why it's the most watched), and "The Apprentice" finale was an anticlimactic snorefest. I slept fitfully, dreaming of horrible dog maladies and even more horrible veterinary bills.
This morning, the vet nearby wasn't open on account of the transit workers' strike that didn't happen. So I had to saddle Caesar and Chingy! up and WALK THEM TO THE SOUTH FUCKING BRONX. Yes, we had to cross the Harlem River on foot. It was not fun, especially on account of Caesar's condition (not that he seemed to mind, but he wanted to dip his injured leg in every homeless-guy's-urine-filled puddle of melting sludge), and the fact that Chingy! wanted to take a shit in the middle of Grand Concourse, a very major street in the aforementioned South Bronx. Once we finally arrived at the vet, things went from bad to worse.
There was a dog in the waiting room who Chingy! would not leave alone. Her owner communicated to me in broken English that she was "up the period." I took that to mean she was in heat, which she certainly seemed to be, as she was just barking and running around and inflaming my male dogs like a hooker on a Navy pier. Chingy! was trying desperately to get off his leash and fuck her like they were the last dogs on earth. Caesar, on the other hand, knew we were at the vet and there seemed to be a rectal thermometer in his future (which there was), so he started whining like the a teakettle. Just when the lady with the fertile dog was called into the office and I thought at least that Chingy! would calm down, a family brought their cats in. Caesar and Chingy! both forgot about their immediate issues (the vet and fucking the period dog, respectively) and started trying to get across the waiting room to literally chase some pussy. The owners castigated me in South Bronx Spanish. It was not fun, and the term "pendejo" was actually used to describe Chingy!. At that point, I made a phone call, and then the vet mercifully called me into his office and away from the menage of cat lovers.
After examining him, the vet told me that Caesar partially severed a tendon, and therefore required expensive dog surgery to the tune of $700. There is no question that Caesar is my son, even though he is another species, so therefore I did what any rational parent would do: I called my parents and borrowed $700. So now, Caesar is recovering in the hospital (and probably whining his face off), and I am trying to deal with both the expense and the concern that my darling, handsome, sweet baby is spending the night in an outer borough, recovering from surgery alone and without any Beneful (or people food).
Because of our morning trip to the Bronx, I got a very late start at work. Then we had seminar, and lab meeting, and I was finally able to start working around 3. Needless to say, I had a long night at work. I then went and had a beer with a friend, but I was terrified that without Caesar's tempering influence, Chingy! would be shredding my apartment into fine pieces. So I went home, expecting to chide Chingy!, then clean up whatever mayhem he caused and relax with some "Law and Order" reruns and some Heinekens that I stole from Free Friday (grad student happy hour).
Alas, it was not to be. Just a day after Smith sent the SAQ to subtly indicate their solicitous intentions, I received a winter postcard from them, informing me that "IT'S NOT TOO LATE!" to donate and get a tax deduction this year. In fact, they offer me the "opportunity" to "take advantage of a charitable donation." Well, thanks a lot. I love getting postcards with fat, androgynous cunts making snow angels on the front that offer me the "opportunity" to give you free money. Because it's almost as charitable as Mother Theresa to charge people for the privilege of having a cool dorm room for their stupid friends to hang out in and NOT DRINK. That sounds like my kind of cause. Especially when I've occupied my day in an orgy of spending to keep my stinky animal alive, I'm definitely eager to help all the white-bread blueblood American Studies majors hang out on their porch and discuss important issues with my rapidly disappearing (thank you, Bush, for allocating NIH training grant funds to Halliburton contracts) graduate stipend. Also, thanks for letting me "take advantage" of the fact that the tax year is almost over and I might be able to join the "President's Circle," which would allow me to spend 50 grand for the added privilege of MEETING this fugly bitch:
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder]Yes, that's Carol Christ (and that's pronounced "CHRIS-T", not "Christ" like Jesus), President of Smith College. And I don't know why anyone wouldn't take out a second mortgage on their house for the privilege of contributing to the boring life of Tej and Katie (as they're known) or hanging out with Carol Christ's stupid ass. If Smith really wants some goddamned money from me, they'd better pretend that they have a fucked up dog. Because that's the ONLY way I'm going to remotely consider "taking advantage" of their offer to just give them money.
Seriously, fuck you, Smith Alumnae Fund. Fuck you every which way. So long as it's degrading.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
