Archive | August, 2005

The Aristocats, er, crats

31 Aug

If you haven’t seen this movie yet, please tell your boss that you’re experiencing intestinal distress* and go out and see it NOW NOW NOW.

If you haven’t heard of “The Aristocrats”, here’s the lowdown: Basically, just about every comedian you’ve ever seen on TV, and some you haven’t, tell the same horribly dirty, not really all that funny, joke. For about an hour and a half. And it’s hysterical. Also educational. Here’s what I learned:

1) Bob Saget? Wicked fucking funny, dude. Also, a dirty, dirty motherfucker who is going straight to hell, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200.

2) Eddie Izzard? Loves the ganj. Also, he is still hysterically funny, I don’t care what you heard in the reviews. He just doesn’t tell jokes, so much, or, if he does, he tells them in French and it takes 20 minutes to set them up. I can’t wait until we become best friends and he gives me makeup tips and lends me his little kimono. It’s going to be fantastic.

3) Gilbert Gottfried? Not annoying, when he has sufficiently annoying material. It’s like this horrible joke was his antimatter, and he cancelled himself out. All of sudden he was hysterical. It makes no sense to me either. Usually, I hate his whole, “Now I will hold you hostage by being horrible until you laugh, so laugh, motherfucker, or it will get worse” kind of humor.

* I used to do this all the time at my first crappy publishing job out of college. My boss thought I had the weakest intestines in the world.**

** People who use footnotes need flogging.

Road Trip!

30 Aug

Just outside of Augusta, we stopped for gas and I spied a sign in the window of the mart: MARLBOROS: STATE MINIMUM.

I turned to Isaac, who was filling up the tank. “Um, I’m going in for a minute.” He nodded OK.

I looked around me wildly, as though up to no good, and dashed across the pavement to the mart. I sidled up to the register.

“Do you have cartons of Camel Lights?” I asked the woman.

She looked at me in amusement. “Of course!”

I plunked down my wallet. “Excellent. I’ll take one.”

“OK, honey. $33.12.”

$33.12! I snatched up the carton before she could change her mind and dashed out to the lot, holding it over my head like a prize.

“33.12, bitches!” I announced to Isaac and Cathy. “I’m RICH!”

“Yeah, prison rich,” Isaac said.

“Dude, no kidding. I am holding, in my hand, the equivilant of…” I did the math. “ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY DOLLARS WORTH OF CIGARETTES.”*

Isaac just shook his head.

“When I get back to New York? I’m trading these for a bitch.”

* The joke here is that I cannot do math. It’s funny, see?

20 Questions

29 Aug

I spent the weekend in Maine, pretending to be outdoorsy. I think I fooled everyone. OK, not really. It’s pretty hard to fool your friends from high school about much of anything.

A longer, more detailed version of our adventures is forthcoming, as soon as I wade through the work I missed on Friday. However, here is a conversation from the car ride up, to tide you over:

CATHY: Let’s play a game!

ME: Erg.

CATHY: Let’s play a game!

ME: What game?

CATHY: Twenty questions!

ME: Erg. Cathy, I hate games.

OK, I’ve got one. Ask me a question.

ME: Is it bigger than a breadbox?

CATHY: That cannot be your first question.

ME: Why … oh wait. I remember. OK. Um. Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?

CATHY: Animal.

ME: Is it a giraffe?

CATHY: You suck at this game. I hate playing games with you.

Listen Up, Non-Gay Men of America:

25 Aug

It’s probably time to stop acting gay:

The male resistance to waxing is melting away

Straight men should not obsess over their body hair. This is not to say that they should cease grooming. I understand that just about everyone has some hair where they don’t want it to be. Absolutely, keep yourself groomed. I’m all in favor. However, when an entire industry forms around your back hair, that’s where I have to get off the bus, fellas.

The Fix

24 Aug

You guys, my company has it in for me, and here’s how I know: Every single time I try to make a date, they plan an event involving drinks right before it. I have to think my managers’ puckish senses of humor are involved in this somehow. Last time, I turned up for my date about 2.5 sheets to the wind and 15 minutes late. So, so classy.

Anyway, I am going out this evening after work to wish a coworker goodbye and I am going to have one drink. Are you listening? ONE DRINK.

Sigh. I don’t believe me, either. The date’s with a musician, though, so that should be fine, right? Musicians love drunk girls.

Won’t You Be

23 Aug

Wow, my neighbor really needs to move back to Des Moines or whatever, like, yesterday. She woke me up at 3:00 this morning because my stereo was too loud. Now, I like to listen to music while I fall asleep, but I’m pretty good about keeping the volume down. As a result, I had the volume down so low that it was probably on par with, say, a conversation in a normal tone of voice. Also, my building is elevendy-hundred years old and has old-school two-foot-thick walls.

I should have known this would be a problem when I met her and she complained that the club downstairs is too loud … on Saturday nights. Dude. Why are you in New York? Seriously. Personally, I am not paying this much money for the peace and quiet, I’ll tell you that.

Anyway, I shut my stereo off and no big deal. However, I’ll probably say something to her the next time her poor tortured dog (big dogs + small spaces = not good) starts crying or she leaves her TV on for sixteen days straight at top volume.

I Am Horribly Vain

23 Aug

Again, I am blogging in order to move my picture down the page, and for no other reason. Really, one should not feature two pictures of oneself above the fold on one’s personal website. It looks, er, well exactly like what it is: Which is horribly, horribly vain.

Speaking of vain, I had a very interesting conversation the other night in which I admitted to a friend that I believe, on some level, that just about every man I know would like to sleep with me. Which is not to say that I believe he intends to. No, no. Many of these guys are pals of mine, and their desire to sleep with me is, in my opinion, healthily submerged and nearly subconscious, at this point. Also, I should hasten to add, it has nothing to do with my alleged hotness, and everything to do, you know, guys.

I’m OK with this, though. I enjoy this aspect of the male personality, as I frankly enjoy most aspects of the male personality. My pal JP informed me the other day, somewhat gravely, that I really like dudes. I had a wicked (hi, Boston!) urge to tell her that I have known this, ever since I was a little girl, and not to judge me.

Dolly Parton Is My Homegirl

21 Aug

My friend Sean just went to Berlin to play jazz and drink beer in 200 year old pubs with handsome blonde women named Uta. Sort of makes your life look like a stack of crap, huh? That’s what I thought, too.

On the other hand, I went to see Dolly Parton at Radio City Music Hall on Thursday night. Smyres took a picture of me in front of the marquee.

It’s also worth noting that there used to be a woman’s ass in this picture. She was crossing the street when Smyres snapped the photo.

“No worries, Fatsuit,” Smyres said. “I’ma photoshop her ass right on outta there.” And she did.

Smyres is teaching me to like country music. I think she’s done too good a job, maybe. I’m pretty sure my next-door neighbor would agree with that, poor thing. It’s like a 24-hour-a-day chain gang and cotton-picking session over here these days. If I don’t blog for awhile, you’ll know it’s cuz I’m playing the washboard.

Dolly P is my new hero, however. She plays about 900 instruments and she’s cute as a button and she works the ginormo boobs like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Also, I love someone who can attack themselves with a bedazzler and look normal. She’s not human, our Dolly. She was given to us by the la-ord-uh, and all we can do is be grateful.

She played “Jolene”, which made several Dolly Lookalike drag queens in the audience weep, and “Me and Bobby McGee”, which made me weep, and “Nine to Five”, which made Smyres punch me repeatedly in the shoulder from sheer joy.

Also, something disturbing happened. A mother and son, definitely foreign, perhaps alien altogether, started making out with each other in the seats in front of us. The boy was about 13 years old and fat and had a bowl-cut and wore a t-shirt that said, I kid you not, “No Fat Chicks.” The mother was small and skinny and looked like a librarian. They started out with their arms around each other in a way that a New Englander like myself might find a little disturbing, and wound up kissing each other loudly on the face whenever the show hit a highlight.

At one point, Smyres leaned over to me and said, “I am going to call the police,” and I have to tell you that I didn’t think it was a bad idea, really.

Later on, I ran into them again at the t-shirt stand while I was buying my unironic Dolly Parton baseball tee, and they were still fondling each other, only this time, I could hear that the mother had an accent, so I decided that maybe it’s OK to fondle your son in Denmark, and I tried to brush it off.

I showed Smyres my shirt and she informed me that it will pay for itself in free drinks. I will let you know how that goes. I killed two drinking companions this weekend, and not for snoring. Part of this is because I generally stick to beer, and I’m good at drinking beer, and part of it is because I never ever want to go home and go to sleep, even when it’s obviously what I should do. Especially then.

A Brief Note on the Whole Beauty Thing…

20 Aug

…and then I’ll stop being a girl.

I had a boyfriend once who told me, lovingly, “You’re not classically beautiful. But I find you quite attractive!” I broke up with him about two weeks later.

The whole beautiful thing is very hard on us girls, but you know that, so I won’t bore you with yet another litany of our hardships. I’ll just say this: The cure for worrying about this shit is moving to New York. There are so many ridiculously beautiful people of both (perhaps I should say “all”) genders here, that you’re never going to compete. After about three weeks of freaking out about my clothes and my hair and my lack of accessories, I decided to just paint my toenails and let it go.

The end result of this is that I’ve become a lot more confident. Mrs P has always said that I dress like an anime superhero, what with my t-shirts and short skirts and sturdy sneakers and crazy hair and bright colors, and she’s right. So I’m just embracing it. If anyone can tell me where I could get some bullet-proof cuffs or perhaps a Lasso of Truth, I’d be most grateful.

(A note to comicbook nerds: Yes, I know Wonder Woman isn’t anime. Calm down. This is why you’re finding it so hard to meet girls.)

Death by Diet Coke

19 Aug

It would take 188.07 cans of Diet Coke to kill me. The good news is that I’ve only had 183.25 cans so far today.

Death by Caffiene:


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