Monday, September 26, 2005

What would YOU do?

Dear Reader,
Please consider the following item from the Dover Post:

Now, pretend you were me. Pretend you were a hopeless smartass with her own blog, a known duty to read the stupid local papers, and six or seven loyal readers who are just itching for you to be a heartless bitch. Pretend you are at work on a very slow Monday, and you come across this particular little photo and caption. What would you do?

Would you comment on the entity of Child Beauty-Pageantry as a whole? Would you make the obvious Jon Benet references? Would you predict dim futures for little Abigail and Shelby, destined to become nail technicians/school bus drivers/women of ill repute?

Would you make note of Crystal's fascinating hair? Would the combination of waist-length locks and highly en-product'd bangs capture your attention? Would you not even bother, since her name is Crystal and her hairstyle, therefore, is inevitable?

Or would you pay attention to the teenage-mother/daughter aspect of the whole thing? Would it be in poor taste to suggest that you couldn't get more rednecky than a beauty pageant dually won by a 19-year-old with mall hair and her eight-month-old daughter wearing a tiara?

Or would you just skip the whole thing, because you're better than that?

What would you do?

Thursday, September 22, 2005

You make me beleeeeeeve in love again

So, VH1 has announced the new Surreal Life lineup, and it's a doozy. Doozy as in, phenomenally disappointing. I mean, I pride myself on knowing fairly obscure pop-culture references, the kind that make my friends praise me to my face for my bizarre knowledge and then say later to each other, with a tinge of sadness, "man, Nina really needs to get a life," but I have no idea who at least two of these people are.

La list:

  1. CC Deville, of Poison (I may have been into Poison in 7th grade, but unless you have access to my mom's attic, you can't prove it)
  2. Tawny Kitean, of rolling-around-on-a-Jaguar-in-a-Whitesnake-video-20-years-ago fame
  3. Sherman Hemsley, of The Jeffersons fame
  4. Steve Harwell, of Smashmouth. Yup.
  5. Andrea Lowell, of Playboy TV (you know, I do not get this channel, but based on my shameful fascination with E!'s The Girls Next Door, I'd totally watch it if I did)
  6. Alexis Arquette, drag performer and brother of Patricia, Rosanna and David
  7. and, serving as the cast's "full-time and on-call therapist/advisor" (I shit you not): Florence Henderson

So, as at least half the people reading this blog know, I have been a fan of the Surreal Life ever since that day, oh so many years ago, when my friends and I happened upon the first season and fell in love. We got together every week to watch it. We taped it when we couldn't assemble. We wasted hours discussing just what, exactly, was wrong with Corey Feldman.

Corey Feldman carried the Surreal Life from episode to episode with a signature mixture of Fucked-Up and Annoying-yet-Earnest Manchild Desperation. He railed against eating meat from atop his leather shoes. He took a half-hour dump in Vegas while the rest of the cast waited for him in the Surreal Life Van. He cried when Andrea from 90210 wouldn't listen to him. He asked his young, kinky girlfriend and her fake boobs to marry him on the air, and then, dressed like Louis XIV, he wed his child bride, weeping all the way to the chupa. He was perfection, and it was a magical time.

And then, we watched the second season, and although no one could hold a candle to Corey, the combination of Tammy Faye's mascara-clad sweetness, Vanilla Ice's crazy asshole antics and Trishelle's pitiful boozing was somewhat sustaining.

But it all kind of fell apart for us in the third season. Despite inspiring the bigwigs at VH1 to create a spinoff based on their beautiful relationship, Brigitte and Flava Flav were just icky, not interesting. It did result in a viewing of Red Sonja, which in turn resulted in the creation of The Red Sonja, (a drink consisting of grenadine, vodka, and the venereal disease of your choice), but that was pretty much it.

I watched scattered episodes of the fourth season alone, not too drawn in, but it had its moments, mostly involving that pill-popping tranny who used to wrestle. And the current season, the fifth, has recently grabbed my attention only because Balki is a fucking mess, and I love it.

But yeah, I guess the sixth season awaits. We shall see.

Friday, September 16, 2005

hope springs eternal

So, just when I was wallowing in disappointment over the fact that everyone's favorite Epitome of a Downward Spiral, Britney S. Federline, had gone and named her baby something normal, (Preston, in case you've been living under a rock, or, alternately, just don't give a shit about the "news"), there appears to be some confusion about what, exactly, the little rehabber-of-the-future's name actually is.

Although none of the suspected names being thrown around are too exciting, (Sean, Michael, Christian -- what would the Kabbalists say?!), it still opens up the possibility that she did, in fact, hear my cries and name the little sucker something so fabulously awful and celebritastic as to sustain me for at least another day.

Here is what I pray to the God of My Choice for:

  • Peanut Joseph (Spears Federline)
  • Durwood Monkeybar (Spears Federline)
  • Marlboro (Spears Federline)
  • Marlboro Ultra (Spears Federline)
  • The Spirit of Love (Spears Federline)
  • Larry (Spears Federline)

Or, maybe it's really a girl and they went with Britney Junior.

But what I really hope for is that she followed the example of her parents, (who are named Jamie and Lynn and named their younger daughter Jamie-Lynn [can you hear the banjo?]), and named the wee one Kritney.

Oh please Oh please Oh please.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Enough already!

I've had it with the Big Bad Media Monster painting an unfair picture of my man.

First, there were these photos from a Hurricane Katrina benefit concert...

...which are insanely unfair. I mean, it's like when they snap a picture of Tara Reid in mid-blink and claim that she's drunk; they so did not have to take Colin's photo only at the exact second when he happened to be shirtless and smoking or shirtless and drinking. That is not how he spent most of the night. Believe me.

And then today, this little item ran in Page Six:

It's not often you see a hitchhiker in tony Palm Beach -- especially a famous one. But hard-partying actor Colin Farrell was spotted stumbling backward on the side of the road with his thumb stuck out, reports The Post's Braden Keil. "We couldn't believe it was him," said our eagle-eyed female spy, who drove by, then picked up the "Alexander" star in the wee hours. "He looked really wasted." Our source and her male acquaintance drove Farrell to the Breakers -- the plush hotel where the lusty leprechaun was registered as Irish literary icon James Joyce. Farrell invited the two up to his room. They declined.

For the love of God, will this reckless persecution never end?! If only these "journalists" would take a moment to do some actual investigating, they'd find out what really happened, which is that Colin had actually spent the day reading to underprivileged children, building a nondenominational church that would minister to the homeless, and performing open-heart surgery. Therefore, he was tired, not "wasted." And he hitched a ride because he cares about the environment enough to carpool. And he invited them up to his room for Bible study. And they declined because they're godless heathen bitches.

And you're just jealous.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

um, could you lend me, like, 4 million dollars? you know I'm good for it

Jon Stewart's old apartment is for sale.

Despite the fact that this is the Den of Sin where he shacked up with his fake wife and not me, I'd still pay to smell the walls.

Stupid restraining order.

I give up

From Page Six:

Some survivors of Hurricane Katrina might end up eligible for the best-dressed list, thanks to the designer duds that couture-conscious New Yorkers are donating to the relief effort.

Jay-Z and Sean "Diddy" Combs are not only giving the Red Cross a $1 million joint donation, but both have pledged large donations of clothes from their respective Roc-A-Wear and Sean John lines.

"I can hear the cries of the people in the regions affected by Hurricane Katrina and will do whatever I can to help," Combs said in a statement to PAGE SIX yesterday.

First, let me just say that I have no problem with Jay-Z, except for being a bit disturbed by his uncanny resemblance to a turtle...well, a pimp turtle.

But will Diddy's Reign of Bullshit never end?

Don't you think there are just certain celebrities who, via a precise blend of pointlessness, obnoxiousness, and self-importance just kind of assault you with their very presence in the world? Like Paris, of course, and Trishelle, and the entire British Royal Family?

And Poofy up there?

Like, when these people show up on your television, you actually feel like your home's been invaded? And your eyes hurt? And you feel a pang of emptiness inside?

I'm seriously exhausted by it. I just can't fight anymore. I was going to declare war on The Didd, I really was. Through means so deviously subtle and covert, I was going to gradually destroy him, until he found himself holed-up in a run-down mansion with the shades drawn, reduced to a quivering man-child, utterly devastated by the realization that he was, in fact, the World's Biggest Fuckwad.

But I've given up on that dream. I have resigned myself to the fact that I just can't fight the Machine.

I am vanquished.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

God Said Gurgle

Sometimes, things seem hopelessly dark. The nation is in turmoil. Not even the sight of Mr. Sanctimonious himself, Sean Penn, bailing water out of his boat with a plastic cup while his personal photographer looks on, can cheer you up.

And then you have to go to work, and before 10:00 even rolls around, some barely coherent man yells at you on the phone because "I send dat fax long time ago! Why you not have?! This big problem!"

And then you have a veritable mountain of stupid local papers to slog through. And there you sit, dirtying your fingers on the wasted newsprint of stories such as "Proposed Mega-Store Angers Locals" and "Benson's Barber Shop Moves to New Location," and you are despairing, oh Lord, how you despair.

But lo, you shall come upon the Birth Announcements, and God Herself shall place Her celestial hand upon your frizzy head, and She shall bestow upon you a small token of undeniable glee, and a reminder of Her Divine Sense of Humor:

And so together we say, Amen.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

a moment of levity

I haven't had much to say that's funny recently, given what's going on down south, (and, incidentally, if you haven't donated money to the Red Cross or a similar organization yet, there's a special place in Hell reserved for you), but I did come across this on MSN Entertainment, and simply had to share:

Don’t ask Juliette Lewis any “stupid” questions about her former drug addiction. One fan did and faced her wrath. “Now you have kicked your drug addiction, what do you spend your cash on?” someone asked her in an online chat. “What a stupid question! I did have a drug addiction 10 years ago, but it was never a cocaine addiction so it doesn’t follow that I necessarily spent loads of money on it,” Lewis shot back. “I did do drugs, but cocaine was just not the drug of choice. And anyway, I’m only really little so I actually didn’t consume that many drugs. I never needed much so it was quite a cheap habit! Drug addiction costs much more in how it corrupts the soul than in how it corrupted my bank account."

So just remember Kids, as long as you're petite and stick to huffing paint, you'll be A-Okay.

You know, I think Juliette Lewis is shaping up to be my new Favorite Person to Make Fun Of. It was looking like Tara Reid for a while, but after watching half an episode of Taradise, I actually kind of feel sorry for her, and I really would like to try and help her. Maybe, just maybe, if I sat her down and had a good, stern talk with her, she'd start to turn it around. All that girl really needs is some AA, a decent wardrobe, and a court-ordered declaration to stay 50 feet away from Paris Hilton at all times. Oh, and to quit the entertainment industry and get a job answering phones at a collection agency, like she was born to do.

Juliette Lewis, on the other hand, is just completely batshit, and without a substance abuse problem to cloud the issue, that's just entertaining as hell. Besides, she's now in a band called Juliette and The Licks, who, according to what I've read, are deliciously horrible. And her stage wardrobe and antics produce beautiful photos such as this:

Plus, she's a Scientologist.

So thank you, Juliette Lewis. Thank you for being a bright ray of hilarious, delusional Hollywood sunshine in an otherwise very dark time. You are a great American.