Mariah Carey Promotes Obesity on German Television

Now, I'm not saying Jabba is fat. But when she sits around the house...she sits AROUND the house, you know what I'm sayin' girrrrl? Oh no you ditn't oh yes I did. Pa-shaw! Around the world and back-snap!

Why the Hell do I have a craving for an episode of In Living Color and cottage cheese all of a sudden?

Eau de Yeti

I've recently taken to referring to the Sea Cow (aka fatty, aka whore, aka office kiss-ass) as "the Yeti", because she's been wearing those awful faux-Ugg boots to work. I can understand if you wear them through the snow to actually get to work, but to continue wearing them for eight hours in the company of other people, and when paired with an ankle-length camel color suede skirt, you deserve to be killed in a most heinous way.

After my morning green tea with calcium fortified OJ chaser, I usually have to tinkle like it's my job. So I scurry toward the ladies' room awaiting the momentary bliss that is peeing. Lo and behold, the Yeti is bent over in front of the vanity area fixing her tights (did I mention they're white? AND tights?). I hurry into a stall without making eye contact with her, despite the fact that even if I did, I wouldn't speak to her.

In addition to her sartorial blasphemy, I realize for the first time since entering the room, that the Yeti has participated in yet another blunder. Public pooing! I know men do it. Whenever and wherever; they don't seem to care. I have never been able to let a big brown one plop in public, despite my feces smelling like delicate mountain-fresh flowers, and so I rationalize that any women who does let loose in the bathroom, unless she is ill or has a serious IBS problem, is a disgusting bag of whore.

Case in point, if I could bottle Eau de Yeti and submit it to scientists for testing, they would confirm that it is, in fact, the worst odor on the face of the planet Earth, and I would be given vast sums of money just for being subjected to it.

Friday Night Fever

As I might have mentioned to a few of you, Friday night was a designated "Girl's Night". I've always made it a point to get completely wasted at said event, and this time was no different. I did, however, drink so much on Friday that I barely remember anything towards the end of the evening, save propositioning my other half with sex for a fee, telling him it would be worth it, and subsequently passing out.

I do remember staging a Family Guy musical revival with my partner-in-crime, Ryan. Before I bit him. Which was after I insulted his drink-making skills by calling his pineapple rum/tequila-blackberry cream liquor/Pepsi cocktail "sperm-juice". Which was somewhere in between when he peed his pants and I called my guy to pick me up. It takes me 30 minutes to put on my shoes when I'm drunk. And that's with the help of my only sober friend. But in her defense, after she had one shoe tied, I would take it off.

Anything else I don't remember I've already been told was captured on camera-phone. The joys of modern science.

How You Doin'?

If you've followed this blog for any discernible amount of time, you'll remember that the office across the hall from my company's is full of illiterate, gratuitous soap-using, microwave popcorn-loving freaks. I've never noticed until today that their entire male office staff consists of a special breed of Italian Pygmy Men. None of them stand over the height of 5 feet and they constantly wear shiny "disco" shirts with the first three buttons undone with creepy black chest pubes poking through. Of course, the entire look is completed with greased back "Darth Vader" helmet hair and the three pound gold crucifix necklace.

I must study this new race of mini-men. My article will begin:

"The New England-Italian Pygmy Men are perhaps one of the most under-appreciated races to exist on the North American continent. The timid beings often engage in a complex ritual dance dubbed "The Napoleonic Two-Step" when zeroed in by a predatory and vastly superior male specimen. Unfortunately, this boisterous display only further diminishes the Pygmy's chances of finding a mate, as most females feel that such reactions are indicative of other possible...shortcomings; the race is in danger of becoming extinct."

That's Pulitzer material, right there.

Fun With MSN Search

Did you know if you type in "hire a free hooker", my blog comes up? I'm not sure if this is funny, sad, or funny and sad. But apparently that's how one reader found my site.

And I'm not entirely an expert on this, but don't hookers charge a fee based on the general principal that they are indeed prostitutes? Wouldn't a "free hooker" just be a Catholic school girl (Baddah bing! Thanks, I'll be here all week!)?

Bank of America - The Fourth Reich

The ugly megalo-corporate beast that is B.O.A. has been stealing my money. Three hundred and forty dollars of it, to be exact. You see, when I pay my credit card bill on-line it's like playing Russian Roulette with my finances. Either B.O.A. takes my money (as it should, because I'm actually giving it to them), or they tell me they're going to take it, decide against doing so, and slap me with a "Payment Reversal" fee of $25. Then, because they claim they never got my money, they charge me a late fee of $29.

I decided I'd had enough of it, and called them. Do you know that after going through every single option they have on their automated system (Press 1 for account balance. Press 2 for Spanish. Press 3 for Monkeys. Press 210 for The Holy Father, Himself), they never once mention speaking to a human? So I pressed zero out of frustration (you see, "zero" isn't an option mentioned in the system). It actually worked and a person came on the line.

To make a long story short, Ms. E, my Account Supervisor, is an evil pig licking whore. After trying to teach her the logic behind my theory that if my online account with B.O.A. keeps a record of my bank routing number and account number, and I never have to enter it in manually, and that SOMETIMES it works and SOMETIMES it doesn't and that means it can't possibly be my fault, and subsequently getting nowhere with her really, I asked if the words "Better Business Bureau" meant anything to her.

We left it with my filing a formal complaint. And so help me God, they will get the money they say I owe them when I grow a third breast in the middle of my forehead and prostitute myself to blind, homeless men with a fetish for breast cancer survivors.

Mistress Min

I have trained the New Boy at work to answer all of my questions with "Yes, Mistress Min". It's great unless I'm asking a rhetorical question (e.x., Do I look effing stupid to you?).

New Boy was at my desk trying to open a jar that contains rubber bands using only one hand. After two minutes of struggling, he then placed the jar between his legs and continued to try prying it open one-handed.

Quoth he: "It's hard to grab onto; it keeps slipping down my pants."

I smile wickedly at him.

Quoth I: "I've never had that problem."

He: "Yes, Mistress Min".

Fan Mail

"I cant even express the amount of joy u bring to this hell hole I call work...reading ur blog is my only reason for not jumping out the window"

Why, thank you. Of course, now that I have saved your life, you're going to have to try not to place me on a pedestal. Unless it's a diamond encrusted pedestal. Then it's ok. I also like to be spoon-fed Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche ice cream. And if you're going to become my slave, may I call you Mee-mo? It has a certain ring that is to my liking. What do you mean you didn't ask to be my slave? It'll be fun. We can play Pictionary on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

This Is Me Not Being Surprised

Dear Neighboring Office Worker Who I Sometimes See in The Hallway and Usually Ignore Because You Remind Me Too Much of a Girl I Hated in Junior High School Yes I Realize That's Immature and No I Don't Care:

I can't see how there might be a soap shortage, when at any point someone from your office has been in the lou while I was present, they failed to wash their hands prior to exiting the room.

How can you not wash your hands after you tinkle? Our building is too cheap to stock two-ply, so I'm guessing that unless you grab enough toilet paper to wipe a hippo's coochie, you're going to get some dribble.

If you're not going to wash your hands despite this, at least wash your hands while SOMEONE ELSE IS WATCHING YOU.

You want to invest in something? Buy some Lysol disinfectant spray so I can stop using paper towels to open the bathroom door/stall door/flush the toilet/turn on the faucet.

Also, I'm not above stealing change left out in the open to support my caffeine addiction, so that might not be such a good idea.

P.S. - Dictionary.com. That is all.

Kiss & Blog - My Single Affiliates

Can you imagine me single? I would think it would be somewhat like the dynamic duo of Midwest and Wombat, the creators of Kiss & Blog. Only, more like Midwest. Because...you know...we don't have penises.

Gallery Of "Why"?

First up is Bai Ling. You might not know who she is, because she's not in any movie per se. She had a minor roll in Sky Captain and The World of Tomorrow, but I don't expect any of you to have seen that. And if you have, you still wouldn't know who she was, as she never spoke, and always had goggles and a cape on.

But let's get to the question. Why? More importantly than "why the Hell is she dressed (and I use that term very liberally) like that?" is the question "why the Hell is she allowed into parties?" Here she is at a Sundance Film Festival after party. Do they just look the other way and hope to Christ that she just goes away? Did the party have an S&M theme? And what did her very small boobies do to deserve that punishment?

Why is John Galliano dressed up as a pirate? Why do I have to pay $52 for a candle at Neiman Marcus designed exclusively by said pirate? Why does Mischa Barton seem so proud to be standing next to Pirate John? And why, as a fashion designer who makes more money in an hour than I do in a month, does this pirate think it's OK to not bathe?

Kanye West thinks he's Jesus. At this point, I ask myself: why? Why does Kanye think it's OK to compare himself, the man who bastardized Ray Charles' music for "Gold Digger", to a man who walked on water and cured leprosy? I mean, I really did think he had promise when he went on national television to tell everyone that George Bush hates black people, because it was funny in an unscripted way; it was very early 90's SNL what with Mike Meyers standing right beside him.

Dear Ho-Bag (Part III)

Thank you for bringing a little piece of the red-light district to our apartment building, as I've never personally visited Amsterdam. However, I am curious; are the used condoms cast beside your vehicle in the building parking lot a calling card, of sorts? A new brand of marketing that tells potential clients: "Dirty Hoes Live Here"? Or simply a humanitarian effort on your part to spread gonorrhea: the gift that keeps on giving? Regardless, I appreciate your candor about the situation. If you can't tell the complete strangers living in your building that you're a hooker, who can you tell?

Your understanding neighbor,
-Min

Office Renovations

I must apologize for my infrequent updates this past fortnight. I've been extremely high on toxic fumes coming from office renovations across the hall. I've been a little light headed and I sometimes lose consciousness or start rambling about incoherent memories of childhood Christmas dinners and then it goes downhill from there. What was I saying? Yes...toxic fumes. Imagine, if you will, the odor of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne and Murphy's Oil. Do you even know what Murphy's Oil is?! Can you even tell me how there can be such a combination of smells on this earth?! And to top it all off...the office next door is addicted to microwave popcorn, so the entire smell just gets worse, smelling like something between a movie theatre from Hell and a certain bar I used to frequent in up-state New York with all you can eat Buffalo Wing specials and men with poodle mullets...

It's been a rough week. I need a drink. Or 12. I'll talk to you on Monday. Maybe. If I don't update for awhile, stop by and poke me with a stick, will you?

More Proof That Life Isn't Fair

Pole dancer, Paris Hilton was sued recently by Zeta Graff, who used to date Paris' male-Paris (you know...Latsis) before Paris and Paris got engaged. Then Paris and Paris broke up. Where was I? Oh, yeah...Hilton is being sued for slander and harrassment. During Paris Hilton's deposition, such gems turned up as:

"Hilton testified on the night in question she did have a minor run-in with Graff, the former girlfriend of Hilton's then-boyfriend Paris Latsis. Hilton stated, "I just said to her... she is old and should stay at home with her child instead of being at nightclubs with young people. And just that -- I just - what else did I say? Just that she is not cute at all."

And also: "At one point she blurted out: "I'm so hungry."

Like I was saying - Paris Hilton, wookie-eyed, praying mantis, STD monger = millionare. Min, talented and much more beautiful than Jessica Alba = unpaid blogger. Also poor.

God. Hates. Me.

Britney Bonanza!

We'll start with this one. Sooooooo pretty.

Britney Had A Baby?

I know this will come as a surprise to you, my many loyal fans. Brace yourselves. Britney Spears had...a baby! I mean, I knew she was pregnant, but for nearly three months I had been catching glimpses of the Britster and Cletus out and about, sans Sean. Preston. Whatever his name is. I really thought the whole thing was a sham. A cover story for the real reason why Britney has let herself go. Cute kid.

The New Courtney Love

Admit it. There's a resemblence. I always knew she would turn out like this. All we have to wait for now is for Cletus' "suicide". Although in Courtney's defense...Kurt had, like...money, and stuff.

Nerple Queen Strikes Again

Terrorizing unsuspecting villagers, The Nerple Queen stalks her prey. One can only hope she manages to catch something hanging on a rack at the nearest Victoria Secret, thereby eliminating the phenomenon known in the animal world as "Udders That Make Me Shudder".

Also, I get it. You have a wonderful waxer, Britney. Now cover up your K-hole.

Britney Fat, Can't Get Out Of Car

Just say 'no' to Cheetos. And 'yes' to Proactiv and Divorce Lawyers.

Me So Hungry

Look you guys! It's my new favorite muse! Jabba the Wonder Diva doing her famous impression of a sausage. Or eating a sausage. One of the two. I love the look on Dick Clark's face in picture number two. He's thinking "Oh, man! Can VD be contracted through skin to skin contact? Like osmosis or something?"

Dude Look Like A Lady

Holy. Crap. Does anyone remember when Miss Roxie Hart was adorable? You know, before she looked like she was constantly sipping on vinegar with a raw egg and lemon juice chaser? Her freaking legs are of He-Man proportions! This is what we call circus side-show potential.

New Year's Resolution

My New Year's Resolution is to not have more than three homicidal thoughts about the same person in one day. I found that there is just too much negativity in my life right now. So no more thinking about stuffing a certain co-worker's hideously deformed face into a toilet bowl, defecating on her and then giving her a swirly of death. Damn. Strike one.

Like I was saying, not enough love and harmony in my life. Maybe I'll start meditating. That's it. Nice...calm thoughts...about ripping her hair out in ratty clumps, then smothering her bald head in peanut butter and letting a rabid woodchuck gnaw on her until she becomes just a neck. Shit! Strike two!

Quick! Quick, think about something nice! Nice pretty kitties and cute little puppy dogs...are what she probably eats for breakfast! She must die!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, fuck it. We all know this isn't going to work out. This site is named 'Cynic' for a reason, dammit. My new New Year's Resolution is to eat ice cream. And more chocolate. With pizza. And French fries. I can do that.

Happy New Year

This New Year's Eve, I had the opportunity to spend time skiing in some New England state other than my own that is very cold with lots of snow. But instead, I decided to stay home, eat take-in sushi and drink large quantities of sake, subsequently getting drunk, at which time I may or may not have told the other half I was pregnant, just to see his reaction. Because I'm sadistic and take pleasure in seeing other people cry. Then I say "April Fools" and pass out, somewhere between 11:15 and 11:30. Alas, no Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest for me this year. A shame too, as I was willing to watch Mr. Clark drool on himself in the attempt to smile and Ryan Seacrest finally fess up and join the rainbow community.