In the middle of a Books-A-Million, I crouched down and started snapping photos of an allegedly straight man’s magazine I found. Forgive me, I don’t remember what the man-azine was called, but you wouldn’t either if you saw this:
Here we have a nice young man who appears to be modeling underwear while working out and simultaneously stuffing Pizza Hut condiment packets into his Hugo Boss briefs. Seems sensible enough.
I feel like there’s some sort of innuendo here, but I just can’t quite put my chopstick on it…
I’m sick. Since I’ve been sick, I’ve been watching plenty of TV, which means plenty of commercials. So, it is with great disgust that I give you the Worst Commercials of 2010:
1. Those F*CKING OLD NAVY MANNEQUIN COMMERCIALS: I hate these commercials with a burning passion. I really hate the one where they’re suddenly naked (um, ‘scuze me, Old Navy, but aren’t you supposed to be family friendly?), but there’s one I hate even more than that mannequin nudiefest. It’s the most recent addition to the abomination ads, the faux sitcom one where the creepy, lifeless-eyed mannequins move into a house together and are greeted by their flesh-and-blood real human neighbors. There’s a laugh track. I hate laugh tracks. Except for this one. My biggest beef with this commercial lies within the total lack of reality. No, I’m not talking about how mannequins gained the ability to talk and sign a lease. We all knew it was bound to happen at some point, as Wes Craven pointed out in his scariest movie ever, Mannequin. I’m talking about how mannequins from different racial backgrounds managed to live in harmony within one house. The only way this situation is plausible is if they were on The Real World: Mannequins. As far as I know, The Real World doesn’t have a laugh track, so Old Navy has no excuse for this horrible, terrible, disgusting, appalling, atrocious, frightening, deplorable series of commercials.
I feel bad for these guys’ kids.
One time, I was carrying a little overnight bag of mine that I’d accidentally left unzipped. My toothbrush holder, which looks like this, fell out and landed in front of my mom. “Ohhhh, I know what that is…” she said. I was very confused until it dawned on me that my mom thought my toothbrush holder was a dildo. I don’t profess to be a connoisseur of dildos, but c’mon, really? Toothbrush holders are being mistaken for masturbation tools?
My VoiceThread features me, chicks on too many roids, Oprah as a serial killer, and a lady being devoured by a washing machine. So basically, this blog in a nutshell.
Some things in life are really f*cking creepy, but no one seems to notice. They’re everyday, innocent-looking little things. Why aren’t more people creeped out by these? Because of the government, of course. I’m going to tell you what they won’t about the following creepy objects:
Bobble Heads: You get a bobble head for your desk at work. At first, your bobble head seems like your friend, nodding “yes” to everything you say, providing a listening ear. But as your relationship grows, you realize it nods “yes” to things like, “I forgot to turn in my expense report– I’m such an idiot!”, “Do I look fat today?”, and “Have you been talking shit about me?”. As it turns out, the bobble head you thought was your BFFF is actually your best frenemy and a social climber. The bobble head relocates to someone else’s desk and nods “yes” while that person points at you and snickers. What a bastard of a bobble head. Just when you get over feeling hurt, you work late one night and see that the bobble head is on your desk, watching you, constantly nodding. Every time you look away and look back at it, it’s inched closer to you. Finally, it bobs one last “yes” and attacks you with a chainsaw. (more…)
With the slew of horrendous summer movies finally coming to a close, we can all breathe easier and willingly walk into movie theaters again. But do you even need to go to the theater to get action-packed, thrilling, romantic, glorious cinematic content? No ma’amsir, you do not. Go to Blockbuster and rent everything on my newest list: movies that are often overlooked despite their poignant and outstanding cinematic content:
1. White Chicks: Two down-and-out FBI CSI CIA NYPD black men have to protect two young, spoiled, blonde white women. After inevitably getting into a steamy affair with the girls, the men ponder life, love, and discover religion. Through their physical intimacy, they lead the girls on an emotional journey and teach them how to appreciate the little things in life, like sex. Since one of the men is married, and has discovered religion (what religion? All the religions!) since consummating his affair, he feels deeply guilty for betraying his wife and begins a long trek home, disguised as the white woman he plowed. This is obviously because he feels the need to literally show the world what he’s done, and the easiest way to do that is by cross-dressing and cross-ethnicitying. His fellow law enforcement black friend joins him on his journey, also disguised as the woman he slept with, to repent with him for betraying his own wife, who doesn’t exist, since he’s not married. This movie is a journey of journeys, about journey, with the entire soundtrack consisting of Journey.
Last Saturday was my brother’s high school homecoming, which made me a bit nostalgic, so I helped pick out things to put on his date’s mum… but I didn’t know what I had contributed to. The finished product was terrifyingly huge. Cute, but huge.
My brother’s date’s mum looked like it weighed more than she did. Since they’re juniors, it was a triple mum, because apparently nowadays it’s improper to give a single mum to anyone other than a freshman. That means every year, your mum cost goes up! Yay!
On top of lights, whistles, glitter, and teddy bears, this year, the hot new mum accessory was speakers. I’m being completely serious. There was a mum with an auxiliary input so people could plug in their iPods. What’s the point of that? You can’t play music during class, and I imagine wearing speakers around on your boobs would get pretty heavy. (more…)
Update: I am a douchebag. The Pretty Black Chains did not open for BRMC at the Dallas HOB show. They don’t have 15 guitarists that whip people with their Rapunzel-length hair, and from the sampler I heard on their Myspace, they’re pretty good– the opposite of the band I was originally referring to. I don’t know who the band was that opened for BRMC in Dallas this past March, and it seems no one on the internet knows either. They’re ghosts, maybe? Anyway, The Pretty Black Chains, please accept my sincerest apology for my inaccurate and rude blog post. You guys are definitely not the band I was thinking of. Again, I’m sorry.
I’ve compiled a list of disgusting band names. Keep in mind that this list is not a reflection on the quality of the band’s music, just their horrible names.
Limp Bizkit: First of all, what does a correctly spelled “limp biscuit” even mean? If you don’t know, consult Urban Dictionary and prepare to barf out all your innards. Seriously, why would anyone name anything after that?! “Hey, we’re so badass that we’re gonna name our band after a super gay ‘game’, even though we’re sort of homophobes. And we’re gonna spell ‘biscuit’ wrong! Awesome.”
In the spirit of the popular twitter feed whose name I ripped off of when creating my blog, I thought I’d provide you with some phrases from my very own dear ol’ dad. Here’s a small dictionary of his phrases:
“German Abortion”: One’s wife’s dying Mercedes convertible.
“The Slime That Slime Would Spit On”: An asshole who drives recklessly or cuts one off in rush hour traffic.
Used in a sentence: “You’re slime! No, you’re the slime that slime would spit on!”
“D-E-D Dead”: The traditional meaning of the word “dead”, but spelled aloud incorrectly.
“Retard School”: An imaginary school where stupid people go and are treated like those with intellectual disabilities. In this school, the students are required to wear helmets at all times.
I wrote this, most likely on some kind of sugar high the day before it was due, for part of a writing “packet” I had to turn in as my final when I took a creative writing class. It’s loaded with marching band references most people won’t understand, and if some people with marching band experience read this, they might not find it terribly accurate.
The bus pulled into the Canon ISD Stadium at 8:00 am for the Canon Marching Band Festival, but Mr. Avery wasn’t letting us get off yet. Most kids were asleep. Megan and Adair were sitting behind Chase and me. They were both listening to Megan’s pink iPod and they kept kicking the back of our seat to the beat. I knew they were listening to “Party in the USA” because I could hear it. I wished they would quit it; my back was staring to hurt.
“Miley Cyrus sucks,” I said.
“Yeah,” agreed Chase, “but she’s kinda hot.”
I frowned. To me, Miley Cyrus looked like she was ten. “Gross.”
“Charlie, did you just say Miley Cyrus was gross?” Megan gasped, poked her little black-haired head up over our seat and yanked the headphones out of her ears.
“What about Miley?” Adair shouted over the music only she could hear.
“Miley Cyrus is a famous singer and actress. She even has her own clothing line. I’m pretty sure that makes her cooler than you two losers.” Megan stuck out her tongue at us through her purplish lips.
“Not for long!” Chase got excited. “Not when our band gets discovered!”
It wasn’t much of a band. It was Chase, our Mexican pal, Ricky Martinez (Ricky Martin when we felt like being mean), and some guy named Jed he met at the bowling alley who was like thirty years old. One day Chase told me I was the manager and since then I’d been going to his house every Sunday night for band practice. So during every practice, I ate my weight in Cheetos while sitting on Chase’s couch and watching the band, or “Attack of the Weasels,” play Guitar Hero, the real instruments lying in the background untouched. I’d stopped going recently, though, because Jed was starting to creep me out. I thought he’d been going to Chase’s house to hit on his mom, but it was starting to seem like he was more interested in Chase.
Read this. It is right in every way (except for #11, a personal favorite/guilty pleasure of mine).
In Farmer’s Branch, TX, there was a man who went (and still goes) to Vegas seven times a year funded only by money he made begging. After waking up in his nice bed in his house in the suburbs, he’d dress in tatty clothes, smear himself with dirt, park his Ford Explorer five or six blocks away from the day’s designated street corner, and pretend to be an injured homeless man. His injury switched every week. One week his leg was broken, the next week he had a back brace, then the next week his arm was in a sling.
Another “homeless” man made roughly $300 a day begging, or $100,000 a year, tax-free. With a “salary” like that, why would he ever stop begging? Easy work for a decent living? Why would anyone say no to that?
Oh, right. Because normal people have consciences, or at least, I hope we do.
Call me callous, but this is why I never give money to people on the street. If I’m going to give money to people in need, I want to make sure they’re actually in need. That’s why charities are ideal establishments for donations, as opposed to an allegedly homeless person’s coffee cup that I can’t be sure came from a trash can or Pier 1. Homelessland isn’t an every-man-for-himself anarchy. Many charities and shelters exist to help real homeless people, or at least pretend to help them, and at the end of the day, isn’t that all that really counts?
It’s huge, it’s gelatinous, it’s blood-thirsty, and it’s coming to a laptop screen near you! It’s… it’s… my chin!
I’d like to think that everyone has their own “bad angles” when it comes to photographs. I’d like to think that, but the reality is this: when faced with a camera, my chin grows to proportions other chins can only dream of.
When I look in the mirror, I see one chin. In most pictures of me, I see one chin. My loving (and lying) boyfriend has assured me that I indeed have only one chin.
If this is true, then why did these happen?
Remember when Mom used to do stuff for you when you were a little kid? Then she taught you how to do it yourself and everything went downhill.
Meals—now you have to cook for yourself, and it sucks. It can be fun, but everything burns and explodes and soon you’re homeless because you tried to make chicken parmesan and everything went wrong.
Bills—not paying bills is awesome, but then your power gets cut off and you find yourself squatting in an abandoned Circuit City fighting with some random hobo over a half-eaten tuna sandwich.
Work—from 9 to 5, your day is grueling and your boss is a douche. Expense reports? Fax machines? Coffee pots? Sexual harassment? No thanks. You remember the days when your parents worked and you didn’t have to. So you skip a day, then another day, then another, and soon you have no paycheck to support your apartment and you’re back to your next WWE showdown with the hobo next door, er, next cardboard box.
Clipping Toenails—and on that note, hygiene period. Now I know that most of us, if not all, were taught to clean ourselves at some point in our lives, whether that be showering or licking ourselves like a cat. But as you get older and you have to do all this other cleaning-type stuff—laundry, vacuuming, washing dishes—who has time to do menial self-cleaning-type stuff like clip their toenails? Yesterday, I looked down at my bare feet and saw Freddy Kruger’s hands. One might say, why not clip your toenails while doing something else, like when you’re watching TV? To them, I say, “Pfft!”. If your eyes are on your feet, then you can’t see the TV screen, and if you can’t see the TV screen, how will you know what happens with Serena and Dan in this week’s episode of Gossip Girl?! Then, suddenly, you’re homeless again.
Basically, getting older means getting homeless.
Japan has a bunch of CA-RAZY Kit Kat flavors, most of which are not available to ship to the U.S. You should feel bad about that, since that means you’re probably never going to be able to try them. They are, however, willing to ship us the crappy and/or questionable flavors. Among those Crap Kats, a few delicious kinds get mixed in. So even though you’re pathetic and will probably never try any Kit Kats other than the plain ol’ American kind, I decided to rub my Kit Kat experience in your face and give you a description of a few flavors of Japanese Kit Kats:
Leprosy was a serious disease in Biblical times. Leopards are animals so fast they can hunt down your children from three continents away. Jeopardy is a crappy old game show so boring it can kill you in your sleep.
But today, I’m going to talk about something very serious: OWN.
OWN is the new Oprah Winfrey Network. You may remember my Friday the 13th post about the end of Oprah’s television series, a cause for celebration and fear.
This is worse. Oprah went from screen-hogging whore to network executive. I cannot stress enough how terrifying this is.
OWN will likely cause seven times Al Gore’s predicted effects of global warming. OWN will unleash modern Biblical plagues.* OWN will kill more children than leopards, bore you more than Jeopardy, and be even more of an epidemic than leprosy.
You’ve been warned.
*Modern Biblical plagues include abdominal swelling, nausea, fatigue, weight loss, weight gain, diarrhea, dizziness, memory loss, menstrual bleeding, anal seepage, and headaches. Contact your doctor if your depression worsens or you experience thoughts of suicide.
I don’t care much for top 40 music, but the other day I was listening to the radio and heard this brilliant, ethereal melody pumping through my car speakers*. The song I heard is “Power” by Kanye West, an artist I truly admire for his creativity and humility*. He seems to stay humble above all else*. Yet “Power” delves into the arrogant depths of his psyche, revealing personal secrets and thoughts of sexual deviancy.
Many of you have already heard this song, but have you truly analyzed its message? You can find the lyrics here, and you can listen to the song here, but only my blog has broken down this artistic piece, line by line, with a literary analysis. In my analysis, which I researched thoroughly, I provide a stanza of “Power” followed by analysis.