The Aristocats, er, crats

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!

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

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:

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

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

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

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.