Paris Mantis Struts Her Tranny Stuff

What up, bitches?! It's me, your favorite wookie-eyed tranny! In ski goggles! And yellow pants that actually have the ability to make my malnourished, Red Bull fueled corpse look fat and show off a raging case of camel toe!

But seriously you guys, I'm here for the message. 2 B Free wants its fans to know that they have the freedom to wear clothing. And not just any clothing, because some clothing isn't as hot as other clothing. And then sometimes when I'm hot I don't like wearing any clothing, but not "hot" as in "oh my God, Nicole, those ski goggles look hot on you", but more like, "oh my God, Nicole, it's so hot outside that if I wear clothing I'm going to start sweating and it will majorly start streaking my Mystic Tan".

Umm...what was I saying?

I wonder if Baby Luv will think my hair is trying to attack him and he'll bite me again...

Bag-Lady Olsen

What is up with this chick? Why does she think the "street-walking crack-whore" look is in?

Ohhh, but you are a sneeky one, aren't you? Grocery shopping, MK? You nearly had me believe you were planning on eating food. Well played. Well played, indeed.

Mardi Gras Is Everyday

I returned from New Orleans on Sunday after a three day conference in the drunken city. Seriously, it's one gigantic bar. People wake up, go to Cafe du Monde to get a few beignets, then head to a bar for a bloody mary. And once it's 11:30 am, they switch to beer. This continues until about the time they pass out in Jackson Square, only to be roused by the gypsies or any of the busking musicians.

I stayed at the W Hotel on Poydras, which was probably very nice when it first opened. However, by now its walls are scuffed, its air stale, and not even the mini bar (complete with "Intimacy Kit For 2") or our neighbor who blasted the porn channel at 3 a.m. could make me smile. The W Hotel claims the tagline "Whatever, Whenever". I would like to change that to "Whatever, Whenever...we get around to it".

Apart from the slowness of the city, the people are generally friendly and mostly toothless. The creole people - the real ones - are some of the most gorgeous people I've ever seen in my life. It must be that Haitian and French DNA meld perfectly together.

Being a relatively small city with a surprising amount of stuff to do, I've compiled a list of to do's for the wary traveler heading to New Orleans:

• Do go to Canal Street and find the mall because you forget to pack hosiery for your morning meeting.
• Do NOT ask the Saks Fifth Avenue saleswoman where the hosiery is located; it's pantyhose.
• Do expect to find meat in all food prepared in or near New Orleans.
• Do let the waiter know you are a vegetarian and would like the meat left out of the entree.
• Do expect the meat-free entree you requested to come back with shrimp.
• Do NOT expect the waiter to care that your request for no meat was disregarded.
• Do NOT expect a discounted meal after seeing a cockroach skitter across your table, nor after your entree was sent back to the kitchen only to wait over a half hour before it finally gets to you, sans meat (Rotolo's Ristorante on Decature).
• Do go on the Haunted City Tour (and request Ernie as your guide).
• Do get your palm read by Lola in Jackson Square. She's scarily accurate.
• Do buy a can of coffee with chickory from Cafe du Monde to bring back to your co-workers so they think you care about them.
• Do check that said coffee is Regular, and not Decaf before you land at LaGuardia.

I did have an overall great time in the city, but I think it's a once-in-a-lifetime trek. I am too used to the pace of New York to be completely comfortable with the South.

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.

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?!

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.

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.

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.

Another Bush For President

There's an old saying that if women ran the world, everything would be color coordinated. I could live with that.

S.O.C. (Save Our Cynic)

Insanely busy at work *stop* Send caffeine reinforcements *stop*

Cynic Is Unfunny

As I said in the post below, I have a raging case of cyclical apathy going on right now. It's partly to do with hating my job, hating our Puppet President and mostly to do with just hating America in general. Before I get shouts of "If you don't like it, then leave...nee ner, nee ner", let me point out that I think every idea this country was founded on kicks ass (you know, besides the whole "only white men can own property" thing). Way to stick it to an oppressive country, Revolutionaries!

I hate America because it has turned into the exact thing the people who started this country ran away from. I fucking hate ignorant Americans with their "God Bless America" stickers littering their gas guzzling SUV's and country songs written by some hick describing how we're going to put our boots up those injuns' asses! Oh...sorry, wrong era.

So terrific job American government, for adding 21,000 more young men with families, or young men too young to have yet made families, to the front lines of Baghdad. Terrific job Democrats, for taking majority control of Congress and doing absolutely nothing to change the course of this money/oil pyramid scheme you've set up in the middle of a holy civil war.

And the blame goes deeper still to the people of this country. You. Me. Because you may not have voted for "them", but we still do nothing but turn our heads the other way while a mother somewhere in the Middle East huddles in the corner of her own kitchen, clutching her children, while US soldiers with semi-automatics slither through her home. We fleetingly feel empathy for the US Marine being shot at by an unseen foe...and then we go fill up our SUV's.

So realizing that I'm part of the problem that seems almost impossible to fix, I go to a job I hate, grow apart from the people I once enjoyed the company of and slowly stop caring.

I'm Not Dead, But Mary Kate Looks Like She Might Be Soon

So per usual form, it takes an outside power to jolt me out of my apathetic slumber and back into the world of blogging. Our Savior this time comes in the form of Brotha' Kuya. And so I devote this update to him.

MK Olsen, henceforth referred to as "Shiny Cadaver Bag Lady", needs to gain a few pounds. She can have some of mine - it's part of my ongoing effort to create good Karma. The ultimate goal is world peace, helping out one undeserving gossip-column-fodder starlet at a time.

Luv luve,

-Cynic

From Me To You

Sometimes I get those 5-page letters disguised as holiday cards from distant family members (and sometimes even from distant family members of good friends) that outline everything that happened to them in the year since I last received a 5-page letter detailing everything that happened the year prior.

The letters always include a picture of Little Johnny finally using the potty or Granny Wilma at the convalescent home smiling, with a bowl of green Jell-O in her little, arthritic hands.

So this year, I decided to write my own “Catching Up” note to the people I don’t care to contact on a regular basis and let them know how I’m doing:

Wow! What a year! After a serious yeast infection put me out of work for nearly three weeks, my boss decided my position would be better filled by Lisa, a 23 year old recent graduate of “Imawhore U”. But the people at the shelter have been extremely nice to me since my house and car were repossessed after failing to make the payments; Unemployment just doesn’t pay as much as I thought they would. You would think that after paying into the system for nearly 30 years that they would throw me a F&*#^% bone…but anyway.

Uncle Jaime finally got out of prison and we were all at the gates to greet him. Unfortunately, he called the warden a “greasy son of a goat humper” and was promptly back in front of a judge for harassment. Such a card, that Uncle Jaime!

My niece, Cassandra, gave birth to her 4th child on July 19th. We’re still waiting on the paternity test, but we’re pretty sure this one is actually her husband’s.

I hope everyone has a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Also, to my sister, Betsy, who married a Jew three years ago and now has two children and a warm house to go home to with a two-bay garage and a golden retriever named “Buddy” and who is too good to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus – Happy Hanukkah.

Love,

Min

Moral Obligation? I Don't Know What You Mean.

One of the few perks as the Marketing Director of my firm is that usually around "The Holidays" I get thank-yous from clients and businesses who have gained our business through my efforts.

Sometimes the thank-yous are in gift form. This sweeps me into a dilemma: Do I keep the gift for myself (seeing as though it's clearly addressed to me) or do I give it to the Boss because the only reason these people are sending gifts this-a way is because I purchased something from them using the Boss' money?

*Half of the participants I interviewed for my non-scientific poll indicated that keeping the gift would almost be like stealing.

The other half reminded me that I only got a $100 gift certificate to a steak house restaurant after my planning of a $40,000 conference exhibit in Honolulu, HI.

I simply have no soul, so no side is particularly more correct to me in this matter.

*It is important to note that the first half of the participants in this poorly researched study was my left shoe. The other half was my half-eaten bowl of vegetarian udon noodles, which, other than being very tasty, might not really be the best judge of morality.

Jolie Buys Beautiful Children

Oh. My. God. Can this family be any more perfect? But the little white one they created the homemade way seriously screwed my chances of being adopted by Pitt & Jolie. Who needs two blonde, pouty lipped angels?

Welcome Back, Jabba

I was just thinking the other day: "God...you know what this site needs (besides corporate funding)? More Mariah."

And so feast your eyes on the Amazonian hissy-fit-thrower in her signature ugly clothing.

You know I spoil you.

Crash And Burn

As part of a not-so-blind item in Page Six, it was suggested that La Lohan cuts her cocaine with strawberry Quik. What an f'ed up loser; Everyone knows strawberry Quik tastes better in milk.

Page Six also goes on to insinuate that Britney and Paris are going through an experimental phase with one another. All I'm saying is if Britney winds up pregnant again, you only have to go so far as the nearest kinkajou for a paternity test.