Wednesday, January 30, 2008

I'm Thirsty!


I didn't know Jay - Z went to Rihanna's last photoshoot!

Me Talk Pretty One Day.

Cheers! To Sharon Gless for playing a whack ass nutty bitch on Nip/Tuck.  Did anyone see her make that guy a teddy bear?

Yikes. 

Well done.

Whip It. Yeah. Whip it Good.


Um. Ok.  This is obviously the best show on television for several reasons.  Nikki Taylor can still talk and doesn't look like Ms. Buttafucco or whatever her name is ("Amy Fisha Shot me in dee Face"- you know the one).

Tyson Beckford is not as dumb as I thought AND people are starving themselves to win.  I know Tyra, you love being fat blah blah blah I will kiss your fat black ass a hundred times just like you want.  Go UPN!

These models are FAR superior to the broke ass G bitches you bring on your show and do nothing but a gangster CoverGirl commercial - oh wait I already forgot about the last one. Saleisha will be working at a Payless in no time.

Also, Bravo has perfected the reality competition format.

Clearly Perry (the obvious winner behind Big Ears) isn't telling his girlfriend something she is ENTITLED to know.  He likes butts.  Boy butts.

Today's Woman




Photo Source: Jen Lowery, startracksphoto.com-Jll25145a

Take a good HARD look at that crooked old lady finger. The deranged wicked face of a witch with the perfect complexion.  This, my friends - this self promoting, money hungry wench is the woman of today. And I personally love the shit out of her.

Why?

Well, she doesn't have a fucking clue how to run a business which in and of itself is pure genius since she still I'm sure manages to generate some profit for exploiting the modeling business and making it look like a bunch of amateurs who don't know what the fuck is going on.  There is a lot of money there people - most executives probably cut themselves every time they see her conduct a meeting on the show.  

I'm not fooled by her cleverly branded JD computer which is clearly an Apple (I'm sure Bill had a hand in NOT being associated with her debacle).  

She hasn't turned on a computer since the last time she did a bump of coke. Poor Peter, her stupid partner with the scarred lip - they must have paid him something big for her to be allowed to fuck up everything under the sun and then bitch about it while he stands there looking dumber than the kid who sorted glass on that "Pro-Challenged" commercial in the late 80s early 90s.  You know the one.  I short Gwass, dat's my job.  Don't throw us away.  I'll find that shit on YouTube so you can have a nice inappropriate hearty laugh at it.

Speaking of dumber than shit, her son, who is remotely attractive despite his very serious lisp, runs the "Commercial"division.  The only thing that kid is doing is stroking his magic stick to the wannabe plus size bitches she has running around that one room pink monstrosity of an office.  He actually looks sort of like the bulldog she bought him last Christmas.

That said, there is something about Ms. Dickinson that is UTTERLY heart warming.  I think she means well.  Even when she practically shoves a fork down her anorexic models' throats to get to the "bottom" of what they're going through...I almost cry every time.

Janice just happens to be the biggest whore I've ever set eyes on.  Attention whore that is. I'll happily continue to give her my attention.  She is the only show on Oxygen worth watching.

I need a shrink too.

Photo Source: www.newsday.com

So what do we think about this five night a week nut fest?

I can't decide.  I kind of dug the first nut job on Monday but I am not so sure how I feel about Blair Underwood as an Iraq War vet talking about his near death hard-on.  I kept looking for Miranda and her strawberry tart but it didn't happen.

Also, I'm not sure I would see a doctor with a sailboat in his office because it would make me sea sick.  I think I prefer Tell Me You Love Me.


A pig for my pigs


If they sold these in America I would buy all of you one of your own.
I have things to say about Janice Dickinson, the new HBO series IN Treatment and obviously, Make Me a Supermodel. Stay  Tuned.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

John McCain is an UGLY man.


That's all.

American Idiot









This - is American Idol. Sing it SeaCREST. 

Ok, so it's my favorite show. Blow me. 

How could you not love a show where a pathetic little mo named Chris Bernheisel (Bernhomo) is singing Cold Hearted Snake and twittering his way around the Omaha Nebraska Idol stage? I mean, sheer GENIUS. Also, where's Paula? Doing blow in the bathroom with the janitor.  I'm not kidding.  She probably was.

Did anyone notice that his arms looked slightly disjointed?

Also, I'm pretty convinced Randy Jackson likes butts.  There is a difference between being a "pimp" black man and wearing shiny red patent leather pumps.  Open up Jackson, I know you want to cry with Chrissy Bernheisel.

Oh my god. I can't stop watching this. On repeat. Seven times.

Hilary Rodham Clinton and Ugly Betty


I hate America Ferrera when she is not being Ugly Betty. In fact I never saw her as anything else except when she was in this random play about Charlie Brown and his stupid friends when they were more grown up (the play was actually pretty good but forget about it because it's over).
Anyway, despite how much I hate American Ferrera and stupid Amber Tambitch from the Sisterhood of the Traveling Who Cares, Hilary speaks articulately and makes me want to get a Woman up in the HIz.

http//youtube.com/watch?v=v8frN4Rou_s

Thoughts?

Oprah Loves The Word "Intuition"

(L) ove Commuting


Fine. So I will start by complaining because that is what this Me Time is for. Right?

I live by the L train. This is the train I take to work every day.  Sometimes my commute is so bad that I spend most of the time sweating and then contemplating how to combat the oil that will resonate in my pores for the majority of the afternoon. 

Sometimes the commute is so bad that I feel the annoying red-haired girl's hair hit my arm that is stretched to the umpteenth degree toward the nearest pole so that I won't fall over and get stabbed by the angry thug behind me on the way to work. Sometimes my commute is so bad because I'm carrying so many things and I hold my possessions in front of me to be nice (most people have no problem shoving their man bag into you rectal bone which could make a hypo like me think I've slipped a disc before completing my first cup of coffee).

I wind up feeling on bad commute days that I have been slung up on the cross like Jesus before I have even had the joy of reading Perez or applying hand sanitizer at my desk while my AIM loads with a smile and a comforting "AIM" welcome sound.

Usually, these negative commuting experiences do not stick in one's mind because the geniuses that run the MTA know that if we had the experiences TOO often, we would be more likely to complain and then they would have to go on strike and start complaining about how hard it is to be an MTA worker in New York City.  The particular geniuses that are in control of my beloved L train, space out their nightmarish applications of commute' in logical "I can't remember the last time this happened" intervals. 

Well, color me a fool no more! I remember!

Today I waited for four L trains before there was enough room to get on.  Today the entire subway station was filled with angry twenty somethings thinking the same thing that I thought. I hate the mother fucking L train.

Each time a train would come 10 or so of these angry commuters would huddle around each doorway in an attempt to shove the ugly bitches already inside a few more inches so they could get their own duffel bagged, purse wearing asses inside too.  On train number four, I was successful.  The problem is on bad commute days, that even when you're successful in getting INside the train, there is the whole "Fuck, I have 4 more stops to go before we hit Union Square and the train vomits out all these assholes."
Today, on the ultimate of bad commute days, I should have anticipated the next logical step in my MTA sponsored journey to work.   We would wait.  And wait. And wait. While all the "train traffic"ahead (i.e. other twenty somethings shoving other fat bitches deeper inside the train cars at other stops) was getting sorted, I had the extreme pleasure of being shoved next to someone who smelled like your toilet paper before you drop it into the water, and a girl behind me who had more eye boogers than Stevie Wonder.

So what's my point? As you'll soon find.  I don't have one.

LV13?

Well, I've officially made the mistake of believing the sign on North 5th Street.  I saw that shit and was like, oh damn! a forty dollar massage! - my ass is there.  I walked by the joint the other night and it looks like a happy ending massage parlor in a space no bigger than my hall closet. Whatevs I'll let a geisha rub me down.  In fact, I'm all about it.  I will post a review post my potential happy ending.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Oh and Me - the Story Teller


it isn't right that I showed you my pussy before we've even had lunch. 

My Big Wet Pussy


First and foremost, I want you to understand a little bit about me. I am 26, and I will be sharing a lot over the next weeks and months. I think most people are idiots, and I can't wait to discuss various forms of idiocy with you each and every day.

Today I saw two stray dogs and I wanted to take them home but then I realized my cat (who some claim I rescued from a fire near the eye of Hurricane Katrina), would inflict uncertain damage on the flea ridden pooches.

It is with great pleasure that I give you my muse, Olivia Dukakis of Williamsburg. No, I am not four hundred and fifty pounds nor do I have a side part and wear grease better than a frying pan. I am also not a cat person and don't plan on collecting them like baseball cards.

I wanted to be a mother and the sponsored kid in Zambia wasn't doing the trick (I'll get to Natasha Mumba later).

So for this evening, and this evening alone, I give you my big wet pussy. Until tomorrow.