My New Year's Resolutions



1. No more politics. I'm sick of it.
2. Declutter my house. Nobody needs three copies of any book, CD or DVD.
3. Use the word fuck and its variations approximately 15 percent fewer times.
4. Match up all my socks. Nobody should have 50 unmatched orphan socks.
5. Give 40 percent of my shoes away to Goodwill.
6. Same with my clothes.
7. Update my passport.
8. Learn a lot more French.
9. Sleep 8 hours a night.
10. Lose three pounds (just keepin' it real, folks)
11. Drink more water.
12. Learn to take better photographs.
13. Make a lot more money.
14. Stop all credit card use.
15. Be more grateful.

Yours?

Hope You Had a Good One, Too



I'm home from the holidays and yes, despite of my best efforts, I am now the owner of a Snuggy--a burnt orange University of Texas Snuggy. I tried it out at Big Sis's last night and it's pretty warm, although the sleeves make for a straitjacket effect I did not dig. Big Sis eventually wangled it away from me, leaving me to have to nuzzle under a leopard skin doggy blanket her dog Dixi was not using at the moment.
Last night we watched some great TV, but my night was ruined when an HBO Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame concert was marred by Aretha Franklin's fat ass doing a duet with my all time idol Annie Lennox, who appeared wearing a black "HIV Positive" T-shirt.
"Whaaaat?" I asked Big Sis and My Sharona.
"Yep, she's HIV+ positive, we Googled it."
"No fucking way," I growled.
"Way," they replied.
Turns out they were el wrongo, but I went to sleep last night so very sad that my girl was having to take a pile of anti-AIDS meds. I've already lost too many people to AIDS, I could hardly bear to lose my idol.
I Googled it myself when I got home. She's HIV negative.
Anyway, we spent the day at Big Bro's house in the country by the lake. He invited almost 15 people over for dinner and it was almost a clusterfuck except that everyone was cool and he'd made some kind of demon punch that liquored us all up but good.
I got some lovely gifts...a snazzy new coffeemaker and gold filter, an Amazon gift card, some cash, a gorgeous black scarf with a bronze border, a laptop computer, a door mat with severe cat scratch marks on it, and of course the Snuggy.
With the Amazon card, I scored a new Nikon Coolpics digital camera, so that's gonna be great to shlep around rather than my 2-pound Sony megapiggy digital.
Though I definitely lucked out with gifts, the true gift was having fun with my sibs and our assorted family members and friends.
The food was fantastic wherever I picked up a fork.
Life is good.
How was yours? Do tell.

Cheezus Christ on a Cracker!
Christmas is Upon Us.



The best thing about this Christmas is that it signals an end to this annus horribilis.
I started the year being ripped off for more than $4,000 in salary by my disreputable ex-boss, having some so-called friends trying to avoid paying me the $5,000 they owed me, credit card companies casually toying with my accounts to screw me and favor them, becoming disillusioned with our new president, growing bored with politics, losing interest in chasing women, losing Princess Sparkle Pony's blog, having to spend more than $1,500 on demolishing my garage, developing rather chronic Achilles tendinitis, my coffee maker and mixer breaking in the same week, and finally, my kitten Baby Jake having to be euthanized.
I'm pretty damn ready for 2009 to be over.
But the good thing about the season is having a loving family and loyal friends, new clients that pay promptly and like my work, two healthy and happy kitties, down-filled pillows and high thread count sheets, well managed diabetes, the return of Princess Sparkle Pony as Peteykins, all my Christmas shopping done and a strong, albeit dampened spirit.
My wish for all of you: a blessed Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan and a ring-a-ding-dong Festivus.
To my best online bloggy friends Evan, Fran, Dusty, Nonnie, Mary and Katie--I love you mutts.
My advice: love those who love you and avoid those who don't. Steer clear of drama. Cultivate a love for your own company and cherish the solitude. Read more. Eat deliciously. Blog more. Comment more. Laugh more. Love more.

Happy Holidays to all.

KarenZipdrive

*illustration by my BFF Elaine. Thanks, wanks.

These Things Come in Threes



The untimely death of starlet Brittany Murphy can only mean one thing.
Soon, two larger stars also will pass away.
From what I've read about death, many choose to make their crossing this time of year, or earlier in the fall. Why, I don't know. Maybe things just fall away in the fall.
Anyway, in the world of celebrity, these things always come in threes.
Who do you think is next?
I was thinking maybe Elizabeth Taylor or Kirk Douglas.
I don't count Oral Roberts or Baby Jake. One was a douche bag and the other was a kitty.

Baby Jake Zipdrive
Dec. 10, 2007--Dec. 19, 2009




My youngest kitty Baby Jake was euthanized today by my kindly veterinarian.
He had rapid onset liver failure, and the vet saw no way to save him. I held him and petted him as she injected him with go-to-sleep meds.
Thirty seconds later, he was gone. She put his head on a little towel and covered him with a soft blue blanket after he had passed. I kissed his little head goodbye and the vet, her assistant and I hugged and cried.
Two years is not a long life, but he had a happy one filled with toys, two big brothers who always played gently with him, and a mama who loved him very much.
Godspeed, little man.

Yeah, Same Here

Yeecch.



Between Barack Obama turning out to be just one more mediocre politician and the Senate and Congress continuing to screw American taxpayers at every turn, politics is no longer interesting to me. Not only is my continued membership in the Democratic party questionable, even the idea of voting has turned into an exercise in futility.

That leaves pop culture to blog about, but I'm sick of that, too.
Between Tiger the Fuck Woods and the endless glut of reality "stars" clogging the media, it's come down to this: Who cares?

I recall when Huffington Post first started, I couldn't wait to wake up every morning and read it from end to end. Now it's just crap piled atop more crap.
Same with the evening line-up at MSNBC. I can't watch it anymore because I'm sick of being sick and tired with the way things are.

I'm glad I have a happy, loving family and a few loyal friends who are still fun to be around. We've adjusted our Christmas plans to focus less on material crap and more on just being together. The simplicity and lack of drama feels very nice.

What about you? Are you feeling burnt out on external stuff too?

He's Back!

Look to the right, at my blogroll. Locate Peteykin's Junk Drawer. Click n' enjoy.
Princess Sparkle Pony might be gone, but Petey's back. YAY.

Things I Do Not Want For Christmas

Why the Tiger Woods Story Will Stick Around



News stories must meet at least some of the criteria for publishing called news values.
These include:
Celebrity
Wealth
Sex
Oddity
Proximity
Race
As you can see, Tiger and his errant penis meet all these criteria.
Proximity is included because he's played golf in nearly all our hometowns, so he's therefore stayed at our local hotels where he potentially screwed one or more of our local cocktail waitresses and/or call girls.
The more of these news values the story has, the longer "legs" it has.
So you can plan on months more of Tiger the Whore news, which will eventually die down until he appears in public again.
Now that prescription drugs may be involved, he might start losing sponsors. Gatorade has already dumped its Tiger-inspired beverage.
And somehow I doubt that Nike's "Just Do It" campaign meant fucking around on one's wife.

The Top Secret Diary of Tiger Woods



Dec. 4

Holy shit! My lips are still swollen from the beating Elin gave me with that 3-iron.
New rule: never take two Ambien and fall asleep with a pissed off Viking on the loose.
What a day I've had.
I snuck outside and hid in the Border Collie's house with my cell phone and called at least 12 women and asked them to have their guy friends record new voicemail messages for their phones. That oughtta fool the Viking.
I've also ordered a 10-carat diamond ring for her and a necklace that spells out "My Bad" in diamonds. Kobe gave me the name of his jeweler.
My food has been tasting funny lately, so I asked Elin why and she said "saltpeter." It must be some kind of nutritional supplement and it tastes like ass, but I don't dare complain or she'll tee up my face again.
Meanwhile, every hoochie I've ever screwed has come out of the woodwork to blab about affairs we had. I should have given all of them roofies so their memories would be shot, but no, I had to be the good guy.
I got a note from Buick thanking me for not crashing one of their shitmobiles into that tree. Ha Ha, very funny.
I might have to buy a burka so I can go out in public without being smothered by the paparazzi. I'm sure Elin would love seeing me in one of those, plus it would cover up the electronic ankle bracelet and GPS locator she slapped on me.
I've started getting used to peeing with my dick Superglued to my leg, but it's still a little tricky.
I spoke to my lawyer Bob and he's going ahead with the plan to send Sarah Palin a check for $100k to start saying lots of even stupider stuff to keep her face in the news.
Also, Bob is looking into financing a sex tape for the DC party crashers, introducing Levi Johnston to Miley Cyrus, and finding someone to dope up Robert Pattinson so they can shoot nude pics of him with another dude.
Bob's been a really good guy thru all this. I'm starting to feel bad about banging his wife.
Speaking of banging chicks, Elin has fired the nanny, all the maids and the newspaper delivery girl because she's suspicious of all of them. What could I say? I mean, it's not like I haven't screwed all of them.
The main thing is, I'm glad Elin has decided against divorcing me. She told me if we got a divorce I could keep my clubs, but she'd definitely get my balls. Ouch!

Party Crashers: A Microcosm of America



I wanted to let the news of the party crashers at Obama's first State Dinner sink in before I wrote about it.
Something about it was eating at me, and now I know what it is.
America has become one big, crappy reality show.
Everyone wants to be a fucking star without accomplishing anything noteworthy.
Tareq and Michaele Salahi, the scumbag, quasi-socialites who snuck into the White House pulled it off because the staff that should have been working the event were hobnobbing like they were invited guests.
A news reporter had to tell the Secret Service that the Salahis were not on the list of invitees. Yes, a news reporter had her eye on the ball while Michelle Obama's social secretary Desirée Rogers was acting like the belle of the ball.
That too-chummy bitch needs to be fired yesterday, friend of Michelle's or not.
Did you see the picture of Michaele with Joe Biden? Click on the photo above to enlarge it.
She had her hand on his chest like they were dating!
Where has common decorum gone?
Were the Secret Service guys off drinking Chardonnay and munching hors d'oeuvres while the party crashers were mauling the bigwigs?
I'm starting to think Obama has some kind of weird death wish. The Salahis could have easily grabbed a knife or fork off one of the dinner tables and jabbed him in the neck.
He and the First Lady seem to lack the kind of authoritarian presence that would strike fear into the hearts of people like Desirée Rogers.
I've worked in public relations and event planning.
At a formal dinner, the PR and staff people are supposed to watch things like a hawk. They do not socialize. They do not prance, or preen, or pose.
Andrew Cunanan, the guy who murdered Gianni Versace, was a lot like the Salahis. Author Dominick Dunne wrote about Cunanan in his book, "Another City, Not My Own."
He was a two-bit gay hustler with a taste for grandeur and fame. When he lived in Hollywood, he crashed every party and social event he could find.
The Salihis couldn't quite make the cut for "The Real Housewives of Washington, DC," but they had no problem at all breezing into the White House.
They are like the balloon boy's parents.
They are Jon and Kate.
They are the Kardashians.
They are Tiger and Elin Woods.
They are David Hasselhoff.
And now the Obamas have joined the reality TV genre.
The White House has become a backdrop. Desirée Rogers is a co-star, and so is the dimwitted Secret Service.

This is what America has become. God help us.

Is Puff Daddy/P Diddy/Puffy Combs Kidding?



I hate this ad.
I mean, who is this guy?
I can't name or even hum even one song he's ever recorded. He's supposed to be some kind of mogul, but what's behind all the hype?
He reminds me of Kanye West, who has a thin, reedy, off-key singing voice that would be useless without massive amounts of autotune.
I think Will.i.am from the Blackeyed Peas has more talent in his shoe than both these social climbing nitwits.
This ad is called "P Diddy's Ratpack" ad.
Ratpack? Could he possibly mean the Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Peter Lawford ratpack? Is he kidding?
I heard P Diddy/Puffy/whatever just shelled out $3 million for his 40th birthday party on a Thursday night at the Plaza hotel in NYC. He had the dance floor and chandeliers painted black. He wore sunglasses all night. At the entrance of the hotel was a tent erected to screen attendees, but it was such a clusterfuck, by 10 p.m. only a few people had found their way into the ballroom. Martha Stewart and Theo Huxtable got in. Registered hotel guests were inadvertantly allowed to drift in and out. I wonder if the Real Housewives of New York City got in? I'm sure they must have been invited.
For 3 million dollars, he could have opened an academy for inner city kids. He could have fed 10,000 people for a year or more in Darfur or Ethiopia. He could have spent that money in a way that would make me think he was anything but a self indulgent drip. But he didn't.
I read somewhere that he owns a large share of Ciroc vodka.
I've never tried it.
I like Gray Goose myself, but I'm pretty sure someone could slip me a generic store brand vodka in a mixed drink and I wouldn't know the difference.
Ultra premium vodka is just a phrase made up by an ad agency's creative department so the exhorbitant price will seem justified.
If I got invited to a $3 million party Puff Diddy/Daddy was throwing, and the biggest stars there were Martha Stewart and the Huxtable kid, I think I'd laugh my ass off.
P Diddy/Puff Daddy/Puffy/Sean Combs is a clown with too much money and excellent hype. He's the Kanye West of obnoxiousness.