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America’s Got Losers.

26 Jun


Long John Silvers needs to stop pretending that Aunt Jemima is back there in the kitchen whipping up homestyle, fresh-from-the-sea seafood like Paula Deen does in her country kitchen. Ex-cons with biker tattoos and black girls named Quaneisha’ are back there dumping frozen fish sticks in the grease vats. It’s fast food. Worse, it’s fast seafood. That’s an oxymoron. Make me a burger in sixty seconds or less—-Alright. Make me fried cod in sixty seconds or less? Food poisoning.

I love that the digital signature pads that you have to sign with the fake pen at the store checkout after you swipe your credit card say, “SIGNATURE APPROVED” after a few moments of “authorization.”  Signature “approved” my ass. You and I both know if I took that pen and drew a picture of a dick on that screen, it would “approve” it. Michael J. Fox could sign that pad in the back of a moving van and it would accept. A two year old Korean boy could scribble his name and that machine would pretend to spend a moment authenticating the signature before affirming that it is “approved.” Get real. “Signature approved” means “Okay, you have enough money for this purchase, we don’t give a shit who you are.”



Just when you think Wheat Thins can’t get any better, they come out with ranch flavored ones. Yum. They make your breath stink like ass, but boy are they fantastic. I ate a half a box of ranch Wheat Thins yesterday for dinner. That was a mistake. I couldn’t stop though. I did not purchase them again at the store in fear of a repeat occurrence. If you have any self control though, I recommend trying them.

I am really tempted to use this dish soap as body wash:

I am not exaggerating. Dawn Hand Renewal with Olay in Pomegranate Splash. This detergent smells good enough to squeeze onto a loofa and lather up in the shower with. Men and women alike would flock toward the intoxicating aroma of Pomegranate Splash wafting from my skin. Really, it would bring all the boys to the yard.


Someone stupid: *sigh*

Someone stupid (five minutes later):  *rolls eyes*

Stop with the stupid status updates, FREAKS!!!!!!!


I have mixed feelings about the television show “America’s Got Talent.”  The talent is a needle in a haystack. I’m tired of watching idiotic jokers waste my viewing time by juggling eggs and singing the Star Spangled Banner poorly. America got over the bad auditions after the first season of American Idol. We got our laughs out back in 2004. Just show me talented people who can move mountains with their voice, and black guys who can dance like Usher. Even with all the invalids riding unicycles and and telling shitty riddles, I feel like they put everyone through. It’s not like the show puts me on edge. Really it just makes me grind my teeth and repeat, “This is so bad. So bad,” over and over again.

Well, let’s do this again some time.


“Sorry, I was thinking about tater tots.”


The hills are alive.

22 Jun

…..with the sound of music.

Sorry. There are really no opportunities to make a clever title with plays on words with “The Voice.”

Ahhh, yes. Last night aired another episode of The Voice. Let’s revisit it, shall we?

The show begins with Carson Daly recapping America’s votes, and encouraging commentary from the coaches on their personal picks from the competition. It is noticeably quiet on the set, and we realize this is because Christina “Boobs Like Niagra” Aguilera has not been piping in with delirious, annoying interruptions between everyone else’s every other word.

Jeff Jenkins gets sent home. The kid has an amazing voice, but he really flopped last week and shot himself in the foot. Sorry Jeff. The Thompson sisters and Curtis (who I keep forgetting exists in this competition in the first place) get sent home to keep practicing karaoke in front of the bathroom mirror. Devon also gets the boot, which I am okay with. Good voice, not as good as Casey and Javier. The show goes on.

Christina is loaded, as usual. Apparently she thought wearing cotton candy on her head instead of hair extensions would be a nice way to change things up this week. They must have had her on sedatives for the beginning of the show, because I did not hear a single peep from her for the first 8 minutes while everyone else was talking. I figured they had duct tape over her mouth, but when her turn came to speak, it was obvious that tape was not necessary. Why use tape when you have a half a bottle of Percocet handy? BOY was she loopy. I half expected to  have the camera cut to her at some point throughout the show to catch her sleeping.

Twice when cued to comment, she stared off into the abyss, eyes drifting with a sleepy smile across her face, and seconds later realizes she had been called on. “—Oh—I’m sorry? What?”  This happens not once, but twice, and dismisses any benefit-of-the-doubt favoring that perhaps she genuinely just didn’t realize she had been addressed.

Frenchie performs a somewhat forgettable version of “Like A Prayer.”  I am not nearly as moved by this performance as I was by “When Love Takes Over.”  This may be because I was distracted by the gaggle of cartwheeling mimes in KKK outfits to notice anything else. Up next is Beverly; it’s a battle of the balds.

Beverly McClellan charges the stage wearing her colonial/vampire cloak, belting out “The Thrill Is Gone.”  Unbelievable, as always. I love everything she does. Every facial expression, movement, note; she has won me over entirely. After she finishes, I wave goodbye to Frenchie. Looks like it’s time to go back to internet porn, Frenchie. Sorry. Pound for pound, Beverly takes the cake.

Dia Frampton has a spectacular performance, yet again, of “Losing My Religion.” This girl has got it all. My girl crush I have on her blossoms even more.

Xenia performs “The Man Who Can’t Be Moved.” Her voice is captivating, moving, and different from anything I’ve ever heard, but good grief, who on that program is going to finally start forcing alcoholic beverages on this girl before she hits the stage? She needs to let loose. I am always distracted by her level of discomfort and fidgeting, although I will give her props for definitely showing improvement in that area. Still, I think a few shots of whiskey would help, not hurt.

Nakia….meh. Still doesn’t get my engine revving. His appearance bothers me too much to care for his singing, which is only okay in my opinion. His mouth is like a weird trap door that shoots spit out of it whenever he moves it.

I change my mind about Vicci Martinez this week. She blows everyone away with a powerful, energetic performance of “Dog Days” by Florence and the Machine. Those drums and that clapping gave me a woody. Okay, Vicci. You win.

Casey Weston delivers a beautiful rendition of “I Will Always Love You.” More importantly, Javier Colon shows the world that his hat is not a permanent, non-negotiable fixture on his head. Spoiler alert: he’s bald. The world decides he looks better with the hat, and he over-sings “Fix You.”

Casey vs. Javier? I choose Casey. Sure, Javier has a great singing voice. My problem with him is that he’s a one trick pony. He’s got his fancy little runs, and that’s all he’s got. Every song he sings sounds exactly the same. He also LOOKS exactly the same every time he sings. Squinty scrunch face during the words, followed by tourette’s twitch head-cock move after each verse, much like a horse twitches when a housefly buzzes around in its ear. It’s annoying. Casey, you’ve got my vote.

After waking up from her Vicodin coma, Christina joins the undeniably sexy Adam Levine on stage for a debut of Maroon 5’s latest hit single “Moves Like Jagger” with a regrettable wardrobe choice. She staggers around on stage in an oversized mom-style nighty t-shirt that says BOYS across the front and does absolutely nothing to compliment her beefy figure. Ugh. Christina. You need help.

My final bracket for The Voice:

Dia Frampton > Xenia

Beverly > Frenchie

Casey Weston > Javier Colon

Vicci Martinez > Nakia

Yes, I would put my money where my mouth is.

Peace out, girlscouts.


“He’s not even alive; he’s running on meth at this point.”

All that glitters is old.

19 Jun

Is glitter really that inspiring of a material that pop singers worldwide feel irresistibly compelled to write songs about it? Are these girls pulling out their credit cards to snort lines of glitter off toilet seats in the bar bathrooms?

I feel like every song Ke$ha has ever released is about glitter. “Glitter and Glamour,”  “Glitter Puke.”  Her lyrics, if you can call them that, say,  “Where they go hardcore, and there’s glitter on the floor,” “Dirt and glitter cover the floor,” “Go insane, go insane, throw some glitter, make it rain.”  Pink is talking about “Glitter in the Air.”

Katy Perry is on board the glitter-train, “Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes now,” Lady Gaga joined the club with “Glitter and Grease”—where does it end?

What happened to singing about love, lust, and loss?

…and rims, bitches, clubs, and cars?

………what happened to singing?

Cee Lo Green is apparently okay with the new glitter movement.


Looks like Christina Aguilera dipped herself in caramel ice cream topping and then rolled in the dirt before this week’s episode of The Voice. My, god. That self-tanning move was a fail. She just can’t quite nail those looks this year it seems. But damnit, can she ever sing.



How much Vicodin is safe/recommended to take at any given time? Christina is exceeding that amount. Just sloppy. Somebody needs to get that woman’s libido under control. Her inappropriate commentary about the contestants is getting out of hand. I think everyone was uncomfortable when she requested Patrick Thomas to remove his pants. Let’s try to stay on topic, Christina. Besides, the only person needing to remove their pants on NBC is Adam Levine.



I am just not on board with Nakia. His voice is okay, but mostly I feel like he is shouting 90% of the time. The man is not attractive. He looks like Sweetums from The Muppets.



Vicci Martinez has this tribal stomping move she does around the stage during every performance. The judges have referred to it as her “war dance,” but I have dubbed it the “squounce.” A squatting-bounce all over the place. It is too distracting for me to even notice her voice.

I love Casey Weston. She is just a doll with great pipes. If Adam Levine does not bed her, they are both passing up a golden opportunity.



Try as they might, physicians and health gurus worldwide cannot inspire fear of skin cancer in me. Ten times out of ten, I will choose bronziness over epidermal health. I am about as afraid of melanoma as I am afraid of the boogie man. Sorry, SPFers. Sunblock higher than SPF 12 will never touch my flesh. 12 is even stretching it. Normally you won’t find me in anything heavier than 4 or 8. I think the best defense against skin cancer is a good attitude, and I’ve got one. I have a theory that anything above an SPF 30 is a hoax. If I wear anything above an SPF 8, I get zero pigmentation whatsoever. Put me in an SPF 50, and I’d probably disappear. It’s going to be hard to convince me that there’s much of a difference between SPF 30 and SPF 100. It’s like, one glass of orange juice gives me 100% of the Vitamin C I need in one day, so drinking five glasses isn’t going to do me any more good than the single glass already did.

Marketing. It’s all marketing.

WELL, I gotta go. The sun had better show its face so that I may even out my polo tan lines today.

Your comrade,



“At least they styled him up a little bit. I mean they did the best they could with his ugly ass.”

“Yeah, he looks like Dom DeLouise.”

Plant matters.

13 Jun

I am obsessed with NBC’s The Voice. My week revolves around my anticipation for and then viewing of each weekly episode. I have a few thoughts.

I hate Raquel Castro. Let me count the ways.

1.  She has midget arms. Raquel Castro holding the microphone reminds me of John McCain on the news.

2.  She can’t sing.

3.  She performed a Ke$ha song for a singing competition. Was this a joke? Ke$ha herself can’t sing, hence why she talks/shouts about glitter on all of her tracks. Terrible choice of “song.”

4.  There’s just something about her nose… It’s a beak. Too bad she can’t sing like a bird. (I get it, I was stretching it with that joke).

Frenchie Davis stole the show. Her performance was flawless. Her pitch and notes were 100% on point. Her voice is strong, smooth, and precise. She rocked it. I can’t stop belting out “WHEN LOVE TAKES OVEEEEER—uhhYEAAAhheeeyeaaah!” every few minutes in the hallway/car/shower. I really need to learn the words so I can sound like less of an idiot.

Beverly McClellan also puts on a magnificent, entertaining performance, and again her singing is on point. She is never pitchy and never out of tune. Looks like the balds are really one-upping everyone this season.

Dia Frampton also makes me happy. What a cute little girl. I think I have a crush on her.

Performance-wise however, I have to give it to Frenchie last week. She got me going. Big love.

Adam Levine is a fox. I want to butter him up and put my tongue on his face. (If he asks anyone if I said that, I’m going to deny it. Unless he’s into it). Also, his team has the best singers on the whole. Blake Shelton is really nice and I like his personality, but he is terrible at song choices and pairing singers together. When everyone else is joining peanut butter with jelly, Shelton is up there pairing chocolate with ranch dressing. He just doesn’t quite get it.

Christina has been getting on my nerves. She is an attention hog, and a hog in general (she’s a porker). My love and appreciation for that powerhouse voice of hers just won’t quit though. I just generally dislike her personality and her butting-in on everyone else’s mic time. Cee Lo is a pleasant, fat black man. He needs to stop starting every critique with, “You know you’re one of my favorites,” though. Not everyone can be a favorite, Cee Lo. You’re watering down your impact every time you say that.

Adam is sexy.

I think I already said that.

I don’t wash my produce before I eat it. It’s a survival technique. I figure if I sample all the low-intensity germs and diseases floating around between the farms, factories, and supermarkets, then I’m giving my body a good workout in strengthening my immune system. You know, giving it small doses of poison to make it stronger. Sort of like how the flu shot works.

Actually I’m too lazy to wash my strawberries and carrots. The other idea sounded good too though.

Adam is hot.

Okay, time to peace out.


Dear sun, we’re already social outcasts. Can’t that be enough? Sincerely, sunburned gingers.

Sugar daddy.

21 May

Sugar:  15 calories per tsp.

Real sugar:  15 calories per tsp.

People need to stop getting a boner over companies whose products are made of “real sugar.” It’s like all of a sudden people think drinking new Pepsi throw-backs is somehow healthy because they boast of using “real sugar.” In case you nimrods were really stupid enough not to realize this on your own, they have always used sugar. It’s just….sugar. Putting the word “real” in front of it does not magically make it “healthy” or “organic” or “better for you.” Same with the word “natural.” If you ask one of these advocates of the “real sugar” soda fans what was in their soda before, they have no idea. I’ll give you a hint: it was sugar.

Real sugar.

Oh, by the way, “high fructose corn syrup” is “sugar.”

Moving on.

I’m not sure what it is about cherries that scream “skank,” but they just do. As soon as I see a Chevy Cavalier with cherry themed seat covers, I automatically know that the driver has S’ed a lot of D’s. Cherries and sleeping around just go hand in hand. Cherry pajamas (a la Deb), cherry air fresheners, cherry themed fuzzy dice—-skanky. It’s just the way it is.


Jared Blake, contestant on NBC’s The Voice, is a walking definition of a poser. It’s like he found the how-to handbook on being a poser and took every step to prepare. Is there a “Nickelback for Dummies” book out there that I don’t know about? Has he not caught wind that everyone hates Nickelback? Nice bicycle chain around your neck, Jared. The other two hanging from your pants serving absolutely no purpose whatsoever are really, really cool too. Look at all the bracelets and rings he is wearing. He has on like four watches. Nobody needs four watches at once. The dude is wearing like 11 rings. He doesn’t even have that many fingers. How many bandanas is enough? Well, during his performance tonight, he had on three. One straight across his bald ass head, one tied around his wrist, and one tied to his pants. The one on the wrist really bothers me, because you know he can’t tie it on by himself. He literally has to go ask for someone to tie it on his arm for him. So lame. Don’t get behind this guy in airport security. He’s wearing more unnecessary metal than a medieval knight.


Keep your pants on,



“What topics can you use for small talk?”

“Ummm…golf! Stock market. Dave Matthews.”

“Yes, what else?”

“Ah, small things—peas, ball-bearings, dimes—“

Hasta la vista, baby.

18 May

Emphasis on the “baby.”

Looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger “jingled all the way” with his former housekeeper. The baby was not only kept, but kept a secret for 10 long years. Of course that was several years ago, so this child is a full blown kindergarten cop by now (the jokes keep coming. I’ll try to stop). I have got to hand it to these two though; most people in Hollywood can’t keep an illegitimate, adulterous pregnancy under wraps long enough to put their pants back on. Ten years was quite a stretch. I wonder why they didn’t just keep their mouths zipped for the long haul. No one would have been the wiser. Except maybe the kid when he started hitting puberty and began to look like this:


I’m sure Victoria’s Secret is just trying to make everyone “feel beautiful,” but the marketing scheme they’ve got going on calling all “bombshells” in our faces on television, spam emails, and monthly magazines is getting out of hand. Most of your customers (and when I say most I mean like….almost all) are not, by definition, “bombshells.” This is a bombshell:

This is the average American woman:

I’m not wrong. Direct these marketing techniques toward the beautiful beings of Brazil. If you’re going to continue targeting women in America, just be honest about it. “Victoria’s Secret….for the beast in you.”

Dr. Oz needs to stop wearing scrubs on his show to try to make himself appear more…doctorish. We get it. Just wear slacks and a polo, Oz. You’re not performing invasive surgery on stage. You aren’t scrubbing your arms with iodine up to your elbows and doing gastric bypass procedures on the television show. You don’t need the costume. You aren’t fooling anyone anymore.  Also, stop holding peoples’ hands for way too long. Has anyone else noticed this? Every person that comes on stage as an audience volunteer gets hand-raped almost the entire time they’re up there. It’s incredibly awkward.

I don’t know how my laptop screen gets so filthy all the time. I do not consciously smear my sticky hands and fingers all over my Macbook after eating Buffalo Wild Wings, but apparently I do. Or someone does. It looks like a 15 year old boy….um….”used” it. Am I allowed to Windex my computer screen? Is this potentially harmful to my precious piece of equipment? I need suggestions. It looks like a bathroom mirror in a dirty Texaco gas station. I can’t go on like this.

Your friend or sworn enemy, depending on who you are,



“Hey Air Marshall John, you wanna go back into the restroom and not rest?”

Seeing double.

17 May

Zooey Deschanel and Katy Perry are identical, biological twins. When is Mythbusters going to go ahead and prove this? I want a DNA test. It’s the biggest conspiracy since JFK’s death. If they’re not twins, they’re clones. Somebody’s hiding something.

Speaking of twins, I would really like to see Jennifer Aniston’s. The gossip news had my hopes up, telling me her rack would be out on display for the world to see in her upcoming movie “Horrible Boss.” Unfortunately E! squashed that rumor and spoiled the fun. How does this woman stay so impossibly sexy all these years? I’d stick it to her.

I hope she reads this.

(She won’t).

Haagen-Dazs has really figured out how to nail their flavors over there at the ice cream factory. It’s like they have an ice cream laboratory where they’re breaking down the science of putting actual desserts into ice cream form, and they’re doing a REALLY fantastic job of it. Recently I have tried the bananas foster, the blueberry crumble, and the spiced peach crumble flavors, and MY god are they ever good. They absolutely put the original desserts to shame. The flavor descriptions they describe on the containers themselves are mouthwatering on their own. They describe the flavors like a fine wine. It gives me a woody just reading about how the ice cream is going to taste before I even get to taste it. Let me give you an idea; let’s use the blueberry crumble:

Simmered ripe blueberries folded into dense blueberry ice cream with rich, buttery cobbler crust crumbles.

Flavor top notes: Bright, ripe blueberries.

Finish notes: Sweet cream, tart fruit, buttery cobbler crust.

I just salivated on my space bar.

It’s more mind-blowing than your taste buds can possibly imagine. You need to experience this elixir of life. Don’t waste any more time. Your tongue will do the macarena in your mouth, and give your molars a lap dance. What I’m trying to say is, Haagen-Dazs is like your mouth on ecstasy.

Do yourself a favor and boost it to the nearest grocery store, STAT. I might go ahead and purchase an extra deep freezer unit so I can stock pile it top to bottom with these delicious, decadent flavors, just in case Haagen-Dazs means business with this “limited edition” stuff. You would be wise to do the same.

My dog went on poop strike for two entire days. This was frustrating because it was raining 80% of the time those two days, and I spent more than 10 minutes at a time on probably 6 or 7 separate occasions standing in the wet, cold down-pouring precipitation waiting for him to stop holding out and drop a deuce. “Surely he has to give in soon,” I thought. “I mean the dog usually poops 3 or 4 times a day. There’s no way he can just quit cold turkey for 48 straight hours,” I rationalized.  He did though. He refused to ‘do the 2’ from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. Hopefully he’s back on schedule, because this rain is not stopping for another 8 days it looks like. I don’t have time for this shit. (That pun was totally intended).

WELL, I’m off to stuff my face with more blueberry crumble. Adios, amigos.



“Don’t be angry just because I bought some kickass donuts.”


9 May

Number of deaths per year in the United States related to:

Smoking cigarettes:  444,000

Obesity:  400,000

Alcohol:  75,000

Automobile accidents:  40,000

Prescription drugs:  26,000

Tanning:  5,700

Lawn mower accidents:  406

Bee stings: 40

Marijuana:  0


Eating our weight seven days a week at China Buffet, smoking a pack of Marlboros daily, and slamming 11 Irish Car Bombs and then driving home are the leading causes of death annually. Smoking pot is about as harmful as reading the newspaper.

For a country and government that advocates abortion based on the slogan, “It’s your body, it’s your right,” it seems more than a little contradictory to disallow the use of a “drug” that not only doesn’t kill, but even harm a single human being every year under the same slogan.

Using tanning beds will Continue reading


17 Feb

I want so many material goods.  I need a million dollars. I want a genie. Or a sugar daddy. I have a friend who once had a real sugar daddy; some old Indian dude that just loved her and gave her money, gifts, and fancy dinners on the reg. Where can I sign up for one of those? Maybe I can search on Craigslist.

Actually, that sounds like a great way to get tortured and killed.

I suddenly have this great desire for shoes and boots of all kinds. I want them all. Will somebody please get me a rad pair of Sperry Topsiders? And maybe some high top sneakers? Also I need some black boots.

People that eat boiled hotdogs need to be punched in the face. It’s so disgusting. The only way to eat a hotdog is to flame broil the crap out of it over a roaring fire until it is hissing with juicy readiness, bubbling and slightly blackening, ready for the pillaging and ketchup-smothering. Eating a boiled hotdog is like eating a raw chicken leg as far as I’m concerned.

It’s not right. It’s gross. It is punishable by death. End scene.

I need to do 800 loads of laundry today. How am I supposed to do that? Someone tell me. I wish I didn’t loathe doing menial tasks so much. For some reason I don’t mind doing other peoples’ dishes, but I despise doing my own. Not that dishes have anything to do with laundry at all. Anyway,

I know all of you have been sweating and biting your nails and having restless nights laying in bed worrying about my damaged teeth, so allow me to update you. The excruciating, vomit-inducing pain subsided after the first day. My jaw is still sore, and my bottom left teeth are still not in ideal shape. One in particular, the pointy 3rd one over, feels…dead, for a lack of better words. I still have to chew my food with a ridiculous overbite to avoid letting Murdered Tooth come in contact with any of my other teeth. I really, really hope I didn’t do any root damage. We’ll see.

Well, time to try to do some work. Peace.



Hi, my name is.

25 Oct

Chicka chicka Slim Shady.

Word on the street is that Chelsea Handler is dating 50 Cent. I’m not sure what to do with this information. Could there be a stranger pairing? I’m not sure even a peanut butter, pickle and ranch dressing sandwich could be more off-putting. Of course this is all rumored speculation, but I still think Chelsea Handler is better off as a single, promiscuous, potty-mouthed alcoholic.

It’s weird to think that celebrities that have nicknames such as 50 Cent get called by their normal names by their significant others/spouses. I mean, it’s not like Chelsea Handler is calling him up for a dinner date and says, “Hey 50, it’s Chelsea.” It’s Curtis. Curtis Jackson. I mean it’s not like Beyonce Knowles is talking to her mom and says things like, “Yeah, Jay-Z and I are going to Miami for the weekend.” Eminem? Do you think his family members call him Slim Shady? Negative. Good ol’ Marshall. “Hey Pink, are you coming to the movie tonight?”

“Stephanie, do you want to go to the urinal with me?”

Lady Gaga’s name is Stephanie. Haha. Just plain old Stephanie. That makes her significantly less diva. I mean, it makes her look even weirder. Now she’s just a girl (supposedly) named Stephanie that wears glasses made of cigarettes and calls people “little monsters.”

…And has a dick.

I wish the grapes I am eating sucked less. I got this giant sack of succulent black seedless grapes yesterday. Little did I know that the gene pool in this particular lineage of Del Monte grapes was contaminated somehow. There are seeds galore in my sack of fruit. Besides that, I keep finding clumps of moldy grapes amongst the vine. I just bought these grapes yesterday. I’m probably going to dump the entire bag in the trash. This makes me angry, because it is literally a two pound bag of grapes. What  a waste. You just can’t win, can you?

I immediately came home today and started rocking out to Christmas tunes again. Trent came home two hours later, fired up the laptop, and started doing the exact same thing. I’m really, really excited for the holidays. Somebody get me a Santa hat. I’m ready to jingle.


“I just organized the pizza boxes to make them look nicer.”