VMA's: White vs. Black

No pants? Check!

Ugly beaded frock? Check!

Silk scarf wrapped around microphone a la Steven Tyler? Check!

White patent-leather pumps? Double check!

God, I'm so much hotter than Duff.

M-I-C-K-E-Y! Wait...you know what? I really...have to pee. Oh, God...I don't know if I can hold it...

Well Hello There, Fatty

Now...what's creepier?

a) The fact that her face looks like fat was injected into it with a turkey baster
b) The folds of fatty tissue near her armpit
c) The fact that she has no underwear on
d) Her new double chin
or e) The fact that she makes more money in one day than I do in 5 years

Tough call.

Thanksgiving With The Stars

Ah…Thanksgiving. A time to celebrate family, great food and the ceremonial “unzipping of the pants in front of the tube”. I know I like a good pants unzipping, boy howdy! Since my family is about as normal as you can get (you know, a fist fight with my brother here, a little sloppy-drunken confession there…) I decided to extrapolate how two of my favorite stars spend their holiday, based solely upon conjecture and those really accurate newspaper articles (like, from the UK's The Sun).

The Spears-Federlines:

Britney: “MAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Paaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwww! Jamie Lynn! Break out the Cheetos, y’all! Cletus and the baby and me are staaaaaaaaaaarving. God, I haven’t eaten in like…2 hours.

Cletus: “B, you made me stop at the MacDonald’s down the road 10 minutes ago because you said you needed a little snack.”

Britney: “Oh my gawd, y’all! Do I smell gravy?! Here, Jamie Lynn – take Sean. Preston. Whatever the hell it’s name is. I need some foooooooood!

Jamie Lynn: “Um, sis? Where is the baby?”

Britney: “Wha..? Oh! He’s in his carrying case. See, it’s made of fur, so it’s really like, comforting and womb-like! And when he cries, I just zip the bag closed and that’s that. Plus the papperatsi...popperoatsey? The mean people with cameras can never see him...Oh LORD! Is that Mama’s green bean casserole!?”

The Hiltons

Paris: “Why can’t Baby Luv and Tinkerbell eat at the grown-up table?”

Min: “Because you’re retarded. Now shut the Hell up and eat your God-damned turkey. And so help me God put down that Red Bull or I’ll kick your boney, misshapen little ass. Paris. Paris! Put that monkey bear thing down! It might catch one of your STD's.”

Flappin In The Wind

Two words. Miracle. Bra. Someone please tell this trailer park dwelling rat that no one watnts to see her saucer sized nips. I felt so dirty after looking at these pictures that I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the Clorox and a Brillo Pad and scrubbed my eyes for an hour. I'm blind now. But the physical pain detracts from the mental image of the Nerple Queen. Also I can get a special parking pass at the grocery store now. So I have that going for me.

I Don't Like Your Package

I consider myself to be good at a few things - mostly being sexy and eating chocolate - but I never considered that one might evaluate just how well you brush your teeth. At a Sexy Lingerie conference (and by Sexy Lingerie I mean stuffy marketing conference), I was approached by a hawker marketing the idea of a toothbrush with two heads. The two heads were angled in toward one another and you were supposed to place your teeth between the bristles while you brushed. He told me his product was scientifically proven to be more effective at removing plaque than an "ordinary" toothbrush. After telling me how great his product was and after answering none of my questions about the authenticity of his "data", I told him that his tie was scientifically proven to be more effective in causing nausea than just about anything I could think of. Then I asked for a sample. He told me he didn't have anymore, but I saw a whole box on his table. So I grabbed 10 and ran. Fascist.

I think I finally understand Paris Hilton's problem.

"You need fat to produce your hormones," says Beverly Whipple, professor emeritus at Rutgers University and president of the World Association for Sexology. "Cholesterol is metabolized in the liver, and you get your testosterone and estrogen, which you need for your sex drive."

Because she subsists mainly on a diet of Red Bull and cheese, and therefore very little fat, she has essentially become a hollow shell with a vagina. Which would be kind of like a guy poking a wooden sex doll. With splinters.

In nearly related news: Paris Hilton now owns a monkey? No, really...she does. Which completely makes sense because her pets have always kind of been hideous, right? Tinkerbell. That smelly ferret...Nicole Richie. And now a monkey. That's hot.

Goblet of Disaster

I think Mr. Daniel Radcliff (a.k.a. Harry Potter) is a little upset that the casting for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory didn't go quite his way. Danny...can I call you Danny? You seem to be growing up nicely. You have a clean, square jaw-line and pretty eyes that I'm sure all the boys go crazy for. You need to work on those caterpillars you call eye-brows, but if you promise not to ever wear a knee-length, green velvet overcoat ever again I will let it slide. Just this once.

My Neighbor Digs Billy Idol

I have nothing against Billy Idol. He was a bitchin' musician way back when I was all of 5 years old. I remember singing into my pink My Little Pony hairbrush something about a white wedding, and knowing nothing about what that could possibly mean. But I also made mud pies out of real dirt and ate them on a fairly regular basis. My point is, although I may rock out in my car to 80's tunes now and again, I cannot condone listening to Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face. Ever. And under no circumstances should one play said song 9 times in a row.

I am convinced that my neighbor was sent by God...or Satan, whoever hates me more...with the sole purpose of torturing me until I relinquish my soul. There is no other logical reason, except for the slight chance that my neighbor is either A) a closet transvestite or B) practicing the choreography for her upcoming Color Guard competition. In any case, it is clear to me that she is evil and must be destroyed.

Paris Loves The Police

Everyone's favorite transvestite-wookie-eyed-attention whore, Paris Hilton and Greek boyfriend (No, the new one. He's a shipping heir, too. No, I don't know if Greece's Gross National Product is greasy-haired boyfriends for Paris Hilton) were in a hit-and-run car accident early yesterday morning. Aparently, "hit-and-run" and "driving while intoxicated" don't mean much if you've ever been featured in an amateur, night-vision home sex video.

Hip, Hip! Cooch-ay!

There's something very disconcerting about a doctor talking about Jet Blue Airlines while fiddling around with my "sacred place". Is she trying to make me feel better about inserting a cold, metal clamp to steal cells by idle chit-chat? Because it really just prolongs the whole experience. Especially when she stops what she's doing to use hand gestures with the cotton swab. Humiliation.

My breasts "look fine", she said. I said "thank you". But it was more of a, "thank you?"

Contrary to many male perceptions, having an entire latex-hand up one's birthing canal doesn't feel so good. As my woman-doctor stared between my legs she looked much more like a gypsy reading a crystal ball than an MD. My uterus also "looks good," she said. I asked if she knew how long I would live. She just stared at me, confused.

When I was little the doctor would give me a lollipop as I left. Now I get a birth control prescription. Which is more like a permission slip to have sex. Humiliation.

Vincent Gallo Has Large Ego, Probably Not Much Else

I know, I know...you don't even know who Vincent Gallo is. Suffice to say his greatest accomplishment is getting blown by Chloe Sevigny (yeah...who?) in The Brown Bunny (hand to God, it was a movie. In theaters. O.k., like, two theaters, but that's more than I can say about my movie. Which doesn't even have a cast. Or a script).

Where was I? Oh, right, I'm an unknown, starving artist and Vincent Gallo is selling his sperm for $1 million. Good news if you're black; he won't let you have his baby. Not so good news if you're the direct descendant of a Hitler Youth; you get a $50,000 discount. For the full ad and to read about the approximate size of his junk: http://www.vgmerchandise.com/misc.html.

What little I know about Mr. Gallo (and by little I mean nothing) his ad, if indeed real, is probably flowery socio-political commentary on Nazi abortions. Or something like that. Because Vincent Gallo is an artist man. You just don't understand. What I don't understand is why you would post your own mugshots on the front page of your website. But that's just me. I'm old skool.

My Neighbor Is A Big Fat Whore

If I was to describe the number one reason I dislike my neighbor so much, it wouldn't be the fact that she somehow manages to not do anything noticeably constructive on a daily basis, nor the fact that on no less than 5 separate occassions she has woken me up from a sound sleep by holding loud, thoroughly uninteresting conversations on her cell phone right outside my bedroom window. It probably wouldn't even have anything do to with the very obvious prostitution ring she has set up in her apartment, either. The reason I wouldn't lose any sleep if my A/C unit "accidentally" fell out of my window and maimed her beyond all human recognition is simply because her taste in music is painful. Our apartment walls aren't very thick; if I have to listen to The Cranberries Zombie one more time, someone WILL get hurt.

Dear NYC Women

I don't care WHAT Cosmopolitan said about the return of the Gaucho pant; they lied to you. They are many things, but they are definitely not flattering. When a pair of...pants? Would you call them pants? Regardless, when a pair of ANYthing can make a coked-out 92 lb. super model's hips look fat (not that I'm suggesting that all models snort the white stuff to stay thin, because they do), you know you shouldn't wear them (refer to picture numero uno). But if you insist on wearing them, random stranger, please do not wear them with clogs sans socks. Please do not wear them with clogs with socks. You know what? Just avoid this whole disaster and don't wear them.

Also, random stranger on the 6 train? Taking fashion advice from Mischa Barton miiiiight not be the best way to go (exhibit number two). Oh yes, I noticed you with your ugly jersey-knit-micro-mini-dress OVER your pair of acid-wash TAPERED jeans that you should have thrown out in 1986, at the very latest. I know...I know. Shh, shh...it's OK. We'll get you some help.

Dentist - Round Dos

Ok, ok...so imagine my surprise when I'm sitting in the dentist's chair (you know the one...with the evil mechanical arm holding all of the deadly needles and rat poison?) and I hear the hygienist say "So did you hear that Britney kicked Kevin out?"

At this point, I get that weird feeling I used to get seeing my 2nd grade teacher out in public. Like, you have a life outside of torturing people? Amazing! More amazing, and probably very sad for me, is I just got celebrity gossip from the dental hygienist.

The above pics of Brit and Cletus Mc K-Fed really hold no relevance to the post, except for the fact that I love pointing out how hideous the pair really is. As a side note, the Cletus pictures are of him having his credit card rejected at Blockbuster. Karma's a bitch, huh?

Fun At The Gym

Walking into the locker room at the gym yesterday, I turned the corner to find a naked woman trying with all her might to rid a wet bathing suit from her old, wrinkled body. It's rude to stare, I know, but I had never seen ta-tas reach as precariously close to the floor as hers. While looking on in astonishment, she glanced up to see me staring back at her. I pretended I forgot something and turned around quickly, only to look into a mirror displaying, once again, Sarah McSaggy in all her glory. Needless to say, this traumatic experience is going to take up at least three sessions with my therapist.

Reason #4,987,667 Why Assuming Ugly People Don't Get It On Is The Moral Thing To Do

After watching this clip and throwing up in the waste paper basket conveniently located next to my desk, I have to wonder just what makes someone go on national television to disclose their relationship in the sack.

Their poor, most likely very ugly, children.

I just have to say though, that the look on David Spade's face at the end is absolutely priceless.

Candy Is For Rotten, Dirty Little Children

I had the opportunity of visiting Satan...erm...I mean, my dentist...yesterday. While I was waiting, two little boys walked in behind their father, who looked somewhat like a cadaver, and so at first I naturally thought they were Trick-or-Treating. Until I realized the irony of asking a dentist for candy. Then I realized the irony of sending your children to the dentist on Halloween.

Johnny: "Why can't we dress up like all the other kids and go to stranger's houses to beg for candy that may or may not have razor blades jutting out from them?"

Cadaver Dad: "Because candy is for children who haven't been baptized and if you eat it you'll go to Hell and mommy will hate you."

Blank Slate

My take on Paris Hilton has always been that she is quite mannish - dare I say transvestite like. Therefore, when my friend Puff told me he dressed as the aforementioned, famous-for-no-good-reason whore for Halloween, it didn't surprise me much. Nor did it surprise me that he looked much hotter than Ms. Hilton. But I digress. Per Puff's suggestion, I've decided to start my own blog.

Those of you visiting who previously received my updates via e-mail, welcome to the new format. Those of you who have no idea what I am referring to, I'll be setting up archives shortly so you don't feel left out. In any event, check back regularly for updates.