All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.

I was reflecting upon my childhood diet the other day. This is all I ate from ages 6 until 11:

• Cherry Pop-Tarts
• Fruit by the Foot
• Fruit Roll-Ups
• Spaghettios
• Cinnamon Toast Crunch
• Count Chocula
• Miracle Whip on white bread (it’s true)
• Kraft macaroni and cheese
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No wonder kids lose all their teeth. It’s not to make room for new permanent teeth, it’s because our diet is made completely up of sugar, salt, and nitrates. My mouth rebelled against me (along with the rest of my body). Good thing I ran around like an ape with ADHD 23 hours a day as a youngin’. Without my incessant need to constantly be running around catching snakes and toads, I would have weighed somewhere north of 200 pounds by the fourth grade.

I’m watching an exclusive interview with Piers Morgan and Motley Crue, and I’ve made a startling discovery:

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Mick Mars is:  Emperor Palpatine.

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Am I right? Let’s take another look.

Mick Mars….?
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…..or Emperor Palpatine?
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I smell an identity theft case.

People need to stop shortening words. It’s not cute. It’s nauseating and stupid. SO STUPID! This includes, but is not limited to, “Presh, gorge, fab, adorbs, totes, fave, probs,” and “ridic.”  Yesterday I was reading reviews on a pair of boots, and this is the atrocity I came across:
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I had a half a mind to report it as inappropriate. Are you kidding me? Even the busiest person in the world has enough time to avoid looking like a stupid ass. This needs to stop.

Nicole Scherzinger needs to bury herself alive. At first I thought her mouthwatering good looks were enough to float her along, but this has just gone too far. Everything that comes out of her mouth on The X Factor is pointless, annoying, and retarded. Also, her dramatic faux emotions? Ugh. Stop pretending to be moved, stop crying, stop being a douche, Nicole. As a side note, as much as I love Marcus Canty, Rachel Crow earned her place in this competition with her save-me song. You suck, Scherzinger.
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Well, I’m going to go digest my tacos. Remember that we are now in a new prize period! The next winner will be drawn on Sunday, December 18th. To become eligible for the drawings, all you have to do is 1) be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie, and 2) leave a comment or forty!  (Find out more here: PRIZES!) Every comment you leave puts your name in the drawing for the next prize, which is a totally bitchin’ convenient and brilliant invention: the union of the cozy mitten plus an ice scraper to help make your morning car-scraping ritual a little less painful this winter.

That’s right, folks. Be in it to win it.

Thanks for stopping by.

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“Nick’s roommate pulled the ol ‘slam your beer bottle on top of someone else’s beer to make it fizz up’ (mine) and like a jack ass, I stuck my thumb in it to make it spray everywhere in a retaliation attempt, which was great. Then I looked down and noticed glass sticking out of my thumb and blood was everywhere. The joke, once again, was on me.”

-Cole

Pennsylgaynia.

I have lived and visited many, many places in and out of the country in my 23 years on this round (or flat, depending on who you’re talking to) earth, and after my travel experience, I can say without a doubt that western Pennsylvania is one of the most dismal, grumpy, rude places in all the world. I despise it. The people here (with a few exceptions) blow. They just absolutely blow. They don’t know how to drive, they don’t understand common courtesy, they’re rude, ignorant, ugly, and impolite, they don’t sell alcohol in the grocery store—-the list goes on and on. Which brings me to the meaty portion of this post:

Things that are better than western Pennsylvania:

1.  The DMV

2.  Bear attacks

3.  Ovarian cysts

4.  Income taxes

5.  Unplanned pregnancies

6.  Polio outbreaks

7.  Amputation

8.  Hangovers

9.  Paul Giamatti

10.  Ke$ha

11.  Heart attacks

12.  Prison

13.  The line at the post office on Christmas Eve

14.  Heroin addiction

15.  Headlice

16.  Wildfires

17.  Scabies

18.  Britney Spears’ “Gimme More” performance at the 2007 VMAs

19.  Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face

20.  Drawing blood

21.  Gas prices

22.  Charlie Sheen’s ability to be a school teacher

23.  Marshall Mathers’ emotional stability

24.  This:

25.  ….and this:

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That about sums it up.

Uncontrollable diarrhea > western Pennsylvania

The end.

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“Clogging the toilet is the worst. I hate close calls. The feeling you get after you realize you DIDN’T clog the toilet is exhilarating, especially at someone else’s home.”

The hills are alive.

…..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.

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

All that glitters is old.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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,

Rebecca

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“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.

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.

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

Seeing double.

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.

Rebecca.

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