That Homophobic COW
Did anyone see Wife Swap last night?
There was a fundy Christian, Condi Rice wannabe GOP black woman married to a white dude who judged the lesbian family, called their lifestyle depraved and implied she thought her little zebra daughter was in danger of being molested by the dyke she swapped lives with.
Sistah girl must have forgotten that not so long ago, she and her husband would have been lynched for getting married.
She made the butch dyke cry, she was so harsh.
...And they wonder why Elvis used to shoot out television screens.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Two Monumental Product Endorsements
Rush to your local supermarket and buy some Mr. Clean Magic Eraser Cleaning Pads.
They are simply the most amazing cleaning products in the history of mankind.
With a simple, light swish, they take off grease, crayons, soot, pen, pencil, soap scum, wall dinge, wax, scuffs, smudges, gunk, goo, glop, stove crud, sneaker soles, leather uppers, car interiors, ceramic and glass.
While you're at it, try some Trix Whole Grain cereal with 75% less sugar. The colors are great– they have added green, blue and purple to the old time red, orange and yellow. Sweetened with Splenda, they are pretending it's not a low calorie, diet food but it is.
Between Mr. Clean and that Silly Rabbit, I am newly fulfilled as a human being. My life has new meaning. I have reached Samadhi and higher levels of Nirvana.
"Thus the knowledge that is more secret than the secret has been explained to you by Me.
After fully reflecting on this, rush out and buy both products, then tell us what you think."
–Bhagavad Gita (18:63)
Rush to your local supermarket and buy some Mr. Clean Magic Eraser Cleaning Pads.
They are simply the most amazing cleaning products in the history of mankind.
With a simple, light swish, they take off grease, crayons, soot, pen, pencil, soap scum, wall dinge, wax, scuffs, smudges, gunk, goo, glop, stove crud, sneaker soles, leather uppers, car interiors, ceramic and glass.
While you're at it, try some Trix Whole Grain cereal with 75% less sugar. The colors are great– they have added green, blue and purple to the old time red, orange and yellow. Sweetened with Splenda, they are pretending it's not a low calorie, diet food but it is.
Between Mr. Clean and that Silly Rabbit, I am newly fulfilled as a human being. My life has new meaning. I have reached Samadhi and higher levels of Nirvana.
"Thus the knowledge that is more secret than the secret has been explained to you by Me.
After fully reflecting on this, rush out and buy both products, then tell us what you think."
–Bhagavad Gita (18:63)
Hoof n' Mouth Day
This morning I have an appointment with my adorable foot doctor, who checks my feet about four times a year to make sure I don't have any diabetes damage.
Because she is so cute, going to see her is like cleaning the house before the maid comes.
I make sure my feet are smooth, the cuticles on my toenails are nicely pushed back and the nails are neatly trimmed. Yep, all the things she's supposed to do are done in advance because I am such a whore for praise.
The only thing I don't do is remove the callouses. For that she uses a Dremel tool with a sandpaper disc attachment, which I find quite ingenious. She warned me not to use my own Dremel tool- one false move and they'd be calling me Gimpy.
Later this month I have to see my regular care doctor for a biannual physical.
That means I have to have blood drawn today, so he can see how my glucose and cholesterol levels are doing.
That means I have to fast this morning until the blood gets drawn.
That means breakfast afterwards at the hospital cafeteria, which for me is one of life's true bargains. Eggs, bacon and toast runs about $1.25, and coffee jacks it up to $1.75.
It's no wonder half the hospital staff are the size of pygmy hippos. They apparently can't resist a bargain, either.
On Thursday I have an ophthalmology appointment, to see if my retinas have been blown by diabetes. I think they are fine, but it's jarring to think this damn disease might one day blind me.
Stem cell research could find a cure for diabetes and put an end to all this nerve-wracking preventive rigmarole.
Too bad the dry drunk imbecile at the helm in Washington, DC thinks that's about killing babies.
Someone ought to take a Dremel tool to that jackass.
This morning I have an appointment with my adorable foot doctor, who checks my feet about four times a year to make sure I don't have any diabetes damage.
Because she is so cute, going to see her is like cleaning the house before the maid comes.
I make sure my feet are smooth, the cuticles on my toenails are nicely pushed back and the nails are neatly trimmed. Yep, all the things she's supposed to do are done in advance because I am such a whore for praise.
The only thing I don't do is remove the callouses. For that she uses a Dremel tool with a sandpaper disc attachment, which I find quite ingenious. She warned me not to use my own Dremel tool- one false move and they'd be calling me Gimpy.
Later this month I have to see my regular care doctor for a biannual physical.
That means I have to have blood drawn today, so he can see how my glucose and cholesterol levels are doing.
That means I have to fast this morning until the blood gets drawn.
That means breakfast afterwards at the hospital cafeteria, which for me is one of life's true bargains. Eggs, bacon and toast runs about $1.25, and coffee jacks it up to $1.75.
It's no wonder half the hospital staff are the size of pygmy hippos. They apparently can't resist a bargain, either.
On Thursday I have an ophthalmology appointment, to see if my retinas have been blown by diabetes. I think they are fine, but it's jarring to think this damn disease might one day blind me.
Stem cell research could find a cure for diabetes and put an end to all this nerve-wracking preventive rigmarole.
Too bad the dry drunk imbecile at the helm in Washington, DC thinks that's about killing babies.
Someone ought to take a Dremel tool to that jackass.
Monday, February 07, 2005
The Surreal Life
I went to a Superbowl party last night that, mercifully, was not centered on the football game. In fact we saw the half-time snoozer with Paul McCartney, otherwise didn't watch the game at all.
What we watched instead was MTV's 'The Surreal Life, which needs a word stronger than surreal to fully describe it.
What the show does is gather up a half dozen entertainment industry has-beens and wannabes and move them into the former Mulholland Drive mansion of Glen Campbell. The house is decorated in 1970s psychedelia style, which in itself is ghastly enough to catch one's attention.
The six people in the house were Adrianne Curry (winner of the first America's Next Top Model competition), Christopher Knight (of the Brady Bunch), Go-Go's guitarist Jane Wiedlin, rap artist Da Brat, supermodel Marcus Schenkenberg, wrestling star Chyna Doll and Verne Troyer, aka "Mini-Me" from the Austin Powers movie.
Suffice it to say, pro wrestler Chyna Doll is a totally freakish drunk, and MiniMe also has some maxi alcohol abuse problems.
Chyna- who has to have more testosterone than estrogen in her body, holed up in a bedroom designed for the 2'8" little man. When she refused to give it up, the dwarf got pissed and they fought. Finally, everyone helped her move her wardrobe and her stash of several cases of hard liquor to another room.
MiniMe got drunk and naked, rode his Rascal into a hall corner and peed against the wall. In another scene he was so drunk, he was pawing at Christopher Knight like a baby looking for his mother's breast. It went way beyond creepy.
They served sushi off the naked body of Adrianne Curry. A leering, slobbering MiniMe kept tweaking her nipple, barely hidden under a sushi leaf. The model was beautiful, but who wants to eat raw fish off any woman's naked body? Bacteria much?
As a testament to the caliber of houseguests, Christopher Knight, the now grown-up Brady Bunch kid, had his shit together better than any of the others. Plus, he ended up dating the model after the show wrapped, so there was that to consider.
All in all, The Surreal Life is an intellectual tour de force and an asset to America's quest for excellence in television broadcasting.
I am so proud that satellite TV broadcasts shows like this to other countries so we have more to boast about than just George W. Bush.
I went to a Superbowl party last night that, mercifully, was not centered on the football game. In fact we saw the half-time snoozer with Paul McCartney, otherwise didn't watch the game at all.
What we watched instead was MTV's 'The Surreal Life, which needs a word stronger than surreal to fully describe it.
What the show does is gather up a half dozen entertainment industry has-beens and wannabes and move them into the former Mulholland Drive mansion of Glen Campbell. The house is decorated in 1970s psychedelia style, which in itself is ghastly enough to catch one's attention.
The six people in the house were Adrianne Curry (winner of the first America's Next Top Model competition), Christopher Knight (of the Brady Bunch), Go-Go's guitarist Jane Wiedlin, rap artist Da Brat, supermodel Marcus Schenkenberg, wrestling star Chyna Doll and Verne Troyer, aka "Mini-Me" from the Austin Powers movie.
Suffice it to say, pro wrestler Chyna Doll is a totally freakish drunk, and MiniMe also has some maxi alcohol abuse problems.
Chyna- who has to have more testosterone than estrogen in her body, holed up in a bedroom designed for the 2'8" little man. When she refused to give it up, the dwarf got pissed and they fought. Finally, everyone helped her move her wardrobe and her stash of several cases of hard liquor to another room.
MiniMe got drunk and naked, rode his Rascal into a hall corner and peed against the wall. In another scene he was so drunk, he was pawing at Christopher Knight like a baby looking for his mother's breast. It went way beyond creepy.
They served sushi off the naked body of Adrianne Curry. A leering, slobbering MiniMe kept tweaking her nipple, barely hidden under a sushi leaf. The model was beautiful, but who wants to eat raw fish off any woman's naked body? Bacteria much?
As a testament to the caliber of houseguests, Christopher Knight, the now grown-up Brady Bunch kid, had his shit together better than any of the others. Plus, he ended up dating the model after the show wrapped, so there was that to consider.
All in all, The Surreal Life is an intellectual tour de force and an asset to America's quest for excellence in television broadcasting.
I am so proud that satellite TV broadcasts shows like this to other countries so we have more to boast about than just George W. Bush.
Friday, February 04, 2005
The Haircut From the Golden Shears of God
Michele, my haircutter, is all about precision.
My hair is all about being very thick but also very fine, which means it globs up in clumps and does whatever it wants when I get a precision cut.
Today I got the jump on her.
We were at her house where I was doing some design work for her.
Afterwards, I somehow cajoled her into giving me a haircut right then and there, with household scissors, under a bathtowel, on a chair in her dining room.
I asked for an animal cut- which is basically all different lengths, with spikes if I use the right products.
I told her to go as fast as she could and to cut hunks out of it if she wanted. I just wanted her to go crazy like never before. I even drew a strand of hair and erased gouges in it so she'd know how deep I wanted her to cut in the angles.
I now have the perfect haircut.
For nearly 20 years I have asked for this cut but she always had to be soooo precise.
Ha. Even she was amazed by the sheer fabulousness of it.
The end of even the briefest sordid affair should be commemorated with a great haircut.
It just screams, "I look a lot better now, without you in my life."
Yes, as a matter of fact, I am going out tonight.
No, I do not have a date, I have a wingman. A straight chick wingman to be precise, one who just got a new boyfriend, which removes all competition.
And tomorrow night, more of the same but with a different wingman.
They say the best way to get over a bad lover is to get under a new one.
Though I find that advice rather superficial, from a strictly scientific perspective there is something to be said for removing the last vestiges of someone's bad DNA with someone nice's good, new DNA.
And if you knew me, you'd know– I am all about the science.
:D
Michele, my haircutter, is all about precision.
My hair is all about being very thick but also very fine, which means it globs up in clumps and does whatever it wants when I get a precision cut.
Today I got the jump on her.
We were at her house where I was doing some design work for her.
Afterwards, I somehow cajoled her into giving me a haircut right then and there, with household scissors, under a bathtowel, on a chair in her dining room.
I asked for an animal cut- which is basically all different lengths, with spikes if I use the right products.
I told her to go as fast as she could and to cut hunks out of it if she wanted. I just wanted her to go crazy like never before. I even drew a strand of hair and erased gouges in it so she'd know how deep I wanted her to cut in the angles.
I now have the perfect haircut.
For nearly 20 years I have asked for this cut but she always had to be soooo precise.
Ha. Even she was amazed by the sheer fabulousness of it.
The end of even the briefest sordid affair should be commemorated with a great haircut.
It just screams, "I look a lot better now, without you in my life."
Yes, as a matter of fact, I am going out tonight.
No, I do not have a date, I have a wingman. A straight chick wingman to be precise, one who just got a new boyfriend, which removes all competition.
And tomorrow night, more of the same but with a different wingman.
They say the best way to get over a bad lover is to get under a new one.
Though I find that advice rather superficial, from a strictly scientific perspective there is something to be said for removing the last vestiges of someone's bad DNA with someone nice's good, new DNA.
And if you knew me, you'd know– I am all about the science.
:D
Here's An Idea We All Can Love
NBC, Donald Trump and Mark Burnett, the masterminds behind NBC's "The Apprentice," announced Wednesday that Martha Stewart will host "The Apprentice: Martha Stewart," a new version of the business-themed reality show.
You gotta love how Martha Stewart is strictly forbidden to discuss business of any kind while she's behind bars, yet somehow a major network television show centered on her has sprung forth, as if by magic.
When I first started watching "The Apprentice," I thought Donald Trump was a big enough prick to pull it off, but I always wondered what the show would be like if Martha Stewart was at the helm.
Can you imagine what the challenges will be like? Oh, I am all atwitter with the possibilities.
Chain saw ice sculpture?
Papel picado, using toenail scissors and burlap?
Carving butter pats into family crests?
Piano building?
Grafting violets with peonies?
And what will she say to candidates who don't measure up? She can't say, "you're fired," that's Trump's line.
Here are some possibilities:
"You failed, abysmally."
"As if."
"You are not worthy."
"Guards, remove this person at once!"
Oh, I can't wait. We may have to start a pool.
NBC, Donald Trump and Mark Burnett, the masterminds behind NBC's "The Apprentice," announced Wednesday that Martha Stewart will host "The Apprentice: Martha Stewart," a new version of the business-themed reality show.
You gotta love how Martha Stewart is strictly forbidden to discuss business of any kind while she's behind bars, yet somehow a major network television show centered on her has sprung forth, as if by magic.
When I first started watching "The Apprentice," I thought Donald Trump was a big enough prick to pull it off, but I always wondered what the show would be like if Martha Stewart was at the helm.
Can you imagine what the challenges will be like? Oh, I am all atwitter with the possibilities.
Chain saw ice sculpture?
Papel picado, using toenail scissors and burlap?
Carving butter pats into family crests?
Piano building?
Grafting violets with peonies?
And what will she say to candidates who don't measure up? She can't say, "you're fired," that's Trump's line.
Here are some possibilities:
"You failed, abysmally."
"As if."
"You are not worthy."
"Guards, remove this person at once!"
Oh, I can't wait. We may have to start a pool.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Live and Learn
I used to think having a sordid little affair sounded kind of fun.
I liked their clandestine nature, the excitement and the thought of being in public with the person without anyone knowing what was going on behind closed doors.
I may have outgrown that phase.
I just finished having a sordid little affair and it left me feeling vaguely skanky.
She was cute, in an aging rocker sort of Melissa Etheridge way, but I wish we would have just stayed friends.
The drama surrounding the sordid little affair ended up wrecking everything–our friendship is in tatters and probably cannot be mended. Plus I'd hired her to produce my show, and no way will that happen now.
Sex without love is a freight train to Hell.
I've jumped off the train, but my emotions feel like my body would have felt had it been a real train.
Otherwise, all in sunny in my life.
Well, not exactly.
The weather has been cold and wet. The turn signal light on my car popped out and it's been too wet and cold to find new screws, hunker down and fix it.
The wind knocked my little loblolly pine tree right out of its planter and it's been too sloppy outside to fix it.
They say bad luck comes in threes.
So I plan to count the sordid affair, the turn signal light and the poor little pine tree as my three.
There. I feel better already.
I used to think having a sordid little affair sounded kind of fun.
I liked their clandestine nature, the excitement and the thought of being in public with the person without anyone knowing what was going on behind closed doors.
I may have outgrown that phase.
I just finished having a sordid little affair and it left me feeling vaguely skanky.
She was cute, in an aging rocker sort of Melissa Etheridge way, but I wish we would have just stayed friends.
The drama surrounding the sordid little affair ended up wrecking everything–our friendship is in tatters and probably cannot be mended. Plus I'd hired her to produce my show, and no way will that happen now.
Sex without love is a freight train to Hell.
I've jumped off the train, but my emotions feel like my body would have felt had it been a real train.
Otherwise, all in sunny in my life.
Well, not exactly.
The weather has been cold and wet. The turn signal light on my car popped out and it's been too wet and cold to find new screws, hunker down and fix it.
The wind knocked my little loblolly pine tree right out of its planter and it's been too sloppy outside to fix it.
They say bad luck comes in threes.
So I plan to count the sordid affair, the turn signal light and the poor little pine tree as my three.
There. I feel better already.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
I Got Nothin'
I am supposed to be a bubbling fountain of wit right now, writing sensational comedy material.
So far, I have written this one thing about a local lawyer who calls himself "the tough, smart lawyer" in countless commercials scattered all over cable TV.
Other than that, all I can think of is how crazy some lesbians can be, how bad TV is and what lazy, fat bastards my cats are in cold weather.
I was at a party last night and this gay guy told a group of his pals how funny I was. They leaned forward, hoping to get a glimpse of that for themselves. I mumbled something decidedly unfunny, then ducked away as soon as I could.
Shit. Maybe I need a gimmick.
But right now, I got nuthin'.
I am supposed to be a bubbling fountain of wit right now, writing sensational comedy material.
So far, I have written this one thing about a local lawyer who calls himself "the tough, smart lawyer" in countless commercials scattered all over cable TV.
Other than that, all I can think of is how crazy some lesbians can be, how bad TV is and what lazy, fat bastards my cats are in cold weather.
I was at a party last night and this gay guy told a group of his pals how funny I was. They leaned forward, hoping to get a glimpse of that for themselves. I mumbled something decidedly unfunny, then ducked away as soon as I could.
Shit. Maybe I need a gimmick.
But right now, I got nuthin'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)