The Philly Cheesesteak Nachos at the Philadelphia Airport almost make up for the customer service ladies who I think were on about six periods between the three of them today. I self-checked in at US Airways and only one of my two boarding passes printed, so I needed help. Stood there for about 10 minutes waiting for 3 lovely ladies - I’ll call them “SWV” - to make eye contact with me. When I realized they weren’t going to, I said “Excuse me?” Their eyes slowly rolled toward me, and in unison they said, “We ain’t on the clock.” Then perhaps instead of standing behind the ticket counter like you’re dressed to tag the fuck out of some suitcases, you should make your way upstairs to Jet Rock Bar and Grill, where they serve “Dirty Shirleys” and Philly Cheesesteak Nachos that taste so good they make having diarrhea a mile above this shitty earth totally worth it.
Watch my radio show, guys! We count down the 10 worst pop culture stories of the week. And this week one of my guests was "a little baked." In fact, until we made it to the second to last story of the show, he didn't know that we were counting down stories at all. Nice effort, Jon Huck.
For past & future eps, go here and click episodes.
Today I woke up not feeling so hot because, well, it’s Wednesday. I start most days slightly dehydrated so I can give other people an edge. In my groggy, hungover state I saw my cat looking at me like, “I’ve been there, girlfriend.” (I adopted my cat from an urban rescue place, so she says “girlfriend” a lot.) And I was thinking, “No you haven’t. You’re a cat.”
And just then her body began convulsing. My mind raced. Hairball? Vomit? Hairball? Vomit? Please don’t get anything on my new J Brand –
Boy, did she let it all out. I don’t know if you’ve ever smelled cat vomit before, but I’m sure you’ve smelled cat food. So just imagine what cat food smells like partially digested. I turn on the bedroom lights and try to clean it up before the scent wakes up my boyfriend, Sleeping Beauty. Armed with a wad of paper towels and my own upset stomach, I scoop up the first lump of warm mass and start gagging. I think it was more the soft yet chunky consistency than the odor itself that got me. I ran to the bathroom to vomit in the tub because toilets make me want to throw up.
As I’m dry heaving, Sleeping Beauty says, “Turn off the fucking lights. I’m trying to sleep.”
This French commercial for Orangina was just banned from television because it features a gay cougar. (No, not a lesbian Real Housewife. You see, years ago, before Courtney Cox decided to sell her soul to ABC because her Friends residuals weren’t cuttin’ the mustard, there was an animal in the feline family called a “cougar.”)
Everyone is offended by this commercial - not because a cougar is using Sunkist as aftershave - but because the cougar is gay. Really? Are we going to take away the fundamental rights of cartoon felines now too? Don’t even front like Tony the Tiger never experimented in college.
This does give validity to the age-old argument that if we let gays get married, next they’ll be allowing people to marry their pets. Or at least stroke their pets’ faces slowly in the bathroom before work while they have a mean boner.
The video Nick Vujicic’s selling is called, “No Arms, No Legs, No Worries!” It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as “Murderball” but the message seems a bit less painful.
Seriously, how is this quadriplegic better than me at putt putt? I was scared to tell a new joke on stage last night and this guy’s jumping off the high dive without arms, legs, or apparently, worries.
So for 5 minutes today let’s cut out the bitter, “I deserve what so-and-so has” and be truly thankful for what we do have. And once that 5 minutes is up, we can go back to being pissed that some dude without arms or legs is more famous than us just for thinking positively and participating in water sports. What an optimistic dick.
If it's hard to view, the question reads: What is the name of your least favorite relative? I wonder how many people just straight up typed, “Dad.”
What’s your mom’s maiden name? can take a hike. What street did you grow up on? is for pussies. I want a security question designed for kids with broken families and/or creepy uncles. A question that, years later, when it’s posed and I have to think of my response to gain access to my account, is going to trigger a Thanksgiving memory I won’t soon forget.
Yesterday I took my trash out at the same time as the acoustic guitar player who lives in my apartment building. He covers John Mayer every day around noon if you guys want to stop by and tell him to shut up through his window.
It was my dream that he’d be enamored with me and return to his apartment, lyricizing about a beautiful woman with bedhead, ripped leggings, and lots of empty carbohydrate boxes. I imagine he’d title it, “Who knew Cheez-its could do a body so good?” and make it kinda blues-y.
Well, the next best thing happened. Someone else wrote a song about seeing me at the dumpster and posted it in the youtubez.
Do yourselves a favor and NEVER google image search "Dumpster Girl" with the safe search off. Still vomiting.
Two old British ladies brought a dead guy to the airport in an attempt to smuggle him back to Germany without paying all those pesky dead body transport fees. They put him in a wheelchair and slapped sunglasses, a fake moustache, and a Hawaiian shirt on him. (I’m just guessing about the moustache and Hawaiian shirt.) They managed to fool a taxi driver on the ride there, but airport security found it odd when he was unresponsive during his anal exam. (Again, I’m guessing.)
What did they think would happen if they got him onto the plane? I mean, I avoid eye contact and small talk on planes like anyone else who hates humanity, but god damn if I wouldn’t notice if the dude next to me was dead. At some point I’d see how peaceful he looked and probably try to bum an Ambien.
I like to think these bitches watched Weekend at Bernie’s and Weekend at Bernie’s II (what was the premise for the 2nd one again?) to prepare. And in my mind, right before they took him to the airport, they all went water skiing.
For those of you following the shitstorm taking place in my life, you should know it hailed diarrhea on me yesterday. I’d been eyeing this pair of Palladium boots for months and finally committed to my first purchase on Amazon in a moment of weakness.
A day later a mysterious $464 Long Island Railroad charge appeared on my debit card, making them the most expensive pair of boots I’ve ever owned. Thanks, shady Amazon seller. After I cancel my debit card, I hope your train crashes.
Regardless, I’ve been looking forward to the boots, as if they were going to solve all my problems. The package arrived yesterday, and I happily signed the etch-a-sketch my UPS guy carried with him. I couldn’t get into the box fast enough! It felt like Christmas, except instead of my parents buying me boots, the government did. (Did I mention I’m unemployed?)
I dumped the peanuts from the box all over my kitchen floor and laid eyes on my new favorite boots. The first thing I noticed was that one looked a little bigger than the other – no matter, so are breasts and they still manage to fit into a bra, right? That’s when I detected the more significant problem. They were both for left feet. Two left-footed boots, two different sizes, one girl standing in her kitchen speechless.
I went through every stage of grief in the hours that followed. At first, there was denial. I stared at them for 10 minutes like I was trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube. Was I high(er than I thought)? I looked away and looked back, looked away, looked back, expecting to see a right boot if I strained my eyes enough.
Then came the guilt. I remembered several of my past regrettable e-bay purchases, all of which took place because I didn’t read the descriptions quite close enough. (I spent $50 on a tester bottle of perfume once – but the image size was HUGE!) Perhaps I’d failed to see an asterisk next to the boots? I returned to the website thinking I might find, “*Both boots are lefts” at the bottom of the page. Then I remembered that no one in the world has two left feet*.
Next came anger. I thought, “Fuck you, Amazon! I’m wearing them tonight anyway.” I put them on and resembled something of an accidental clown. I laughed at myself and managed to move onto that acceptance and hope stage of grief. What a bunch of overrated bullshit that stage is. So I went back to the anger stage, logged onto Amazon, and ordered another pair of fuckin’ boots.
I can’t decide whether I want to shove dollars down his pants or co-host The Grind with him.
I wonder what terrible tattoo the shamrock armband is hiding.
I wish I could’ve been there when he got the bad news on his “Days of Our Lives” audition and needed rent money this bad.
Kids, always remember, when you give up on your dreams, you’re not alone. There are plenty of Halloween costume models who thought they were going to make it one day too. (At this point, I’d consider “making it” getting to model a cop outfit.)
Yesterday Megan Mariah (I can see the similarities already) Barnes crashed her car while attempting to shave her pubic hair behind the wheel. She told officers she was “meeting her boyfriend in Key West and wanted to be ready for the visit.”
And you thought your car was dirty.
I applaud this woman. Anyone who’s confident enough to maneuver a pink lady Bic down there sans shaving cream while multitasking is my kinda lady. I usually get a handheld mirror out and pray for no earthquakes.
The razor burn’s probably not going to be a big hit in jail. Not to mention, she crashed into another car while a razor blade was inches away from her clitoris. Mugshot, shmugshot - I want to see the nether region damages! (No, I don’t.)
Megan’s tombstone should say: Bad driver. Great girlfriend.
The driver Naomi Campbell punched in the face the other day is dropping all charges against her. The dude’s lawyer issued a statement saying his client “overreacted.” There’s no way this incident didn’t happen. The bottom of Naomi’s Wikipedia page reads like the last season of Dexter.
I’ll sum up her Wiki page for you. “Several stitches” are involved in most of the cases against her, and there’s mention of blood spatter when some bitch showed up to a hotel with the same dress she was wearing. That, of course, isn’t even including the housekeepers (yes, plural) she’s maimed with her bejeweled cell phone.
Does anyone else think Governor Paterson had something to do with the charges being dropped? I was hoping Naomi’s Wiki page would tell me she was Paterson’s aide in the “Early Life” section, or I’d find out that Paterson’s eye injury was due an ill-timed piece of plastic ricocheting off Naomi’s assistant’s skull into his retina, but no luck.