Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Happy V Day

V as in Vagina. Let's face it, this is a "holiday" created for people either with one, or pretty much looking for one (male mo's excluded from wanting one, while some still might as well have one).

So fellas (female mo's excluded from the designation of 'fella', while some still might as well be one), keep that V happy, and remember: the only true path to what you're looking for is diamonds. Because, in the immortal words of Family Guy, she'll pretty much have to.

Friday, February 09, 2007

Anna Nicole Smith Dead At 39

Former Playmate of the year, Anna Nicole Smith, was allegedly rushed to the hospital suffering from a heart attack and never regained consciousness; an autopsy is scheduled. Her son Daniel died with multiple drugs in his system in September. Anna Nicole is survived by her infant daughter, Daniellyn Hope, who's paternity is still in question.

The shock of this situation reminds me of when Steve Irwin died. You know playing with poisonous snakes or snorting cocaine after breastfeeding your baby is a little dangerous, but for some reason their deaths come as complete surprises.

Update: Witnesses are claiming Anna Nicole choked on her own vomit, after she passed out in the lobby of the hotel she was staying at. There are supposedly photos, but I'm not posting them. Look them up yourselves if you're into that kind of thing. But then I'll tell everyone you're a necrophiliac. Sicko.

MK Olsen Eats The Living


Of course I'm only joking. I doubt she eats anything at all, but if she did...total flesh eating zombie. Are you with me?!

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

This Just In


Terri Hatcher of Desperate Housewives infamy (a show I have not once sat down to watch) claims she doesn't use Botox.


That's like saying I'm not an international spy/supermodel and a tiger in bed. Because I totally am. Rowwrrr, baby!

NYC Fashion Week

Puffins got to go; I didn't. Chloe Sevigny also got to attend, although I'm not quite sure why. Because, as I may have mentioned before, she obviously can't dress herself, and she has no real acting credits to her name. Yet there she is, oily hair and smug smile thinking, "my coat is so bitchin'. I'm so glad I stopped through Connecticut and happened to come across that barn. The horse doesn't need this blanket; it has like...fur. And besides, it totally looks better on me."

Jessica Simpson Is A Mouth Breather

Going out the other night, Jessica Simpson was snapped by photographers at least 100 times, and each time, she looked like the picture to the left. She looks like she should be cheuffered around in a minivan with pillows taped to the passenger window so when she beats her head against it her helmet doesn't cause any damage, but instead she's banging John Mayer in the back of his tourbus. Wait...that's pretty much the same thing.

Monday, February 05, 2007

All Nighter

It's 10:30 p.m. and I'm still at work, working on a presentation due tomorrow morning for a billion dollar project. No pressure.

My left eye is twitching.


I think my temporal lobes are starting to melt.


Forgive me if I just nod...aaaaaaaaadkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkajjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj;;;dsacjsajiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii


...off.

Friday, February 02, 2007

F U, Phil

We live in a magical world in which a meteorologist can base their predictions of weather patterns on a rodent (that, on one day each year, is wrestled out of a cage in front of junior reporters at dawn and expected to divine whether or not six more weeks of winter is in store) and still receive a paycheck.

Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow this morning, heralding an early Spring. Well guess what? It was fucking cloudy today. Phil didn't see his shadow? Well it must be because Spring is on it's way, because no way does the fact that the sun wasn't out have any bearing on the mind-blowing capabilities of a buck-tooth, ground-dwelling rat to let our civilized culture in on the confusing and undocumented secrets that are cold fronts and barometric pressure.


In an ideal world, the local weatherman would leave work in a 1987 Nissan Stanza to go to the Motel 6 he calls home, eat a couple of ham & cheese Hot Pockets, then drown himself in a bottle of cheap whiskey, listening old Willie Nelson tunes and drunk dialing his ex-wife and her precious new husband, Derek.


And Punxsutawney Phil would be some family's dinner in Mississippi.