Shit That Makes Me Cry

I'm getting fucking weepy as I get older.Seriously, it's like every new chin hair is a little electrical wire that leads from the outside world straight into my heart.It happens on the bus when I'm reading US Magazine and unwittingly flip to an ad for one of those cleft palate charities. It happens at work when I check CNN and stumble across their requisite horrific violent crime of the day. Hell, it even happens when I'm watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey, and Teresa tells Dina that she wants her to be the godmother of her two day-old baby, who is already bedecked with enough spangles and bows to make Johnny Weir seethe with jealousy.

What happens is that my emotional gag reflex kicks in, fast and furious. Imaging someone trying to hold back vomit, and now imagine that the vomit is actually tears. Now imagine that person letting out a strangled gasp that sounds kind of like a parrot imitating someone gargling. Now imagine that this person is sitting next to you on a crowded bus I know -- I AM SO CHARMING.

Anyway, in honor of my newfound hormonal imbalance, I decided to make a list of some embarrassing things that make me cry other than the song "With or Without You" by U2.

Ahem...

When Zack and Kelly break up on Saved By the Bell while, in the background, Jesse and Slater do a lip-synch duet to Michael Bolton's "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You."

The Captain and Tennille of Zack Attack, ladies and gentlemen.

Looking at other people's ultrasounds... even if those people are total strangers (Note: I am talking about the old-fashioned black and white 2-D ones, not the creepy 3-D sepia ones that make the fetus look like it's been sculpted in cheese -- um, no offense, parents-to-be.)

The end of An American Tail. ("Fievel?" "Papa!" brings out the full-on ugly cry.)

When people get "revealed" to their family and friends on fashion makeover shows. (The sight of someone's formerly dumpy loved one finally getting a clue and wearing a bias-cut skirt has the same effect on me as chopping onions, apparently.)

The Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commerical (And I don't even like Sarah McLachlan OR cats OR the song "Angel", dammit. And I will tell you exactly why I don't like them as soon as I blow my nose. I'm not crying. It's just raining ... on my face.)

When Gene Wilder loses his shit at Charlie in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (the 1971 version, thankyouverymuch -- Johnny Depp's Michael Jackson impression freaks me out) after Charlie and Grandpa Joe break the rules.

"What are wire hangers doing in this closet when I told you: no wire hangers EVER!?"

This last one I think is not so much from sadness, but rather fright mixed with sympathy for Charlie's crushing loss of a lifetime supply of candy. That is rough, dude.

Hot vs. Cold

There comes a point every summer when I fantasize about shivering to death somewhere amidst snow-capped mountains, kind of like in that movie Alive only with several boxes of Clif bars so that I'm not tempted to chew on someone's leg.

[It’s supposed to be in the mid 90’s this week. Throw in that there is no air conditioning in my apartment, the heat will be relentless. It's not just hot, it's viscous. It'll be like wading through a week-old Jello shot left out in the sun that smells like pee and garbage. Plus my thighs smack together when I walk. It is the very definition of suck.]

Of course, there also comes a time every winter when I romanticize burning forever in the pits of Hades (which, let's face it, is probably inevitable, given that I watched Valentine’s Day on DVD, voted for a socialist Muslim, and just made a joke about real-life cannibalism among members of the Uruguayan rugby team).

Anyway, choosing between too hot and too cold is one of those questions that divide people in a really combative way. A good analogy is that central Twilight battle -- Team Edward or Team Jacob -- since Edward is waxen and bloodless and has a basal temperature about the same as a witch's teat, while Jacob is warm and brown and has abdominal muscles that work harder than I did during my rebound job.

But my point is -- would you rather sparkle in the sunlight on a mountaintop while gnawing on an energy bar with numb, blue lips OR have your eyelashes singed off while drowning in your own sweat and bemoaning Heidi Montag's terrible elective plastic surgery?





[P.S. Those are not stagnant cups of hobo urine that are making Taylor Lautner's nostrils flare so sexily in my super-impressive Photoshop collage... they are coconut Jello shots. Which is maybe even worse.]

Wow, this is the most feel-good post ever.

Excuse me while I go hump my office air conditioner.

Lady Mags

I have a love/hate relationship with women's magazines.

I love how thick and glossy they are, filling my mailbox with the intoxicating scent of perfume and the promise of a lazy afternoon spent looking at candy-colored baubles and the freakishly static, almost meditative planes of Nicole Kidman's face.

But I hate how lazy and vapid they are, assuming that women don't appreciate real wit or sarcasm, pretending that we don't notice that they just publish the same fucking "Easy Summer Beauty" or "The No-Diet Diet" articles every single issue with different pictures, and assuming that if they run a single photo of a real woman or plus-sized model that it undoes all of the subtle "hate your body" messages they've been sending for decades.

Sometimes, though, they go beyond insulting.

To borrow a phrase from Tropic Thunder, sometimes they go full retard.

Allure, for example, features "insider's guides" in each issue that offer fashion, beauty, and social advice from experts. They mean well, but if you just read the headlines it's hilarious.

I took the liberty of imagining a literal explanation of one of this month's entries...

How To Wear A White Shirt
(adapted from the June 2010 Allure)
1. Go to closet; open it.
2. Pick out a shirt (the item of clothing with no legs that isn't long enough to cover your ass) that is not red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, black, brown, pink, or any of the aforementioned colors in pastel. Also avoid prints. Pick something the color of clouds, only not rain clouds… or sunset-reflecting clouds. Hmm, that could get confusing. Ok, pick something the color of fresh fallen snow that has not been peed on.
3. Does the shirt button up the front? In that case put your arms in the holes and then fasten all the buttons. If there are no buttons, stick your head in the top hole and your arms in the side holes and pull the front down over your chest and stomach.
4. Oh, wait, do you have breasts? If so, reverse step 3 and put on a bra first. Since your shirt is white, your bra must be that fetching shade of beige that recalls a two day-old Band-Aid, or leftover flan, in order not to show through.
5. Ta da! You’re done. Except for pants, which will be discussed in next month’s issue.

I loathe the bus...

I miss the days when bus drivers were actually allowed to talk. Most of the time they were boring, just announcing the stops in monotonous voices that sounded not unlike the grown-ups in Peanuts, had they lost the will to live. But sometimes, magic happened.

Like this one time, during rush hour, when my bus driver growled, "Next stop... hell!" (At least he was being honest.)

And I'll never forget the time my female driver said, sighing, "To the two men giving each other a hand jobs, we can see you. We can ALL SEE YOU."
Now we just have automated, voices with flat, regionless accents that jabber incessantly between stops. One recording warns passengers to "protect yourself," and every single time I finish the sentence in my head "... before you wreck yo self." (Those automated voices should totally rap.)

There's also the transit tunnel buzzkill robot who basically tells us that the crumpled Subway wrapper on the floor beneath the sleeping homeless man, next to the cup of either pee or Mountain Dew, is probably rigged to explode.

And then there's this one: “If you see an elderly, pregnant, or handicapped person near you, offer your seat. You’ll be standing up for what’s right (pun intended). Courtesy is contagious, and it starts with you.”

Look, I have nothing against the elderly, pregnant, or handicapped. I'll stand up for what's old, or fat, or blind. But courtesy is not contagious, no matter how much you pun. What's contagious is the hacking cough of the man leaning against the pole (DUDE. THAT IS NOT. YOUR. POLE.) ...or the glances of relief when the very vocal insane person decides to stop arguing with the Metro Driver of the Year poster and exits the bus... or, surely, the bench being used by the two men giving each other hand jobs at the back of the bus….

Lost

I love Lost.

Last week, I actually wept watching it--and I don't even cry at funerals. (I know; I'm a terrible person.)

Anyway, as anyone who’s been following Lost knows, the final season has been set up as a kind of good versus evil spiritual showdown between two characters I could not care much less about: Jacob (the goody-goody, who looks perpetually stoned, like a middle-aged Jeff Spicoli) and The Man in Black, who is NOT, cruelly, played by Tommy Lee Jones and who is apparently going to destroy the world as we know it. When not in human form, he basically looks like that Icelandic cloud of volcanic ash that’s been fucking up air travel for the past few weeks. When the show ends I guess he’ll go back to following Pig Pen around.

While I know that the ultimate battle between good and evil forms the basis for many pop-culture pairings (I’m speaking, of course, of duos like Garfield and Nermyl, Amanda Woodward and Allison Parker, and Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan and Krystle Carrington), I’m left kind of cold by this story arc. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still totally obsessed. It’s just that if the entire basis of Lost turns out to be Radio Raheem’s monologue from Do The Right Thing, I am going to be pissed.



“Lost,” though, I will grant, is a much better title than “The Story of Right Hand, Left Hand.” (Ahhhh! Which brings us to Mr. Hand, Jeff Spicoli's history teacher nemesis! I love it when my blogs come full circle. Also, judging from yesterday's and today's posts, I think I need to Netflix Fast Times at Ridgemont High.)

I Pity the Fool

I've always kind of hated April Fool's Day. I mean, if you can come up with a really good prank that's cool, but most people just use it as an excuse to lie.

Like, telling your boyfriend "I'm pregnant," waiting for the look of horror on his face, and then being all, "April Fool's!" is not an April Fool's joke.
I'm pretty bad at April Fool's jokes. The only good one I ever pulled off was in 2005, when a guy I was seeing foolishly gave me his email password (which was, awesomely, 80085... get it? Try typing it into a calculator) to check something for him while he was stranded somewhere computerless. I abused my powers by firing off an email to his family telling them that he couldn't hide it anymore, that he simply loved the work of Anne Geddes (The guy I was dating was a photographer and he hated Anne Geddes. If you showed him a baby dressed as a pea pod he might drop-kick it.) That was a pretty sweet moment for me, and one that I have never bested.

Happy April Fool's Day, though!

P.S. I'm really a man.

Faux Boyfriend of the Week

The fact is that I’m having a hard time picking hot new dudes and am tempted to start recycling them – kind of like my past boyfriends.

Let’s be honest, it’s pretty sad when some of the actors from the Harry Potter movies start looking like good options. And I’m not talking about Ralph Fiennes or Gary Oldman, I’m talking about Rupert Grint. Yeah, I know, disturbing. I’ll admit to having spent some time looking for hot photos of the kids. I’ll also admit to thinking he’s doable. Sure, he’s 14 years younger than I am, but who cares? He’s 21 and as far as I’m concerned, that’s old enough for me.

That’s when it occurred to me that I was limiting myself to TV and movie stars. There’s a whole world of hot and sexy athletes that I haven’t explored (literally and figuratively).

So, my dear tens of readers, this week I present you with hot British Baller, Michael Owen.

Here’s what I can tell you about him, he’s British, he’s hot, and he likes to play the soccer. That’s good enough for me!

Peen as a Weapeen

I just read the most hilarious news article on BBC News. According to a report coming out of Scotland, a man was fined for assaulting a female officer with his peen.

His girlfriend called the cops on him when he was all hammered and belligerent. When the cops got there, he was sitting on the couch in his man-panties. It’s unclear how it all happened, but he ended up standing over the female cop and trying to slap the officer in the face with his dick.

Many of us know this as “foreplay”.

I'm a Risk Taker!

Fuck jumping out of a perfectly good airplane or off a bridge. Forget being set up on a blind date or driving without a seat belt. I’m doing something that would make my mamacita proud.

In fact, I think she’ll cry when I tell her about it later today.

What’s the big risk I’m taking? I’m eating peanut butter that expired 6 months ago. That’s right! I’m living on the fucking edge!! I’m staring food poisoning right in the face and saying, “Fuck you, food poisoning. Fuck you in your stupid ass.”

There’s nothing wrong with the peanut butter, it’s fine. In fact, I had some yesterday too and I didn’t get sick. I’m not scared of a stupid little expiration date. It’s not like it’s dairy products or condoms.

Speaking of condoms, I threw out 8 perfectly good ones yesterday morning. I should have known when I bought them that it would all go to shit and they’d end up in the garbage. You see, fine readers, condoms and I have a tumultuous relationship. I buy a 3 pack and things go grand. The second I buy a 12 pack everything goes up in flames and 9 end up in my bedside drawer mocking me for years.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to this expired peanut butter.

Coma Watching

A few weeks ago I was watching a medical drama in which a man woke up from a 10 year coma. I thought to myself, “man, he missed a lot of bad television” So I thought I’d write a post about how to explain popular television shows to someone who has just emerged from a long coma. Kids, this is what happens when titles stop being polite and start getting real.

Vapid Wealthy Children Go To Pretend Jobs, Have Altercations, Discuss, Repeat

Vapid Wealthy Adult Women Go To Pretend Jobs, Have Altercations, Discuss, Repeat

Sad Reality Contestants You Can’t Remember Do The Cha Cha Wearing Spandex In An Attempt To Win Back Their Dignity

White People Paint Selves Orange, Drink Bacardi, Exchange STDs

People Wash Up On Island, Travel Through Time, Yet Never Lose Weight or Grow Unibrows

Women Rejected By Regular Modeling Agencies Take Advice From Mercurial Drag Queen

Heartwarming Fat People Forced To Dress Like Rainbow Brite's Color Kids Get Yelled At

Giant Chin Overstays Welcome

Man Fondles 20 Women; Sleeps With 3; Marries 1...

Internet Dating: Foreigner Edition

I wanna know what love is…I want you to show me…!

Sorry. Got carried away there. So, we all know that the internet is for everyone and we are all looking for love. I also know that most programs now a days, even text on phones, have spell check for those who are not too good in that department. Soooooo, where’s the “that doesn’t make any sense!” for the foreigner emails?!…

Here are the emails. Nothing is changed or fixed. I couldn’t fix these even if I tried! There aren’t much, but I had to share these!


HI I REED UR PROFILE AND U ARE A VERY NICE GIRL AND I WAS WODER DO U DATE HISPANICS.



I don’t discriminate! I’m just sick of playing editor with my red pen. Thanks for reeding!

Just now want to say HI ,Realy you are soooooooooo pretty .not execting to revieve from you !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Cheers

Uhhhh…What???

frankly i can saw you are smiling wonderful. i miss to see like this smile

::nervous smile:: th-thanks. I think.

Boner is Missing!!

Have you heard the news? It’s a potential tragedy: grown up child actor, Andrew Koenig, is missing. Don’t recognize his name? That’s OK, neither did I. This poor bastard is also known as Boner, from Growing Pains. Oh yeah, now you know exactly who I’m talking about.





No wonder he’s missing. Can you imagine being known your whole adult life as a euphemism for an erection? I can imagine all the trouble he must have gone through. Wedding vows, “Do you, Boner, take this woman…”

If only he had left an autobiography. Perhaps something with a clever name like:

•I, Boner
•Boner Stories
•Boner: My Story of Perseverance

WAIT! Maybe his relatives will write his biography. It can be called, “My Boner.”

YEAH

Faux Boyfriend of the Week

None of the guys that I’ve dated have ever known their way around the kitchen, or should I say they haven’t stuck around long enough to show me their culinary skills. Sure, some of them had some mad skills in the bedroom, but when it came to cooking, it was a sad, sad display.

I enjoy cooking, and I’m pretty good at it. It would be nice, however, to find a dude that could cook something other than a hot pocket.

Enter my Faux Boyfriend of the Week:



Yes, I know that he’s gotten a little doughy lately, but guess what? I don’t care. I love it. I’ve never been one to discriminate when it comes to weight, although some guys have discriminated me on my weight. To them I say FUCK YOU!

I used to tune into Food 911 years ago. It was always hilarious to see all those women doll themselves up. They all had the same dream that I did: that Tyler Florence would cook them a meal and then molest them over the dining room table. Ahh, dare to dream.

A Lunch Time Disaster

I was such a good little recessionista this morning. I made a sandwich and fixed a Tupperware full of cottage cheese that I have been eating for six days straight and which I now hate with the burning passion I usually reserve for Rush Limbaugh, but there are starving children pretty much everywhere and also who knew that cottage cheese would start to taste like tainted milk after a few days in the fridge?), grabbed a container of pineapple (I am like the poster child for good nutrition, obviously) and treated myself to two pieces of Dove dark chocolate, which I tossed into a paper shopping bag with the rest of my lunch.

I got to work, put my food in the fridge, tossed the paper shopping bag in the kitchen garbage can, and went about my day. I had the cottage cheese for breakfast. It was kind of gross but I just kept thinking “Osteoporosis!” Which, in restrospect, might have made it taste worse—there’s nothing like visualizing bone density while gumming wet, tasteless curds.

The only better diet trick is looking at this while trying to eat. It works for sex, too.

I had a ton to do, so time flew by and suddenly it was time for lunch. I ate my sandwich while reading online gossip and followed it with the pineapple. I was saving the dove chocolates for that dreaded 3 pm blood sugar drop, which generally makes me reach for the only food substance I have at my desk: a pack of Orbit melon mint gum. I know that sounds disgusting, and it is; I got a free pack of every single flavor last year and melon mint is the last man standing. I have a daily Jedi mind fight with myself over whether to succumb and chew on a tiny stick that tastes like cantalope spiked with Ajax or surrender to lethargy.

Anyway, the point is: As Robert Burns wrote, the best laid chocolates of mice and men oft go awry. When I went to get my chocolates I realized that they were not in the fridge. Then I realized that I had no memory of actually putting them in the fridge. Slowly, it dawned on me that they were still in the paper shopping bag, which was now at the bottom of a company-wide trash can. [Picture me screaming this next part in warped slow-motion] Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I ran into the kitchen and was about to leap into the trash can like I was Cary Elwes from The Princess Bride and the garbage was the fire swamp and the chocolates were Buttercup, but then I noticed my boss sitting at the table nearby reading a book. He looked up and smiled. If it had been anyone else I might have just gone for it, but this is a person whose specific job it is to fire employees who might have a mental illnesses that would interfere with their work, the first signs of which could include digging through a communal trash can for food. I got a glass of water while stealing longing glimpses at the garbage.

Later on, after the boss left, I went back into the kitchen for another try. But as soon as I lifted off the top of the trash can, I knew I had lost my battle already (again, I used the term “battle,” much like “fight,” loosely). I tossed my bag in at 10:00am; people’s half-eaten lunches were now standing between me and my chocolates. If I were to scavenge for them now, it would certainly be a wet and unpleasant journey through a murky sediment of salad greens, pizza grease, and coffee grounds.

So the bad news is, I lost my chocolates today.

On the other hand, the good news is that at least I know I have limits*

*If the kitchen door had a lock, however, I wouldn’t even be writing this right now. I would be enjoying the rich chocolatey goodness, while trying to ignore the stench of salad dressing emanating from my suspiciously stained clothes.

Tipping is a City in China

Two questions about tipping*:

When did all donut shops and places with a counter start putting out tip jars? I guess it was within the last five years. Not saying that I wouldn't put one out if I worked at a counter but that's not the point.

If someone is simply handing me a donut and a coffee, why the hell should they be tipped? I refuse to do it. Do you guys do it? If so, is it out of guilt?

The lady at Top Pot actually holds the change OVER the tip jar so you have to reach to get your change instead of her reaching to give it to you. I guess she's thinking that it might slip and fall into the tip jar then you'll be too embarrassed to reach in and get it out. Klassy. Real Klassy. Then she gives me the evil eye when I don't tip.

Suck it lady! And when I have a coupon for a free donut and don't want a coffee?...Don't ask me if I'm SURE I don't want a coffee. If you didn't want people coming in for a free donut then you shouldn't have printed the coupon. You ole' bag!

The other tipping question I have is for bartenders. What are the degrees of tips you would give for the following (cheap ass, regular tip and great tip):

Scenario 1: Four $3 Happy Hour priced beers that usually are $4. (Total cost $12)

Scenario 2: Three premium pints at $4.50 each. (Total cost $13.50)

Thanks.

*Did you know that in Italy the cab drivers don't expect tips? And in Peru a customary tip is kicking the dude in the nuts? Not really but the Italy one is true.

Finally!!!

I'm not exactly BFF with God. I mean, I'm not a Satanist or anything but I was raised celebrating Easter mostly for the Cadbury mini-eggs (I also once made a blasphemous Jesus dessert out of Sara Lee pound cake). I take His name in vain all the time, and I usually give him the middle name "Fucking." Signs generally point to me not being God's favorite.

But if He made these, then I know He loves me.





My only issue is that their judgy slogan suggests it's not normal that I already live in my pajamas and sleep in my jeans. I'd love to be able to sleep in my jeans without waking to find that they'd loosened to M.C. Hammer proportions, making me instantly appear 15 lbs heavier.

Anyway, here’s my master plan: You guys all click on this link as many times as you can, and the Pajama Jeans web dudes (who I think look like Bill S. Preston and Ted Theodore Logan) check their referrals and are like, “Whoa! Look at all the traffic we’re getting from this site. We are... Wyld Stallyns!!!” And then after they jam for awhile they come here and see this post and are like, “We need to send this girl some pajama jeans, pronto!”

And if they don’t immediately think that, then maybe they will after they read this list of other sure-fire moneymakers I just came up with:

Sweatpants evening gown (“Sweatpants you drink champagne in, a black tie gown you watch Hoarders in.”)

Cheez-It belt (“Cheez-Its you wear, a belt you can eat!”)

Spanx boots, aka “Spankles” (“Spanx for your cankles, boots that you can't get off no matter how hard you try!”)

Goose down flak jacket (“Armor you can cuddle, shrapnel you can feel.”)

Seriously, though I NEED PAJAMA JEANS. And I am trademarking "Spankles" right after I post this, because that is a gold mine right there.

An Open Letter To Jake Pavelka, aka The Bachelor

Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!
Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!

(Imagine that as a muffled scream the way Anthony Michael Hall screams for Michael Schoeffling when he's trapped under the coffee table in Sixteen Candles.)

Listen, Jake. You are totally cute. You remind me of my c. 1983 Sun Gold Malibu Ken, only your haircut looks less like Velma's from Scooby-Doo and it's not painted onto your head.


You are way cuter than that tubby Jheri curled Bob or geriatric bass fisherman Byron or your immediate predecessor Jason Mesnick, who looked like Enrique Iglesias' love child with Bruce Jenner. Not only are you cute, but you seem like a genuinely nice guy, albeit one who has suspiciously failed at finding love despite being an anatomically perfect Texan pilot (do you have uncontrollable sleep diarrhea or something?) and a person who would willingly go on a show like The Bachelor to find a wife.

But Jake, can I be real with your for a minute? Like really real?

Your taste sucks, dude.

I've watched all episodes now and among the 3 girls you have left only one of them is even remotely OK. You kicked a bunch of decent girls to the curb on the first night and kept around:

1. A woman who in every single scene has Prince's Purple Rain hair!
2. Pre-plastic surgery Jessica Simpson!
3. A girl who suffers from the worst case of Stankface in recorded history!
4. And a "25 year-old" who looks suspiciously like she is two centuries older than that and ready to star in the Lifetime biopic of Judith Light, tentatively titled "I'm the Boss."
5. A stroke victim who talks out the side of her mouth a la Drew Berrymore.
6. VIENNA!!?? Really? Check her out sometime that bitch is cross-eyed.

And the rest are all giant bitches, with the exception of that Southern redhead with the 7 year-old kid you have to pretend not to be totally freaked out by and the one named "Tenley," which is in and of itself a drawback (although in future seasons I think the producers should just dispense with names and call the women Onely, Twoley, Threeley, Fourley, etc.).

Anyway, my point is: You are up the river without a paddle, my friend. Those roses won't help you. Get some Depends and a Japanese anime body pillow and call it a day.

Kisses,
Me

Girl Scouts: Little Drug Dealers

This seems really inappropriate to do on the blog, but I’m desperate, guys. I need a fix. The good stuff. You know what I’m talking about. I feel like I haven’t had any in forever.

The thing is I don’t know anyone who’s selling. I will buy in bulk, I swear, I just need a hook-up. I’ll put it in my freezer so it’ll keep. I’ll let you have some. Just give me a number, for the love of Christ. I won’t say it was you who sent me.

Do I have to spell it out for you? I NEED SOME FUCKING TAGALONGS, okay?. Thin Mints, Samoas, Do-Si-Dos, whatever you’ve got, man. I’ll even take Trefoils, the schwag of the Girl Scout Cookie catalog. I’m like Cookie Monster on the Master Cleanse right now; it’s not pretty.

Seriously, though, why are Girl Scout cookies harder to procure than illegal drugs? There is something wrong with that lesson. If I sent you on a scavenger hunt right now with a list that included a quart of unpasteurized raw milk, an ounce of marijuana, an eight-ball of cocaine, a whole roasted goat, and a box of Thin Mints, guess which item would be the biggest bitch to find? That is not right, y’all.

The main reason for this, of course, is that Girl Scouts are forbidden from selling cookies online. I’m not really sure why this is—I can only guess it's to even the playing field, in case some girls don’t have reliable access to the Internet—but it seems pretty archaic. Explain to me how forcing pre-teens in short pleated skirts to walk the streets soliciting strangers is character-building? If you go to the Girl Scouts of America website, they explain that "Girl Scouts of the USA does not currently allow online sales, but its cookie site can help you locate girls selling in your community." Yes, that's right. ANYONE can log onto this site to FIND YOUNG GIRLS. Seriously, does this not seem wrong to anyone else?

The whole experience of trolling for cookies makes me feel like a pedophile. I find myself breathlessly Tweeting sentences that are probably on government Megan's Law watch lists: “Anyone know any Girl Scouts? I NEED one. Anywhere in the country. I’ll pay anything!!!!” I stare a little too long at kids on the street, searching their outfits for tell-tale flashes of green.

There is nothing not illegal that's harder to get than a box of Girl Scout cookies when you are a childless person. In fact, I could probably buy a baby on the black market faster than I could get my hot little hands on a box of Girl Scout goodness.

Stay tuned for updates; if I get the baby first, I'm naming it Samoa.

Superbowl Questions...I need your answers!

"Where is Kim Kardashian?" (I need at least one quasi-celebrity in the stands to serve as my pop culture North Star; otherwise I'm lost.)

"If Peyton Manning is from New Orleans, shouldn't he be rooting for the Saints?" (Also, what is up with that weird Oreo ad with him and Eli licking cream filling in front of Donald Trump and Darrel Hammond?)

(Inspired by the Colts' logo) "Why do horses wear shoes?"


"Why does Monster.com use fiddling beavers in its ad? Is that sexist?" (Mine doesn't even play the kazoo. It must be slow.)

(Upon seeing Dan Marino) "Is that the guy from Ace Ventura: Pet Detective?"

Are you a douche-bag

A recent study* conducted by a world renowned researcher has shown that people who back up into parking spaces are actually douche bags. Many individuals who do this believe that they are saving themselves time back backing into the space. This is not, in fact, correct.

Take, as an example, one person who had to keep backing up, pulling forward, then backing up, then pulling forward, then backing up again. While that person was fooling around with their spot, the very fancy researcher had pulled into her spot and was already walking into the building. In fact, I believe that said researcher was enjoying her first cup of coffee and checking important the morning news** while that d bag was still trying to back into the god damned parking space.

Another finding suggests that those who pull into spots will actually laugh at those that back into spots at grocery stores. Apparently, watching those people who backed into their spot realize that they can’t get to the trunk of the car to load the groceries provides a sense of joy to those that pull into spots.

*This scientific study was conducted by me this morning in the parking garage.
**News as featured on DListed.