Britney Channels Demi, Holmes

Britney Spears is featured on the cover of the newest issue of Harper's Bazaar. Naked. And pregnant. Like Demi Moore did over a century ago when it was considered shocking.

All I have to say is Photoshop is good to the girl. And yet the graphic artists at Harper's made her look eerily like Katie Holmes; a step in the right direction for Britney as far as looks go, but I'm not sure it's such a good career choice for the aging pop-tartlet. You know how impressionable she is. One kiss from Madonna on live TV and she threw away thousands of dollars on red strings and mystical Jewish holy water. I couldn't imagine what kind of ride Scientology would take her on.

Ho-Bag Is Gone

It's been quiet on the home front. Too quiet. I haven't heard screaming through my cardboard-thin apartment walls, nor have I seen dirty underwear strewn across my lawn. In fact, I haven't seen Ho-Bag's car in weeks. Yes friends, I'm afraid my favorite neighbor has finally departed. I shall miss her 3 a.m. drunken phone calls beneath my window as much as I will miss the emptying of her car's ashtray next to my front steps.

But lest you think my home life will now be uneventful, I submit to you this photo. Roofers have been patching up our home for the past two weeks. Every night I come home from work, a different piece of trash is in my driveway. Friday night I came home to this. It is obviously two human skeletons; ones you might find in Mr. Brightly's AP Bio class my senior year in high school. But what, pray tell, is it doing in my driveway? I couldn't tell you. In fact, I'd much rather not know why my landlord might have something like this stashed away in his attic.

But I will say that the disappearance of Ho-Bag and the timely surfacing of these photos could be the key to my rent never rising.

Ode To Slinky

As some of you know, two years ago I purchased a baby ferret because I wanted something to love me unconditionally. Something furry and cute. Ferrets are furry and cute. But they also smell something fierce. After I got over my Slinky being perpetually rancid, we became quite close. Such pet names as "Stinky", "Stinkerbell", "Little Bastard", "Get-Over-Here-You-Fucker" and just "Hey You!" were added to my repertoire of friendly jibes while playing with him.

He ate the food I gave him each day, and occasionally left me small gifts in return while he was let out of his cage to recreate. Small gifts in the form of shit on the floor of my bathroom. But I digress.

When I walked through the door to my apartment last night it appeared that Slinky had left me yet another present: he dug a hole right into the saddle (you know, the piece of wood at the threshold of doors) of my front door. This could only mean one thing; he had escaped. But where to? I'll tell you. He went into my living room, climbed up my sofa, onto the coffee table situated next to my open-yet-screened window. He then proceeded to tear open a hole in said screened window.

Apparently the hole in the saddle was ferret speak for "Fuck you, I'm outta' here!" I guess all those times I told him to go play in traffic got to him.

*Update - Slinky was found about three nanoseconds after his Great Escape. He walked right up to my neighbor who then kindly returned him. His cage is triple pad-locked with retinal scanning capabilities.

People From The South Amuse Me

I got a call yesterday afternoon at 4:56 (I remember because I was pissed off that my phone rang just as I was getting ready to leave work, I glanced at the clock, noticed it was 4:56, and continued being pissed off). Against my better judgment, I picked up the phone; the man on the line asked in a strong Southern twang for a co-worker of mine. I explained that a) he had the wrong extension and b) the person he was looking for had left for the day.

Bumpkin: "What time will she be in tomorrow morning?"
Me: "The office opens at 8 a.m."
Bumpkin: "Well I'm in Georgia, so what time would it be here at 8 a.m. there?"
Me: *silence* "You are calling from Georgia, the state, not Georgia the country, right?
Bumpkin: *silence*
Me: "Eight a.m. in Georgia is still 8 a.m. here."
Bumpkin: "Oh, it is? Wonderful! Thanks for your help." *click...and dial tone*
Me: *receiver still to my ear, mouth slightly agape*

It's not often that I'm left speechless...

Peggy Sue. Peggy Sue. Pretty, Pretty, Pretty, Pretty Peggy Sue.

This is Britney Spears on her recent interview with Matt Lauer.

Hee. Freaking. Haw.

Friday Bullets: A Moment Of Zen

• I love casual Fridays. As I sit at my desk, my black stilletos peeking out from the hem of my favorite jeans, eating my free gelato...what's that, you ask? How did I get a free gelato? I may have no penis - and in my company that's a near crime - but I do have breasts. And it just so happens that most men in my company like mine. Coconut. Gelato, that is.
• Mr. "Call me Scott" came in for his interview. He looked all of 17, right down to the pimples, oil-slicked skin and clammy hands. Let it be known that he will not be hired. As entertaining as his e-mails were, he was conversely as unimpressive as they come. I don't even remember how the interview went; I was busy staring at the blemish on the left side of his nose, which I affectionately named "Kent".
• Sweden won their football match last night (yay almost home country!); you didn't see any fans roaming the streets, honking their horns and hanging out of their sunroofs, did you? DID YOU ECUADOR?

The Great Gatsby 2

Dear Min:

I trust you had an enjoyable weekend. There are several factors on my end adding up to the specified date for my interview looking troublesome. I have a prior comittment [sic] for work which is most of the day, and with father's day [sic] weekend being this weekend, my brother is flying up from DC and needs someone to pick him up at the airport....

With that said, if the date we specified is the only day possible, I will try to find a way to make it work!

The other option could always be a phone interview, although I think all parties involved would prefer to avoid that.

-Thinking You'll Sympathize With Me Because After All, Doesn't Everyone Have A Father?

I took this one almost verbatim from the e-mail he sent this morning.

Interviewing Is F-U-N

It's graduation time, and you know what that means! I get to hire college graduates who think they know everything and transform them into malleable little lumps of destroyed ego.

Today's potential recruit is a lad who calls himself F. Scott (Great Gatsby fetish, much?). Since he didn't supply a phone number I e-mailed him, despite the fact that it goes against my moral fiber. Our e-mail conversation went something like this (abbreviated for small attention spans):

Me:

Dear Mr Gatsby:

We received your resume. Would you like to come in for an interview. Let me know.

Thanks,
-Min

Gatsby:

Thank you for this opportunity! I look forward to hearing from you and meeting with you on the date you specified!

Best Regards,
F. Scott

Me:

Thanks for responding to my e-mail. Here is some background info on our firm (Blah, blah, blah). Since you will be traveling for the interview, let me know the best time for you on the date I specified.

Thanks,
-Min

Mr. I Like Exclamation Points:

Thank you for your reply. May I ask if it is Ms. or Mrs. Min?

Best,
-Failing To Come Across As Professional

Me:

"Min" will do just fine. I have scheduled you for 2 p.m. on the specified date. Attached please find directions to our office. Let me know if you are unable to make the interview.

Hoping you get into a car accident on your way here,
-Min

Psycho:

Two p.m. sounds fine. See you then!

-F. Scott (Scott is fine too...)

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, people.

I Thought The Irish Were Friendly

Upon arrival to the Shannon Airport in Ireland, my bodyguard and I made our way to the Europcar counter to pick up the automatic I reserved through Expedia.com; I was excited that they quoted me a mere $180 USD for two weeks. When the old man sitting motioned me to step up to the rental counter, I handed him our reference number. He then proceeded to tell me he had no automatics.

I don't drive manual. It wouldn't seem much sense in ever having an manual with the stop-and-go traffic I deal with on a daily basis. Therefore, I never took the time to learn how to drive stick. Trying to drive manual while also trying to remember to stay on the correct side of the road would be nearly impossible, if not tragic.

The old man, being very unhelpful in trying to accommodate us, looks at my bodyguard and says "Can ye' not drive manual?"

"Yeah, you candyass. Can't you drive manual?" I ask. The Irishman looks at me, unsettled. My New York attitude was emerging, and I couldn't contain it. I thanked him for his lack of help on my first day in his country and went to the Budget counter.

Budget raped me. Five hundred Euros for two weeks. But it was better than taking the bus.

*Picture: Inis Mor, Aran Islands

Here's Lookin' At You, Puff

*Picture: Puffins on Skellig Michael

Fekkin' Deadly

While we were in Ireland we had the opportunity to spend three nights with some truly amazing people. Mariosa and Chrissi are flatmates in the city of Galway; I found them on globalfreeloaders.com, an online community for cheap people like me searching for free places to stay while on vacation.

I lucked out when Mariosa replied to my e-mail. She and her friends run CircuDelic, a kind of kick-ass circus troupe comprised of walking on stilts, juggling, making balloon animals, face painting, skits, lots of things involving fire, and of course music. She and Chrissi were some of the most friendly and inspiring people I've ever met.

We met up with some of M's friends: Anna, a street musician with a mohawk fetish; Eamonn, the only gay Irishman I met on our trip; and Aaron, a bloke from Sligo who just graduated college and described everything to his liking as "fekkin' deadly".

*Left to right: Mariosa, Anna, Chrissi

Old Women Are Smelly, Cause Long Lines In Restrooms

"Let me just use the bathroom really quickly," I say to my companion when we first arrive at Kylemore Abbey.

Fifteen minutes later I emerge from the Toilets with sopping wet hands and a scowl on my face. He didn't ask why it took so long. The title of this post says it all. However, I left out the part that all old Irish women seem to grow beards. Hand to God.

*Picture: Kylemore Abbey

Irish Proverb

There are only two things to worry about.
Either you are well or you are sick.
If you are well, then there is nothing to worry about.
But if you are sick, There are two things to worry about.
Either you will get well or you will die.
If you get well, there is nothing to worry about.
If you die, there are only two things to worry about.
Either you will go to Heaven or Hell.
If you go to Heaven there is nothing to worry about.
But if you go to Hell, you'll be so damned busy shaking hands with friends you won't have time to worry!

*Picture: Cliffs of Moher

Insert Britney Spears Song Pun Here

According to the Sydney Morning Herald, Britney Spears has filed preliminary divorce papers from her grotesquely undertalented and yet still vastly richer than myself husband, Kevin Federline.

About. Fucking. Time.

And yet this doesn't change the fact that Britney is also a talentless hack whose fetus's future fetus will have more money than me despite the fact that I am a genius-nobel-peace-prize-winning-supermodel-PETA-spokeswoman-who-had-to-turn-down-marriage-to-Christian Bale-after-the-first-glance-he-took-of-me-simply-because-I-wanted-to-devote-my-time-and-energy-to-feeding-the-hungry-in-third-world-countries.

Thanks to Mr. W for kicking my ass out of the apathetic fit I was having.