Christmas Jeers

There are many gross things associated with the Christmas season. Even with the decorations and stuff, the cheer part often eludes me. Let's have a rundown of what's not cute about this time of year:

1) Commercials like this, which are even more annoying because you can't embed the file in your blog. Here's the gist: "I love Christmas because... I love to shop!" Really? That's great.

2) The aforementioned Gap commercials which drive me into a near-homicidal rage.

3) Candy canes. They look cute, but I don't want to eat that. And now I feel obligated to do so because what about all the starving children.

4) Cookies and cake that look delicious but then you bite into them and they taste like rum or some crap. What is that? I don't need to get hammered from eating a cookie. I just want a damn cookie that tastes like a cookie, not a cocktail.

5) Those cards that you get that don't fold. Don't get me wrong. I love getting picture cards. But the ones that don't fold and that you have to prop up against the wall get relegated to the back row on the mantel with the free-standing ones obscuring them and their beauty. Which kind of sucks because then I can't see the cuteness.

6) The fact that every store feels the need to play nothing but Christmas music. Come on. Not everyone is into it. Can we throw some Doobie Brothers in there to break it up?

7) Crap like this:

which they then made even worse by making a TV movie based on it. Mom's dying and your buying her shoes? Good luck with that. How about buying that kid a coat, instead?

8) When they do crud that messes with my precious childhood memories. Like those parodies about Rudolph being a porn star or something. Take your pick here. I don't need that, OK? It's not helping.

9) Sexy Santa lingerie. Really?

10) This:

If this is what I'm getting from my piece this year, we're over.

Umbrella-ella-ella Pt. 2

We've touched on this topic before, but more attention must be paid. I've got a lot more problems with umbrellas and you're going to hear about them.

One: People don't know how to use them properly. E.g. if I'm walking toward you and you have an umbrella open, LIFT IT UP so it doesn't poke me in the freakin' eye. Get off your stupid cellphone so you can pay attention and properly wield the umbrella at a safe height instead of resting it on one shoulder and then spinning around, blinding those around you.

Two: If you can't handle number one above, invest in one of those clear, bubble-type umbrellas that are all the rage in Japan (and maybe elsewhere where people have good sense). Then you can actually SEE what is coming toward you instead of blindly staggering down the sidewalk in the rain, holding your opaque umbrella and hoping for the best. Some ideas are so simple.

Three: If you have a sopping wet umbrella, how about not putting it on the empty chair next to you in the restaurant you're in because guess what? Those are actually made to be seats for PEOPLE who don't need a wet butt because you have a separation anxiety issue and can't part with your Totes at the door.

Finally: What is with those little "sleeves" they make for umbrellas? You know what I'm talking about: when you get a new one, it comes encased in this little nylon sheath. Great, but what am I supposed to do with that? Fold the umbrella so meticulously back into its original creases after each use so that it actually fits back into one of those things? I dont' think so. People with that kind of time and patience are doing things like constructing boats inside bottles, writing angry and rambling letters to the editor or making artwork that nobody can see.

Fall into the Gap

Dear Gap:

If your intent was to make me want to put a muzzle on these kids and push them into a mud puddle...

...mission accomplished.

And while they're drying off, I'll be happy to take a Taser to everyone appearing here:


Happy Holidays!

Hype-Cast.

All of these horrible shows on the VH-1 are pretty low-budge', right? Like in addition to being light on content and any lacking in any redeeming qualities, they also don't have much going on by way of production values. Throw some skanks in a room with a D list celeb and a bottle of Old Crow, film it and then slap it together with some Nickelback in the background is pretty much the formula.

If they want to save even more coin, they just need to keep recycling all of the cast members of each show. Maybe they already do this, I don't know. But for some ungodly reason, I found myself watching "Tough Love" the other night. This show features many ladies with low self esteem and body issues being coached on how to hide their foibles and be what dudes like so that some tool will marry them.

One of the charmers on the show is Rocky, whom I recognized from ("The Soup"'s clips of) that show with Danny Bonaduce about how you should under no circumstances let your kid go into show business because the kid might end up looking like a leprechaun made of Slim Jims and giving beat-downs to unsuspecting transvestites. She's the lady who gave us this clip (and no, she is not the transvestite previously mentioned).

Someone please call CPS immediately.

Anyway, they could easily just shuffle these people around: move the skanks from "Rock of Love" over to find husbands on "Tough Love." Have the d-wads from "Tool Academy" go on "For the Love of Gay J". Then funnel everyone on over to either Sex or Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.

The Fabric of Our Lives.

Please explain these cotton commercials to me. Like, why do they need to advertise cotton? It's like advertising steel. Few of us are actually purchasing this on the open market. Even if you're going all "Project Runway" and making your own clothes, it's not like you would storm into JoAnn Fabrics demanding cotton. I don't get it.

I also don't get this Zooey Deschanel person's voice. I guess there was a certain appeal to it in "Elf" when she was singing that song about it being cold outside, but in this commercial, she sounds weird. Like an old woman who has been hitting the Dimetapp a little too hard. Like a muppet on 'ludes. Like old gum in the dirt.

At least now we know what fabric to wear while sticking Post-Its to an antique upright piano and going banjo shopping.

Acting Squirrely.

It's like, enough already with the squirrels. Every time I'm walking through the park, there's someone transfixed by one: chasing it around a tree, taking its picture, trying to communicate with it through a series of clicks and teeth sucking sounds that I'm pretty sure are not in any way fooling the squirrel into thinking that this guy in Dockers with a $5000 baby stroller is, in fact, someone the squirrel might see back in the nest later that night.

By and large, the folks who seem the most interested are the ones not speaking English with an American accent. Which begs the question: do they have squirrels in other countries? I'm pretty sure they do and that they look almost exactly like the ones here. I've been a bunch of places, and I've seen them. In Canada recently, I saw one that was black. That's crazy.

Basically, squirrels are like people with neck tattoos - everywhere and not very interesting. I saw a squirrel this morning eating a nut with its tail all curled up behind it, behaving as a squirrel should. I guess that was kind of cute, but boring, sort of like the Levi Johnston of squirrels.

Once, I saw a t-shirt with an image of a squirrel with huge testicles on it. Some kind of visual nut joke, I guess. The interesting part is that it was stapled to a plywood loading palette and propped up randomly on a sidewalk with no one around and no word of explanation. So what I'm saying is if these squirrels in the park put in a little extra effort like the one on the shirt, we'd all be a lot better off.

Tyra's Stank.

The time may have come for ANTM and me to part ways. Sad, as we spent some good Wednesday evenings together. Who can forget Crazy Lisa and the funniest thing I have ever seen on reality TV?


I've been overlooking Tyra and her nonsense for well nigh 13 cycles of ANTM, but after this week's installment, I'm finally acknowledging that Tyra is a total reject. For the photo shoot this week, Tyra shot the midget model hopefuls as "two different races".

First of all, she seems a little confused on what a "race" is. "Laura, you're going to be Mexican and Greek!" Um, neither of those is a race. Secondly - WTF?! This shoot involved all of the girls except Sundai, the lone black contender, to be dipped in dark body paint and "transformed into a new race." Basically, it was blackface, under the guise of celebrating President Obama's biracial heritage. I'll give you a moment to try to comprehend that crock.

Are you for real, Tyra? "Celebrating" different nationalities by painting skin and dressing the models in the most stereotypical (not to mention chintzy) clothing representing said nations/nationalities? The Native American/East Indian shoot included a full-on feather headress, sari and bindi, and came complete with regal, stoic stare. I was waiting for a lone tear to come dripping down her cheek. COME ON. These stupid stereotypes are how you're purporting to break down racial barriers? Are you serious?! If you want to celebrate being biracial, HOW ABOUT HAVING SOME BIRACIAL MODELS IN THE COMPETITION? You could totally save on body paint!

We should have seen this coming. There were precursors. Exhibit A: When Tyra made the models dress up poor and pose with real life homeless (yet photogenic) people! Then she explained that she knew the deal with homelessness, since she, too, was homeless FOR AN ENTIRE DAY. What does that even mean? That she didn't go home to her mansion until bedtime one day?! Then there was the Tyra in a Fat Suit episode of her unwatchable daytime TV show, "A Daily Celebration of Tyra." On the real, this woman is clueless. But in an increasingly harmful way.

Police Blotto.

I subscribe to the police report for my 'hood that they send out every week, partially because I want to know what I'm dealing with out there and mainly because I'm a Nosy Parker (not to be confused with Parker Posey, which is allegedly her real name, which I have a hard time believing). Like I found out that a week ago around the corner, some guy woke up in the morning to a homeless man standing in his bedroom, wearing his bathrobe. At a shady hotel/halfway house type place, someone got their X-Box stolen, but they didn't report it until three days later... to the Airport Police. One time, there was a graphic description of transvestite prostitutes "flagging down passing motorists and yelling massage."

But the incidents that get me are the ones that are invariably there every week: car window gets smashed, and something ridiculously valuable that was obviously clearly visible through said smashed window gets stolen. Really, people? You're surprised when you leave your laptop in your Mercedes and it gets popped? Oh, you left your iPod in the car and now it's no longer there? Your solid gold infant was left in your unattended and unlocked car and now you're upset that it's gone? COME ON.

I'm not into blaming the victim and not every break in results in a haul like a laptop (or anything at all), but when I park my piece of junk car, I put the trusty Club into place and leave the empty glove box open to show that there's nothing in there anyone wants. Unless they want a manual for a 1992 Honda, a map of PA and NJ state parks and a cassette tape of The Best of MTV's 120 Minutes (Part 2). Then they can have at it.

Dirty Diapers.

WTF is up with the people at Pampers? Most of their ad campaigns (with the exception of that one with Salma Hayek and the most-imitable pronunciation of "Pampers" ever) are geared directly at toddlers. Like, they address babies directly about their diaper needs.

Where do I even start with this nonsense? How about that it's totally gross to market directly to PEOPLE WHO CANNOT EVEN INFLUENCE PURCHASING DECISIONS YET since they can't, you know, TALK. Like it's not bad enough that kids are constantly bombarded with commercialism and consumerism, now we're indoctrinating them to buy, buy, buy practically as soon as they emerge from the birth canal? Are the parents watching this thinking, "Why aren't they talking to me? I'm the one with the cash money"?

Secondly, what is this crap about how busy toddlers are, toiling around the house? No, they're not. They're napping, being waited on hand and foot, occasionally throwing tantrums and generally making a mess.

I get that they're really addressing the parents here with mentions of lawn care, household chores, etc., but it's really disturbing. Isn't it bad enough that 6 year olds know all the words to Pussycat Dolls songs and that child beauty pageants exist? Do we have to take a bunch of kids with no pants on who can't even use indoor plumbing yet and project them into roles of daily drudgery? Can we not just let kids be kids? Cripes. It's enough to make a person want to turn off the TV and become Amish. Although then I guess the kids would be raising barns from the time they could walk, so...

Trite Tripe.

Can we all agree to stop using the phrase "I love [whoever] to death"? I mean, WTF does that mean, anyway? That you love the person so much you want to kill them? That is not cool, man.

Even if intent to murder is not the intended subtext of the phrase, I've noticed that people usually use it to talk about someone they actually don't like all that much. "I love Hans to death... But his sandals make me gag." "I love my mother in-law-to death... but I'm glad she lives in Guam." "I love children to death... But I have vivid nightmares that those creepy twins from that Ikea commercial will somehow find me and murder me in my sleep." (Seriously, what is that commercial even about?! That the mom loves her matching ovens more than her twins? That twins are evil? The Twin Anti-Defamation League needs to get on that.)

While we're eradicating irritating, meaningless phrases from our collective vocabulary, let's also do away with the space-filler, "It is what it is." Oh, is it, really? WHAT? If it's not what it is, then WHAT IS IT? It's like an existential mind-bender. But stupid.

Maximizing Exercise.

So, like: exercise. Cardio, more specifically. The goal here is to raise your heart level up and get that sucker pumping, right? Strengthen it up, burn those calories? To accomplish this, it's often recommended that you strap ankle and wrist weights to yourself and then go walk up some stairs or gad about town. Wouldn't it create the same effect if you were just fat? Because then you're hauling around extra weight all the time and, hey, no Olivia Newton-John accoutrement needed!

Along the same lines, smoking is also proven to raise one's heart rate. If you lit up while running, you could get twice the workout in half the time! How about installing some ashtrays on the elliptical machines at the gym? I saw a guy out jogging once: sweatbands, shortie shorts, tank top, the whole nine, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he chugged down the sidewalk. Some would call him an idiot. I dub him a Master of Optimization.

Go Away, Ginkgo.

Let me tell you, no one loves a tree more than I do. Remember when those trees all went ape in one of those Lord of the Rings movies? That was totally the best part. I also aspire to live in a tree one day. I'm aiming for those stars.

But unlike man, not all trees are created equal. Some are hotter than others and some are a downright mess. Take the ginkgo tree - please. These things are nasty: when the ginkgo berries get ripe or whatever and plop down on the sidewalk, they emit an exquisite scent reminiscent of like, rotten fruit meets manure (identifying scents is not my strong suit and my inability to do so points to what I fear is early onset Alzheimers. Ironically, ginkgo is supposed to be good for your memory.)

And for some reason, the city of Philadelphia has seen fit to plant these things on every. single. block. Not only do they stink, but once you step in the fallen berries, they form a slick gel that then smells AND could potentially cause you to have a Life Alert moment. I know they're supposed to be hearty and be able to thrive in polluted environments, but man - they are contributing to the pollution.

Tippie Toe.

Remember that whole Ted Danson/Whoopi Goldberg conflagration? Like, what was that? They got together whilst filming edgy, topical comedy "Made in America" during which Whoops visits Ye Olde Sperm Bank and gets implanted with Sam Malone's fluids. Next thing you know, they're dating in real life and he's donning blackface at the Friar's Club in a misguided attempt to be his generation's Al Jolson (not to be confused with this guy).

Evidently, movie sets lead to strange bedfellows: Billy Bob and Angelina, anyone? Those were the days: those two sittin' around, swappin' blood vials and eatin' only orange foods. Then there was Brad Pitt and Juliette Lewis. Um... what? Slightly less weird was the Uma Thurman/Gary "Sid Vicious" Oldman connection. Homegirls were hitched when Uma was only 20 years old and Gary had not yet made cinematic history with his pivotal role in the cinematic classic, Tiptoes.

Are you aware of this film? If not, you should familiarize yourself with it, stat. It features Matthew McConaughey and Gary Oldman as twins. Not only are they visibly like 20 years apart in age, but Gary makes a brave choice here and plays a midget. Matt's midget twin brother. Walking around on his knees, not unlike Dorf. It's all quite extraordinary. Thrown in for good measure is a cornrowed Patsy Arquette, Kate Beckinsale and real-life midget Peter Dinklage. He also makes a brave choice by playing a Frenchman with what might be the worst fake French accent since that guy who called Sarah Palin pretending to be the King of France. I hope I'm not giving anything away, here. It's really a must-see.

Border Follies.

Here's a fact: when you flee Canada for the U.S. via plane, they make you go through U.S. customs in Canada.

In Toronto, for instance, you go into the airport, expecting to proceed through the metal detectors and on to your gate and the opportunity to buy duty-free perfume and tobacco, but no. First you're confronted with a bunch of signs saying "U.S. Customs Checkpoint" and a line about 7 billion people long. If you've been up all weekend chugging maple syrup and searching desperately for moose, being confronted by all of this is a bit disorienting.

To complete the tableau and create the illusion that you're really about to cross the border, the stations are manned by surly, unsmiling customs people. Just in case you still have doubts that you've actually left Canada (even though you're still in Toronto), a miniature Statue of Liberty flanked by two crooked American flags with a sad "Welcome to the United States" banner draped in between is the first thing you see after your passport (no longer) gets stamped. Like that's going to fool anyone. "Look kids, it's the statue of Liberty! We must be in NEW YORK CITY!" All I wanted to know was, can I still unload some of this money with beavers on it?

Fat Joe

I normally limit my reality TV dating show viewing only to shows with the word "Joe" in the title: Average Joe, Joe Millionaire, Outback Joe, Joe Cruise, The Littlest Groom... Then I discovered More to Love, which is evidently like a big-boned version of The Bachelor. The Bachelor's chunky cousin, if you will: a smarmy, husky fella dates a bunch of ample ladies then has to give one an engagement ring at the end. In between, we're treated to the stats of each trick, including name, hometown, age and of course, weight. Classy!

In between, there's a lot of boring dates involving rich desserts; forcing insecure, plus-sized women to appear in swim wear on national TV; labored breathing; and making out. Herein lies the problem (because obviously, the problem is not that this is a show that exploits the overweight while purporting to "empower" them, as Daisy of Love purports to empower hookers): the sounds of mastication and of sucking on one another's faces are not hot. Slurping, swallowing, sucking melted cheese out of one another's teeth - it's gross no matter who's doing it. And because the producers wanted to remind us that HEY THESE PEOPLE LOOOVE EATING! there was an inordinate amount of it on More to Love.

On the plus side (no pun intended), M2L marked the triumphant return of Emme, who is like the plus-sized version of one Ms. Janice Dickinson, minus The Crazy, probable Quaalude addiction and botched plastic surgery. Emme was the "hostess" of M2L, meaning that at the end of each episode when it was time for the smarmy guy to boot off one in his stable of women, she came out of nowhere wearing some rag that looked like a castoff from Dancing with the Stars to like, announce that he was about to kick someone out, then swiftly pivoted and stalked off without further explanation. Way to get that cash, Emme! Bravo. It was actually kind of awesome.

Cry & Cut.

In the grand tradition of formerly comedic television actresses who now weep on commercials featuring starving children, I bring you Laurie Metcalf:



Remember when she was funny as Jackie on 'Roseanne'? Yeah, not anymore. Is the intent here to make me want to help this poor kid or punch her in the face? Because I'm leaning toward the latter. Pull yourself together. Starving children doesn't call for smiles, but would it kill you to stop sobbing and maybe put on some blush while you're at it? Sally Struthers made the effort - you should, too.

And if you think that's bad, check out the photo on her Wikipedia page. WTF is going on there? For real. She was 53 when this picture was taken, not 83 as her hair would lead you to believe. Why would you go into a salon and get the "Queen Elizabeth"? It's a hot mess, minus the hot.

Getting Perspective.

Sad news: some dog that was like, in the running towards becoming the World's Smallest Dog, died. That's a bummer, because it was cute and its name was "Scooter", which was also the name of my favorite tertiary character on the original Degrassi Jr. High series (the Canadian one, eh?). He was like the original Urkel. But I digress.

Anyway, Scooter (dog form) was totally adorable, but just how small was this dog? I need a picture of it being held by some sort of standard-sized human hand so that I can do a compare and contrast. The only pictures I could find were that of Scooter in a tea cup (shown here) with the disembodied head of I guess his owner. This tells me nothing. That could be one of those big-ass cups you put ice cream in when you're trying to tell yourself that it's somehow less than if you just used a bowl.

Then the other picture was of scooter with the world's largest dog or something, which I suppose is approximately the size of a small elephant. I just want some perspective, here. Would this dog have fit in my pocket? Somehow if it did, it makes me miss it more.

All Roads Lead to Charo.

Don't get it twisted: I love, love, The Golden Girls, like any person of sound mind should. But one thing troubles me: if Sophia Petrillo came to the United States as a teenager, why is she rockin' a Brooklyn accent and not a Sicilian drawl? I know people who have been here for 50+ years who are still barely comprehesible (I'm looking at you, Charo.) What gives?

Speaking of Charo, did you know she is literally like 150 years old? Not really, but she claims to be 10 years younger than she actually is (ahem, Catherine Zeta-Jones.) Charo married some guy 44 years her senior when she was 20. Obviously, he was charmed by her killer flamenco guitar-playing skillz. But maybe not so much by her lip-syncing:


She also coined the phrase "cuchi cuchi," which is as profound as it is useful. Plus, she was on all the best shows, including but not limited to The Love Boat, Hollywood Squares and Chico and the Man and recently made an appearance on VH-1's train wreck Ru Paul's Drag Race, which before I saw it, I was hoping was about drag queens operating motor vehicles. She also naturally pioneered the "duck lips" look long before Meg Ryan, Melanie Griffith and Jay Mohr's piece co-opted it. Charo looks like a pekingese, but is working it. Bravo, Charo. Or shall I say, "Cuchi cuchi?" Cuchi cuchi, Charo. Cuchi cuchi.

Alle-Gore-y.

I was all set to go off on Lesley Gore and her horrifying '50's anthems "It's My Party" and the gross follow-up "Judy's Turn to Cry".

If you are unfamiliar with quintessential '50's Americana and your parents never forced you to listen to the oldies station during every single car trip you ever took, "It's My Party" is all about this sap (Lesley) who has a birthday party and invites both friend Judy and dreamy Johnny, who then rudely decide to get it on together, much to Lesley's chagrin! Her response is to boo-hoo and then act petulant ("You would cry, too, if it happened to you." Probably. Either that or give both of them the tasering of a lifetime.)

Then she follows up with "Judy's Turn to Cry." Here's where I have a real problem: instead of being ticked at Johnny for making out with her friend Judy AT LESLEY'S OWN PARTY, Lesley wins back the loathsome cad's affections and then sneers at poor Judy, who's left alone and humiliated. Basically, this jerk Johnny gets to make out with two ladies, then gets off scot-free while they fight over him for no discernible reason. I think something similar may have happened on Flavor of Love. Only with more expletives and less clothing.

But after a little research, I got schooled - Lesley redeemed herself somewhat with the deadly serious anthem "You Don't Own Me" in which she tells off some jerk who thinks he can control what she does and says and uses her as arm candy. Then Lesley later came out as a lesbian, which may not make her music any more enjoyable, but makes an exploration of all her earlier work that much more interesting, given the context and era. Who knew?!

Lesley has also got some killer dance moves:

Carrie Sadshaw.

When you're getting limited-time-only, free HBO, sometimes you feel obligated to watch it. Even if the only thing on is this Sex in the City movie.

First of all, what the hell is the name of it? "Sex AND the city" or "IN the City"? It doesn't really matter because it sucks for many reasons. Not the least of which is this hideous Carrie Bradshaw character. Like, hideous. Personality-wise and aesthetically speaking. Listen, I'm all for unconventional beauty, and I loved SJP in Square Pegs, but I'm drawing the line here. And it's not helping that they're putting her in the world's most ridiculous outfits. I'm all for sartorial commentary, too, but come on. ENOUGH, ALREADY. Hooking up pajama bottoms, pearls, a t-shirt, stiletto ankle boots, a fur and a SPANGLED BEANIE? You lost me at the pearls.

Even more infuriating is the fact that this character is like, a loser. I'm sorry. It's true. Running after that creepy "Big" dude with the Count Chocula eyebrows and then being ecstatically happy with the pathetic scraps of attention he throws her way every now and again? GAG. The best part of the movie [SPOILER ALERT] is when she plans some cockamamie wedding that involves her wearing some dress that is like 150 sizes too big in the boobs and he leaves at the altar. YES! But then he wins her scrawny ass back by being too lazy to actually write her a love letter and just ripping off some famous ones from history, then sending them to her via EMAIL (!) with some lame ass note like, "Sorry I screwed up." And she's like, "He really does care." WHAT?! Because he sent a freakin' email containing plagiarized material?

I can't take it. Who am I supposed to relate to, here? What am I missing?

Spoils of War.

Been waiting for the opportunity to wash that man right out of your hair AND cash in during these Troubled Economic Times? You're in luck:



Um, what? There's a lot going on here. Let's review:
1. Talking dogs.
2. Talking dogs who get their hair did at "Le Bistro". A cafe/dog groomer? Does not meet the health code.
3. Talking dogs with bling.
4. Talking, web-savvy dogs.
5. Good-for-nothing oglers.
5. Talking, web-savvy dogs who control their masters and then benefit financially from the behavior of good-for-nothing oglers though the acquisition of bejeweled dog accessories.

The tag line "break up with his jewelry, too" was the only part of this I heard when I first encountered this commercial. I was like, "Why are these women dating men who wear so much jewelry? Who are they dating? Mr. T? Liberace?"

Lashing Out.

Is there an epidemic of "eyelash inadequacy" sweeping the nation? Are people gnashing their teeth and wailing because their eyelashes simply aren't long or thick enough? According to the drug company that makes "Latisse", yes.

"Inadequate" lashes? "Not enough lashes"? Why are they being so judgmental? I can see if you had to undergo chemo or something and lost your eyelashes. Or if your lids are like, stark raving nude. But to get a prescription to help you grow eyelashes thicker? Is that covered under your health insurance plan?

Let's take a look at the possible side effects:

May cause eyelid skin darkening which may be reversible, and there is potential for increased brown iris pigmentation which is likely to be permanent.

So basically, you use this stuff and you could end up looking like Randy Constan.

Edible Infants.

You know how they can take a picture now and stick it on a cake? Yeah, that's weird. Like it's Grandpa's 75th birthday and here you are at the family party, eating part of his chin or working your way through his right arm. Festive.

Well, that's nothing. Because I was recently made aware of the 100% horrifying marzipan babies phenomenon. Like, miniature, realistic-looking babies THAT ARE MADE OUT OF SUGAR AND ARE EDIBLE. And evidently, twisted freaks like to give them out to nosh upon at baby showers.

I have good news. Turns out, I'm like five years behind the times and this all turned out to be a nasty rumor. I Snopes-ed it out and they're actually just these weird little figurines that some artist makes. Which, really, is kind of bizarre enough in itself. Weirder still is that I checked out the website and for some reason (read: to make an extra buck), you can buy little outfits for these mini babies and dress them up. What is the scenario like where someone is sitting around doing that? At least they're not eating them, I guess.

Bathroom Attendance.

Oh, man. There are lots of crappy-ass jobs out there: crab fisherperson, proctologist, uninsured day-laborer... But one of the worst has to be that of bathroom attendant.

Ugh. The fact that someone has to spend their entire day in a public bathroom is almost too depressing to bear. I can think of fewer places I'd rather be. I mean, it beats like, living in a box or whatever worst case horrible situation you can think of, for sure, but man...

And as a human who needs to use the bathroom from time to time, I'm also kind of resentful that in order to attend to an unstoppable biological need, I am forced to be confronted with an awkward situation which ALSO includes tipping, to make it that much more awkward. Some people have "shy bladders", you know. If someone is in that bathroom with them, it just prolongs the transaction. And I can actually get my own paper towel, but I sincerely thank you for offering one to me. I'll also pass on the perfume, but thanks again. And if I'm at this event or whatever for longer than 2 hours, I'll probably be seeing you several times. Do we need to go through this dance each time? And should I leave a tip each time? I'm running out of singles.

I just hate everything about it. It gives me the sads. Thoughts?

Umbrella-ella-ella.

As if it's not bad enough trying to dodge becoming a cyclops via an errant umbrella spoke in the eyeball during a downpour, now chumps are using umbrellas to protect themselves from the sun. I place the blame for this alarming trend firmly on Jacko, who was fond of this type of nonsense.

Listen: if you're not sitting outdoors somewhere at a table with a hole in it or laying on a beach, there's no call for this type of behavior. And if you're going to insist on pulling a Morticia Aadams and strutting around with one of these damn parasols, how about not poking my eyes out while you protect your precious alabaster complexion?

Or better yet, put down the stupid umbrella, be normal and develop melanoma like the rest of us.

The Pro-NO-sal.

Don't you hate it when you go to a picturesque cabin with your hotass coworker who you're pretending to be married to so you can get a green card because you're Canadian and it turns out that you are both single and lonely and the only thing keeping you apart (besides you being a Canadian) is your pride and dedication to maintaining your reputation as a hard-edged businesswoman and then when you're in the cabin, you and your hotass coworker both suddenly - whoops!- find yourselves accidentally nude and on top of one another and then like, maybe Cloris Leachman or Murphy Brown pops her head in and says something bawdy and then you realize that you're really in love after all and screw the USA and its stupid green card laws, you're moving to Canada with your hotass coworker who is now your husband?

I hate when that happens.

You have now officially seen that new Sandy Bullock/Guy Who is Married to Scarlett Jojoba and Who is Ironically Canadian in Real Life movie. You're welcome.

Miracle-Whipped.

Have you seen these new Miracle Whip commercials? You must click on the hyperlink because it is ri.donk.u.lous. The premise is that Miracle Whip is the most badass condiment to hit the streets since freakin' Grey Poupon so WATCH OUT, MOFOS.

Are you kidding me? MIRACLE WHIP being posited as some kind of cutting edge flavor-enhancer? This has got to be some kind of meta-joke, right? Because as far as I'm aware, Miracle Whip is a discount mayonnaise knockoff.

And we don't even have to talk about how amazing mayo is. It is manna from heaven. No ifs, ands or buts. Show me a snack more delicious than mayo on a piece of white bread. You can't, because it doesn't exist. Mayo is the world's most perfect foodstuff, and this Miracle Whip nonsense is some kind of cruel joke. "Salad dressing"?! Are you for real? What does that even mean? Why do I need "salad dressing" on my sandwich? I don't, so get it out of my face.

The Gary Busey Story.

What's up with Gary Busey? Is he rockin' a glass eye, or what?

I know he got all messed up when he broke his ass falling off a motorcycle back in '88 after freewheelin' down the highway. He wiped out. Girlfriend didn't have a helmet on and dented his head. So maybe that explains the eye, but that still leaves the Mystery of Busey's Teeth. They're real, right? Because why would you get fake teeth that look like that? "Give me the Mr. Ed." It just doesn't happen, not even in Buseyland. Plus, his son seems to have inherited that mouth. Have you seen him? This poor guy...it's not pretty.

You'd think people would take one look at Gary today and start wearing helmets like, ALL THE TIME, just as a precautionary measure against becoming Gary Busey. It's not nice to make fun of the cognitively impaired, but really, he seems like kind of a jerk. Not sure if this is a direct result of the noggin floggin' or if he was a jerk to begin with, but, there you go.

Feelin' Blue.

There needs to be more blue foods. Even as a kid, you had to be aware that (maybe due to their scarcity) blue foods were always the best and most delicious: Booberry cereal, any cupcakes with blue icing, the blue sno-kone...

Back in my day, they didn't even have blue M&M's (they replaced the lame tan M&M back in 1995) or blue Jolly Ranchers. What is up with that? Like, no one realized that BLUE is way more fun to eat than freakin' TAN? Was there some poison in the blue dye that no one was talking about? Why did it take the food industry so long to wise up? And now that the coast seems to be clear, can we have more blue foods, please? I'll eat them. And don't talk to me about blueberries. I KNOW ABOUT BLUEBERRIES, OKAY?

Another thing: there should be more blue types of plant life, like flowers. How many blue flowers do you see around? Maybe the occasional cornflower. And don't talk to me about some weirdass flower that only grows in Australia. It's not doing me any good.

Then they try to pass off these flowers that are actually more purple as being blue. Let's get it straight: I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. Don't show me something that's black and tell me it's navy.

Chumps on a Plane.

Remember when airplane travel was fun? Instead of taking a car or boat like some sucker with unlimited vacation time, you boarded an iron eagle and swiftly were transported to your destination. Along the way, a crew of smiling air hosts and hostesses helped you find room for your bags and kept the free snacks and drinks coming. It was a magical journey to Happyland.

Now, not so much. You wait around in a hideous airport for the prescribed two hours, then have to wait around some more because the stupid plane is always late for some dumb reason.

By the time you actually get on the plane and wedge yourself in your cramped seat, your hatred for humanity has grown to gargantuan proportions. Come on, you disoriented yokel, TAKE A SEAT SO I CAN GET BY YOU. Lady, if you're too weak to lift your carry on bag, which will clearly never fit in the overhead anyway, THEN YOU'VE PACKED TOO MUCH. Check your stupid luggage.

Once you get going, it's no better. Hey, guy in business suit: the flight time is 27 minutes. Is it really necessary for you to order A FREAKIN' SCOTCH, make the flight attendant go find a bottle, then root around in vain to find change for the $50 bill you're shoving her way? Can you like, maybe NOT DRINK FOR 27 MINUTES? Also, person in front of me: would it be possible for you to not fully recline your seat during the meal service? This ain't ancient Rome: trying to digest while supine is not recommended. Finally, to the jerks in first class: we're not allowed to use your precious bathroom, so don't come parading out from behind that stupid mesh curtain to go use ours in coach. This is class warfare and you're not welcome on our plebeian turf.

I love to travel, but getting there is becoming none of the fun.

Wigging Out.

In the words of the immortal Nigel Tufnel, with certain things, sometimes it's "best [to] leave it...unsolved." Case in point: the mystery of Phil Spector's lid. The recently convicted murderer and music legend has treated us lo these past four years or so to an array of fantastic hairdos the likes of which have not been seen since a 1987 stroll through the Mall of America.

From the Bride of Frankenstein to the Carol Brady, his locks were seriously amazing, and I was happy to leave it at that. Maybe I fleetingly wondered how exactly the hairdos occurred: is there a warehouse in the wig district of some far-flung city filled with these exquisite follicular specimens? If so, can I visit it and is there a discount for buying in bulk?

Then, this happened:
...and suddenly, the party was over. We took a sharp left from what was simply an innocent visit to Crazytown and drove straight into the darkest corner of Beelzebub's basement. It's a look that is also seriously amazing, but in every wrong way possible. Hold me.

Put a Ring On It.

Sad news for all the single ladies (all the single ladies): Mr. Mike Tyson is off the market. He married the third in a continuing series of brides (Robin Givens, some other broad, and this woman) this week.

Really? A third person is willing to marry Mike Tyson? I don't know - perhaps he's a nice guy. A nice guy with a history of violence inside and outside of the ring and a rape conviction who has a penchant for threatening to eat other people's children. I mean, who hasn't been there, right? If I had a dime for all the kids I've threatened to consume... but that's another story for another day. I know there's this movie out, Tyson, that's supposed to make us feel bad for him for being some dumbass kid who was abused and manipulated, but you know - not so much.

On another note, now that they're doing the Saved by the Bell reunion, where is the one for Head of the Class? I miss Jawaharlal.

Organic Panic.

Few things suck the enjoyment out of a meal faster than being a couple of bites into a green salad, looking down, and realizing the whole thing is infested with aphids (Me: "Did you wash these greens?!" Husband: "They're organic!" Meaning, "No.").

I'm not going to go pro-pesticide, here, mainly because (among other bad things) I'm under the impression that prolonged exposure to them will make you end up looking like the Lady in the Radiator from Eraserhead. But maybe we need to do one of the things Andre was babbling about in My Dinner with Andre and enter into some sort of peace talks with the insect world whereby we set up designated insect infestation areas and they leave the rest of the crops alone. Or maybe we just need to wash the organic salad thoroughly from now on.

To do this weekend: rent Eraserhead, My Dinner with Andre and Mannequin Two. The last is just for good measure.

Literally Hilarious.

The annoying part about finding something you like on the internet? Five hours after searching for and watching similar items on the You's Tube, you realize you could have been doing something productive - like watching a "Golden Girls" marathon.

Gnome Domes.

While innocently perusing the internet in search of an appropriate, gardening-related Father's Day gift, I happened upon this gem: the venerable Mooning Gnome.

You must read the reviews, for they contain high levels of hilarity:

I got the mooning gnome as a christmas gift and it is my least favorite. It is smaller than the standard gnome and made of plastic. I live in Vegas and after two summers my gnome lost all color and turned a grayish black color. You get what you pay for and as a gag this is kind of fun but to a gnome collector it cheapens your yard.

Yes, the poor quality of the pantsless gnome is what is cheapening the yard, not the fact that there is, in fact, a dwarf with his ass hanging out stationed there.

Mooning Gnome too gauche? Try the item "Frequently Bought Together" with it: the Squatting Gnome. Nothing conveys an air of sophistication and elegance quite like a tableau of a miniature man defecating on one's lawn. Majestic!

The Baby Bunch.

What is with this fascination with people who have hundreds of kids? "Jon and Kate Plus Eight," "18 and Counting," "Table for 12," the Octo-Mom... where does it end?!

Is this just another example of our general fascination with excess? Like, the human extension of shows like "Cribs," "My Super Sweet 16," etc., where more is more and there is no such thing as too much? Or is it some sort of weird celebration of traditional conservative values (not so much with the Octo-Mom, there): home, family, kids, kids and more kids? It's like a modern-day "Waltons." But with shoes and without John-Boy. And real.

Is it a matter of schadenfreude, as we watch these parents try and wrangle their gaggles of kids, secretly thinking they're a bunch of freaks and laughing as their kids destroy their homes? Or watching how having so many damn toddlers is destroying their marriage (Jon and Kate)?

How can they afford to have this many freakin' kids, anyway?! I'm guessing it might be at least largely dependent upon the dough they're pulling in for pimping the kids out by having a TV crew follow their every move. So basically, they're getting rewarded for overpopulating an already overpopulated planet and we're helping them along by watching. Or maybe they can afford them just fine and just want to showcase their lives. Would it be so heartwarming if there was a show about a poor family who kept popping out kids like there's no tomorrow? That's who could use the TV show cash. Let's give that a whirl and see how it goes over.

Sick as a Dog.

I am not a "dog person." And after viewing this repulsive Stanley Steemer commercial, I'm even less of one:
Is this like, common practice among dogs? Like they're not stinky enough already, randomly pooping on the sidewalk and breathing their dog breath all up in your zone, now they'll go ahead and drag their stank butts across your carpet?!

I don't know what this lady did to that dog, but that dog clearly HATES HER GUTS. And it has succeeded in making me totally nauseated.

Who taught this dog how to drag his ass around like that, anyway? I'm going to assume it's that kid, and that this was the result of months of concentrated training efforts. Again, I don't know what this lady did to that kid, but THAT KID HATES HER GUTS.

It's probably safe to assume that the other woman there who was innocently enjoying a cup of tea before being confronted by this horrifying spectacle is thinking, "I can't believe these two hate Mindy even more than I do."

Wearing Out Things that Nobody Wears.

I'm going to go ahead and say that unless you're Keith Richards or a transvestite, if you're a dude over the age of 30, you should not be wearing eyeliner - or to use the egregious parlance of our times, "guyliner." It's untoward and it makes you look sad, as though clinging to a time when tight leather pants and bad brat-punk pop songs both actually fit you.

The same goes for flat-ironed hair on men. STOP IT (KEITH URBAN). Also, please unhand the frosting wand (if that is, in fact, how streaky, bold highlights are applied to the follicles). This means you, Steven Tyler.

Actually, each of these items applies to poor Steve, who is looking more and more each day like a cross between the old (female) receptionist at my office and a capuchin monkey (of indeterminate sex).

Crimes of Fashion.

As the immortal George Michael (the singer, not the "Arrested Development" character) once sang, "Sometimes the clothes do not make the man." But you know, sometimes they can make a big difference. Shouldn't dudes know the basics by now?

The following should be avoided:

1. Flip-flops: unless you're entering a Jeff Spicoli lookalike contest, there's no call for unleashing your hooves on the masses. Very few guys have tootsies appropriate for display outside of a sci-fi convention.

2. Jean shorts: why in the name of all that's holy do these still exist? Too short and you look like a low-rent version of the construction worker from the Village People. Too long, and you look like your legs are four inches long. Either way, an epic fail.

3. Trench coats with built-in capes: Is there a louder way to scream "nerd!" to the world than to wear such a thing? Yes, if you hook it up with a white turtleneck.

Drug Store Safari.

Sometimes those "8 Million Places to go Before you Croak" lists are just plain depressing. Like: oh, great. Here are 900 MORE places I'll never go to, and 400 more activities I never even knew existed that I now feel like I'm missing out on. Goat herding in the Himalyas? Teaching Guyanian orphans sign language and pottery making skills? Sounds great, but I'm barely paying my gas bill.

This is why, in the current economic climate, I prefer to make weekly trips to like, Walgreen's. There's something therapeutic about trolling the aisles, keeping an eye out for those yellow "Clearance" stickers. Pediatric cough medicine that expires in a month? Yes, I need that. Thank you for asking. Dr. Pepper-scented bubble bath at 75% off? Sold. Because buying personal care items and cosmetics is fun, but nabbing them at a steep discount elevates the experience to a whole new level of personal satisfaction. It also explains why I am the owner of about 13 bottles of foundation, none of which come close to matching my skin tone.

But no matter, for a brief few moments (and only a few bucks) while buying each, I take a mental vacation to a place where my complexion is radiant, my smile dazzling, my sinuses clear and my life even more exciting than swimming with dolphins in the Straits of Hormuz. As Liz Lemon would say, “I want to go to there.”

Taxi Driver.

You'd think, right, that spending one's entire day behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle would make one, at the very least, a competent driver. That this experience would make one aware that city streets are by and large in fact TWO lanes. That inching up through the crosswalk at a red light when you see pedestrians approaching might not be the most courteous maneuver. That having a nine-hour phone call with a fellow cab driver that necessitates wild gesticulations while you're driving may not espouse the notion of putting safety first. Thanks for bucking these assumptions, legions of Philadelphia cab drivers!

I'm sure it's a dangerous job: when you're not dodging your fellow yellow menaces on the road, you've got to worry if the trick you picked up is going to break your ass and steal your wallet. But it begs the question: are bad drivers drawn to being cab drivers or does being a cab driver make one a bad driver? Or a sociopath, for that matter?

Capri-diculous.

Well, it's that time again: capri season is upon us. A time when those not bold enough to wear shorts and too sweaty to don regular pants decide to half-ass it by slapping on a pair of these aberrations.

WHAT ARE THESE THINGS? Also known as a clam digger, pedal pusher or cankle pants, capris merely serve to visually sever the leg at its most unattractive point: mid calf. Proportionately, the math is all wrong: hiding 2/3 of the leg and showing 1/3? It doesn't work. 98% of the time, the result is a stumpy looking leg with an awkward swath of flesh beneath. They either look like pants that are way too short or shorts that are way too long.

Why do they even make these things? What are they even achieving from a practical, non-fashion standpoint? Letting your ankles breathe? How hot are they getting? And now dudes are wearing them, causing the annoying "manpri" to be incorporated into our vocabulary. Thank goodness the related and horrifying gaucho pant uprising of 2005 was quelled fairly rapidly. When will this capri madness end?

Someone defend these things to me. Am I the only one not getting it?

Celebri-Twins

Fatman-in-a-hat mainstay Dom Deluise passed away yesterday. He was 75.

He was also one of those guys who looks exactly like another celebrity. In his case, he was a dead ringer (no pun intended) for Chef Paul Prudhomme, the Cajun guy who used to wheel around on a Jazzy shouting, "I guaaaaraaaantee!" Or maybe that was Justin Wilson's line. Anyway, now Paul won't be so easy to confuse with Dom Deluise, since a) Dom has left the building and b) evidently Paul has slimmed down quite a bit.

What was the deal with Dom, anyway? He was famous, but really the only things I know about him are that he was friends with Burt Reynolds and his kid was the least-sexy cast member of "21 Jump Street".

Dom and Paul are but one celebrity pair I tend to confuse with one another. Other examples include: John Fogarty and Harrison Ford, Samuel L. Jackson and Larry Fishburne and Nick Nolte and Gary Busey.

RIP, Dom.

M. Needsahit Shyamalan

M. Night Shyamalan-a-ding-dong is shooting his new movie in some big-ass soundstage/airplane hangar down at the Naval Shipyard in Philadelphia.

It's called The Last Airbender. What? I don't know what that means, but at at least (unlike most of his other films), the title doesn't immediately call to mind an annoying song from yesteryear. Examples:

1. Unbreakable ("Un-break me, my sweet un-breakable you" - come on, use your imagination - or worse yet, the egregious Toni Braxton's "Un-break My Heart". Did you know that she's got a kid named Denim and one named Diezel? Amazing!)
2. Signs (by the stupidly named Canadian outfit Five Man Electrical Band and later covered by the formidable and staunchly not-Canadian band Tesla)
3. The Happening (so quintessentially '60s that just listening to it makes you feel like an honorary Supreme, complete with incredible asymmetrical bouffant)
4. The Lady in the Water (which calls to mind that PJ Harvey "Not Without My Daughter" Sally Field tribute song)

None of these were as big of a hit as The Sixth Sense, which does not immediately call to mind a song, so here's hoping this Airbender nonsense follows suit.

Moving at Midnight.

Did it become socially acceptable at some point to MOVE (either in or out of an apartment) at midnight? Just wondering, because this is what the bowling neighbors upstairs, who had been pogo-ing nightly on my head, did the other night. Don't get it twisted: not having to listen to anything other than the occasional random drunk or abusive parent screeching out in the street has been nothing less than a precious gift, more beautiful than a unicorn's tears. But come on - midnight? On a Thursday? And it's not like they were skipping out on the rent: Landlord confirmed they were indeed gone since their lease was up May 1.

At my last apartment, my jackass neighbors moved IN at midnight. Pulled the U-Haul right up and began unloading, yelling to one another, rolling hand trucks around, the whole nine. (Practically) in the middle of the night. In the middle of the week. In the middle of the city, where there are like, you know, other people around.

Is moving at midnight the new black?

Hell on Heels.

Here's a tip, ladies: No matter how cute the shoes, if you look like a mentally challenged dog on 'ludes walking on its hind legs while you're wearing them, it's going to ruin the effect. I've seen women on the stroll, obviously hoping to mix and mingle, sporting jacked up walks like this:

This kid does it better.

Fwine Slu.

Swine flu. Great. Like we need something else to worry about. Now every time some germbag sneezes on the street without covering up their pie-hole (which is like, at least six times a day), we're going to have to flee in the opposite direction, covering up our faces, Blanket Jackson-style.

While the King of Europe is telling people there not to come here or to go to Mexico (Canada seems to have escaped the North American stigma), new reports are coming in every 10 minutes, it seems. The last one I read had 73 confirmed cases worldwide: - worldwide. I could be crazy, but that doesn't seem like that much, given the billions of people in the world.

Just tell me whether I need to relocate to a yurt in Montana until this blows over, or what.

Thank You for Being a Friend.

Could this be like, the worst day ever? Sadly, Bea Arthur passed away. The woman was 86 and a national treasure.

You know, she was 86 so it's not exactly tragic, but still - she was one of those people you just kind of felt better knowing was around. And not because at 5'10" with the voice of a gangster she could probably scare off potential attackers - it's because no one could deliver a zinger with withering acidity and impeccable comedic timing quite like Bea. From "Maude" to "The Golden Girls", Bea kept us in stitches and herself in a neverending array of sack-like schmattes.

Farewell, Bea - the world is better for having had you in it. You know she's pointing in the direction she's headed in this pic.

P.S. I just read that in 1996, Bea was on "Judge [freakin'] Judy", called as a witness to a defendant who was somehow affiliated with PETA. I NEED TO SEE THIS. If you can track down a video clip, please post it below!

Restaurant Woes.

Dear Website of Any Number of Finer Dining Establishments:

First of all, kudos on the intro/landing page. I would really much rather wait for your graphic-heavy site to load than to actually get to the menu. Also, good choice on the faux classic jazz sound file that accompanies the sliding images and swirling colors that have nothing at all to do with your food. Bravo!

Also, thanks for not listing the prices. Who wants to think about money when they're trying to plan an evening out? Losers, that's who! I really prefer to have absolutely no clue if I'm going to need to sit in the dark for a few days in order to be able to afford your saffron infused "hot dogs" with truffle oil. The saffron says expensive, but the hot dogs scream "plebeian!" Thanks for keeping my mind sharp with such brain teasers.

Finally, your decision to not list your hours and make your street address nearly impossible to find? BRILLIANT! If I'm going to have the privilege of dining at your establishment, it only makes sense that I'm going to have to work to find it and figure out what time you might open and close. Thanks for putting me in my place.

Love,

Liz