illin’.

I just scraped a bunch of skin off my knuckles while carrying my laundry basket down the narrow cinder-block walled staircase that leads into the basement. It’s impossible to put bandaids all over these wounds. I feel like I might have to take a rubber glove, fill it with Neosporin, and then just wear it for a few days. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.
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Just this morning I said, “It’s about that time of year again….that time of year where I get sick.”  Not three hours later, I find myself sniffling, sneezing, and moaning with the oncoming symptoms of an annoying cold. I am rather stuffed up over here. Also, my noggin is a poundin’, and my energy is at a bare minimum. On top of that, I can’t seem to heat up my body no matter what I do. I just put a sheet of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, and I had to stop myself from crawling right on in there to get toasty. I feel like doing nothing but merely existing on my couch in my sweat pants with tissues dangling from my nostrils, watching What Not To Wear.

That show has got me by the balls. I forgot how great it was. Are these people serious? Some of these individuals need electroshock therapy because of the things they’ve been wearing. I just watched an episode where this woman wore nothing but turtle items. Turtle everything. Shirts with turtles on them, giant gaudy turtle necklaces, turtle pants, turtle bracelets—and on top of all this turtle paraphernalia, she wore Crocs and mens cargo shorts. Bad.
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I’m glad I avoided living in a generation where people still used folding paper road maps to navigate their way through the world. I have been lucky enough to be blessed in the era of Map Quest, quickly evolving into Google Maps directions, then the invention of the GPS, followed by turn-by-turn navigation on my smart phone. Thank God. Can you imagine having to try to use a map the size of a table cloth whilst driving throughout a busy city trying to locate a Bank of America? Big creases through entire cities, ketchup stains on toll road signs, rips through the legend. What a nightmare. Mapping and driving is more dangerous than texting and driving. I am so happy to be able to just fire up the ol’ cell phone and say, “Send me to Omaha, Phone,” and it does. It just does.

….Droid. Droid does. You get it.
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I wish for someone to purchase me Hungry, Hungry Hippos for Christmas. I truly love that game. I also loved that game where the little fish went around the circular “pond” chomping their teeth together, and you had this tiny little fishing rod of sorts to catch them with. Memories. It’d be funny if they replaced the hippos in the game with really hungry people like Nicole Richie and Kate Moss and Mary-Kate Olsen. Except then the balls that the hippos chomp after wouldn’t be balls, they’d be diet pills.

Never mind.

SO, this week I will finally be returning to the glorious Midwest for the holidays. I can’t wait to see my fellow Council Bluffians and be a little irresponsible while donning Christmas sweaters on the reg. WHEW! I trust you all have delightful holiday plans this year. If not, maybe this will brighten your day:

I will be holding the next drawing on Sunday, December 18!

The next prize iiiiiis:
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This fantastic invention in which the classic puffy warm mitten meets the windshield ice scraper in a glorious marriage, keeping your extremities toasty while you scrape snow off your car in the frosty mornings this winter. The actual scraper-glove I’m giving away is even cooler than the one pictured above. This is a fantastic invention. To become eligible for prize drawings, all you have to do is 1) be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie by email, and 2) leave comments! Every comment you leave puts your name into the drawing. Good luck!

Time to go. Bye now.

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B:   When do you think we’ll be hungry enough to eat our dessert?

A:   I hope soon.

Panic room.

Hearing your phone ringing and trying desperately to find it in your purse is such a panicky feeling. You can hear it wailing away, louder, then quieter, then louder again as you dig through the mountain of junk in your purse, getting closer to it, then burying it under sixteen gas receipts and a pair of gloves again. You know time is running out the longer that ringing continues. It’s like trying to get a victim out of a burning building. You’re trying so hard, but the sand is quickly pouring out of that hour glass. Your window of success closing rapidly. And then it stops. 1 missed call. Your victim died of smoke inhalation and is now being swallowed in a fiery blaze in the elevator shaft. And you find that god forsaken phone two seconds after the person hangs up. Tragedy.

I guess you could always do what Lady Gaga does, and secure your phone to your head.

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I’m not recommending it though.

..

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So many things accumulate in one’s purse. When you first get a new handbag, you put just the bare necessities in it. You feel so pleased that everything is so neat. You simply have your keys, your wallet, your phone, a camera, chapstick, a pen, and a pair of sunglasses. Then a month later there’s deodorant, compact powder makeup, eleven pens, fourteen dollars in change, dog treats, lip gloss, perfume, a cold french fry, wadded up receipts, lotion, movie ticket stubs, Tylenol, crumbs, candy wrappers, free-floating pieces of gum, plastic silverware, water bottles, multiple pairs of sunglasses, babies, rodents. The list goes on. Really the only solution to this issue is buying a new purse. Cleaning it out is not an option. You simply must purchase a new handbag, and hand-pick the items out of your old purse that you wish to transfer into the new purse. The “necessities.” And so begins the cycle once again.

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I woke up today to snow falling. I was ecstatic. Two hours later after I emerged from my office building, the snow had quickly accumulated. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of white, and the snow continued to fall heavily. Out came the Christmas music, immediately. I jovially chimed along with “Sleigh Bells” and “Jingle Bell Rock” in my car, dancing and stuffing Dove milk chocolate into my pie-hole all the while. This is what I typically do in celebration of the coming winter months. It’s really the only way to appropriately ring in the frosty weather.

WELL, I would write about more stuff, except that I can’t locate my phone (ironically), and all my blogging ideas are on it. So…….sorry. Bye.

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B:   “What color towels are you going to get?”

A:   “I like the yellow….and I also like the red. I think I’m going to get McDonald’s colors.”

High life.

Ladies and cross-dressing males, have you noticed the phenomena with high heels recently? Suddenly they went from “hell yeah I can rock this” to “holy shit, I’m wearing circus stilts, someone get me down from here.”

What is the deal? All high heeled shoes went from a comfortable 2 or barely manageable 3 inch height to skyscraping 5 and 5 1/2 inches. It’s extremely unreasonable. I would break both of my ankles just trying to walk from my apartment to my car, assuming I could even make it down the front steps. I’m no circus freak. I can’t walk on stilts, Mr. Madden. I look stupid enough as it is stumbling around at the bars on a Friday night without wearing hazardous shoes that would make me hobble about like a newborn baby foal.

Is this some sort of practical joke the fashion industry is playing on us mortals?  “Lol, watch them try 2 walk in these. They’ll totes think it’s what everyone is doing. Lol.”  Even if I were able to manage taking more than 10 steps in these ridiculously tall pumps, there is no way in hell I could last an entire night in them. IT JUST DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE, YOU GUYS!!!!

Sometimes when I’m in a large room, I like to look around and scope out things I could use to defend myself in case of an unexpected attack. I pan the room and say to myself, what could I wield as a weapon if the need should arise? Lamps, scissors, chairs, etc. You know, just in case. Does anyone else do this? I can’t be the only one.

Today while I was in line at Wal-Mart, I got the displeasure of viewing this fat hag’s glowing white chub and glorious tattoo:

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Comic sans font. “Dave.” Nice and classy. Dave is a lucky dude, isn’t he. This is probably one of the worst tattoos I’ve ever seen. Classic Pennsylvanian. This cow isn’t even too fat to walk, yet she chose to buzz around on a motorized cart because just like almost everyone else in Pennsylvania, she’s a worthless piece of crap.

WELL, time to catch up on some Always Sunny. I am two episodes behind. I’m not sure how this happened.

BYE!

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A:   “I wonder what the actors from Hocus Pocus are doing right now.”

B:   “Meth.”

Pillow talk.

I was driving down the road today when I thought of something funny to write about. Being that I was manning a sports utility vehicle at the time, I didn’t have the means, nor the opportunity to jot it down. “I’ll remember it later,” I said.

I didn’t.

Alright, Lauren Conrad. You have sucked at life on your annoying reality tv shows in good old California, and for that, you are on my shit list. However, your Kohl’s clothing line has nearly completely redeemed you. Great threads. Just great. So much lace and chiffon and lovely neutrals and dusty roses and OH the goods. I need six million dollars to spend on trendy clothes. Someone win me the lottery.

It was decided that our pillows were in need of replacing finally. What once were fluffy, springy, puffs of comfort are now flat, lumpy, lifeless sacks of sadness. We needed new ones. After drooling uncontrollably over Lauren Conrad’s clothing line at Kohl’s, I made my way back to the bedding and started looking at the pillows. I didn’t know where to start. Shopping for new pillows is a daunting task. You stand there trying to hunch down and rest your head on the pillow which is enclosed in a plastic bag, then you start squeezing it with your hands in an attempt to gauge the firmness, except that doesn’t work because no one ever squeezes their pillows between their palms. What does this pillow feel like?! You stress. How does it compare to my old faithful?! AHHH!!!!!

Frustrating.

I went with a medium and a firm. The medium was a mistake. It swallows my head like an angel food cake made of down. Should have gotten two firms. Good thing Kohl’s has a rockin’ return policy.

Can anybody tell me what the F-CK Nicole Scherzinger was thinking when she put freaking Dexter through on The X Factor? Are you kidding me? Dexter is a kooky old homeless black man that has critters living in his hair. He wears platform shoes, stumbles around like a drunk prostitute with prosthetic legs, lives in an air-brushed denim jacket, and just scowls and screams. The man doesn’t even sing. He’s a crazy bum. What is this, Boiling Points? Also, Nicole, your long, dramatic pauses and unnecessary “build-ups” are really making me want to stop watching. Don’t be so kitsch. You’re just annoying. I’m sorry. You’re mega hot, but you’re being f-cking annoying.

And SIMON? Lay off the liquor. I don’t know if you noticed, but you put stupid f-cking Simone through instead of hot, angelic voiced Caitlin Koch. Simone is an idiot. I hate her. And then MELANIE?! You’re lucky you redeemed yourself and brought her back, because I was enraged and ready to boycott the television show. Little chubby Rachel and Melanie hold it down. Their voices move mountains. Drew Xzyq40wicz is also just incredible.

I’m really glad LA Reid & Rihanna aren’t total morons and got rid of the Vanilla Ice imitating pest named Nick Voss and his hopeless, irritating Elvis persona. His jitter leg? I wanted to fire a cannon at him every time he jitterbugged and Parkinsoned his ass around the stage. Ugh.

Little rapping Brian makes my day. Little niglet really gets me going. He’s great. And then Marcus? Marcus has the voice of a g-ddamn angel.

Well, time to go watch more shows about serial killers. Investigation Discovery Channel has got me by the balls.

….Stop lookin’ at mah mom! Mah mom!

X Factor joke. Whatever. Bye.

____________________________________________________________________

“That’s what she got me for my birthday. Like, I know almost everything came from the Dollar Store, because I’ve seen it there.”

Camoufag.

I had to switch back to my pasty face makeup this week. My tan is fading faster than my patience with Pennsylvanians, if you can believe it. My days soaking up the sun for this year have come to an end. It is 43 degrees today. Winter is upon us. I’m not sure what happened to fall, but I’m all aboard with Jack Frost moving in. Winter makes me swell with joy. I start blaring Christmas music, baking, being generally jolly—I love it.

Imgur.com has become one of my favorite websites as of late. Let me share with you a photo they posted, plus the hilarious comment that followed by someone else:

“Aww, it’s sad when you see girls with no dates.”

Ha. That’s a good one. Someone else said,

“Those girls made a terrible choice footwear for a hunting trip.” 

I thought, “Holy fivehead.”

I flipped out on a 79 year old hag of a woman today. BOY was she stupid. I made her feel like an ignorant sack of shit, because she was one. I have reached my limit of tolerance with these asshole Pennsylvanians, folks. This old bitch was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My patience has officially run out. From this point forward, anyone who crosses me will be met with a verbal assault that they can barely comprehend. Watch out, Westmoreland County. Cruella is on the scene.

In other news, I have probably eaten upwards to 15 Dove Promises today. That’s not something to brag about, unless you’re Mary-Kate Olsen. Those little messages in the foil wrappers are always making me furrow my brow. They always say things like, “You’ve got a great laugh,” and “Love your smile.” Basically things that you can say to any fat person shoving 11 pounds of chocolate into their mouths. It’s not like you’ll come across a wrapper that says, “Hey skinny minnie!” or “Killer legs!”  Well played, Dove. Well played.

I saw a girl in McDonald’s today wearing a tiara. She was at least 20 years old. This is unacceptable.

Every time I’m in a store, I look around in disgust at the hundreds of hideous clothing items that are manufactured that literally no human being should ever wish to purchase/wear, and I think….my, what a waste of resources. Items like these:

Stopping the manufacturing of these disgusting apparel items would result in multiple positives for our world. 1) It would stop the wasted resources and materials used to make these horrendous items. 2) People will terrible fashion sense would not be able to make as many mistakes. 3) Less space would be used in stores.

The world would be a better place.

Dexter is finally starting again tomorrow. I am absolutely elated. This is my favorite show in the universe. Sundays are my new favorite day again. I wish television would stop bringing me on such an emotional rollercoaster. It’s all these ups and downs, they’re really wearing me thin. We go from Law & Order marathons to nonstop football Sundays, back to Dexter premiers. I’m squealing with delight, then sobbing, then squealing with delight again—it’s not right.

Well, it’s time for me to go to Robokyo and get shrimp tossed at my pie hole. Later, kids. Remember—you are what you eat.

__________________________________________________________________

B:  You will need a rape kit after what I’m doing to you in Hanging With Friends.

B:   Whatever. By the way, I forgot to send a page in your letter. Sorry.

B:   Did it have tips for how to play Hangman, because if so, you should just keep it.

 

Boob Tube.

Attention all ladies and overweight males:  the perfect bra has been found. The search for comfort, steadfast elasticity, and a seamless silhouette has finally been nailed. Victoria’s Secret has created the most incredible bra ever, cleverly named the “Incredible Bra.”

.

I am not even messing around about this. I had barely even finished putting this thing on and I was already in disbelief at how awesome it was. My boobs were smiling. They were actually smiling. No pinching, no tightening required, it was snug, comfortable, and seamless. I have boobs the size of hamburger patties, but I am constantly struggling with bra straps that are trying desperately to migrate south for the winter. I’m constantly having to tighten them and pull them up. Plus, they need readjusting about fifty times a day. After I bought one (okay, I bought two), I went directly into the bathroom at the mall, ripped off my old bra, and donned the new one. I could not have been happier. Big breasted women and man-boobs males, get out there and get yourself an Incredible Bra. You’ll thank me.

So the other night, Trent and I tried a delicious Italian restaurant nearby called DeNunzio’s. It was superbly delicious, and I will be returning multiple times before I leave Pennsylvania. This is not the point. What I’m getting at is the company we kept while dining at this lovely Italian Ristorante. Keep in mind it was a pretty classy joint; like, there aren’t ketchup bottles sitting on the table, and there aren’t sticker producing quarter-slot machines for children to run around and get fake tattoos out of or anything. There aren’t french fries on the menu. It’s a nice restaurant. ANYway, I look to my right after we were seated, and see this man sitting at the table next to us:

Yeah.

Nice pixelated camouflage mesh spandex tank top, you freaking weirdo. Are you serious? I wouldn’t even wear this to a tractor pull. What was this man thinking? Who buys that shirt? Who manufactures that shirt? Would a polo have killed you, Steve? Would it have? This shirt, if you insist upon keeping it (and God only knows why you would), is only acceptable to wear if you are mowing the lawn or jogging. And if you are doing either of those activities in it, it had better be before 5 a.m. when it is dark, and no one is up and around to witness you in it.

That man could not possibly have teenagers. They would have ripped him (and it) to shreds. Unless of course they all have that shirt. Some families do that sort of stuff…you know, for pictures. Usually that’s in all denim though, not stretchy, cut-off spandex fatigues. So bad.

The other day I was browsing some apps for my phone in the Droid Market, when I came across an interesting one and started reading reviews. This was one review/comment left by someone:

“Itz ohk I thinx itt kan be betrr.”

….

I’m supposed to take advice from someone who spells 6 out of 8 words incorrectly?

WHY do people type like this? I’m so serious about exterminating people like this. It needs to be done. We cannot allow degenerates like this to populate our earth. It’s poison to society. Stupids. So many stupids.

Okay, time to plunge into a piping hot bowl of wonton soup.

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“I am so hung over. My head ache? I am never drinking again. Either Nick or I threw up in his kitchen sink last night. We will never know who.

….I just dropped my pizza in the sink. Suicide is in my not so distant future.”

 

Fashion First.

I think instead of a “poke” button on Facebook, they should have a “pork” button.  Cole Martin porked Jessica Batten. Then everyone would know who was having sex with who.

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I ate an extra cheesy pizza Lunchable today. It reminded me of sitting in the back of the bus in overalls during a zoo field trip, attempting to stab a hole through an impenetrable Capri Sun. They used to make those things bullet proof. You basically needed a machine gun to get your straw into the container. You always had to pass your beverage around to your classmates to see if anyone could force entry into the foil pouch. By the time you got the straw in, you were exhausted and dehydrated and needed it pumped directly into your bloodstream.

The other thing about pizza Lunchables is that in the beginning as you assemble the first mini pizza, you feel like there is no possible way those two tiny piles of cheese are going to last you through the third pizza, so you do this cheese-reserve thing and your first pizza comes out like a food stamp ration. By the third pizza, you realize you have way over compensated. You’ve saved so much cheese you have too much to even fit on the third crust. That pizza is always the best one.

Anyway, back to the Lunchable.

A few months ago, the Lunchables caught my eye in the grocery store, and I thought, “Ooh! I could go for one of those.”  Then I remembered I didn’t own a microwave.

You’re confused. Listen, I microwave my Lunchables, and I don’t give a f-ck what you think about it. I like to melt the cheese and heat up the sauce. Is that a crime? It’s my life.

Recently, Trent looted a microwave that was on its way to the dumpster from a neighboring office, and now we finally have one. I went ahead and stocked up on a couple pizza Lunchables, and I couldn’t be happier.

I spent several hours in various airports last weekend in lieu of my trip back to Iowa, so I had a nice opportunity to see some real freaks. Let me start with the Asians. One of the Asians I saw was a young woman who appeared to be about 20 years old. She looked pretty normal at eye level, but then I looked down at her feet. She was wearing blue flip flops that had dozens of tiny pink and blue pastel colored inflated balloons that simulated bath bubbles, and each sandal had a tiny rubber duck on it.

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The next Asian I laid eyes on was a woman in her thirties. She was wearing a translucent red plastic sun visor that had a solar powered fan that was positioned on the bill of the cap, pointing toward her face. It was pretty bad. It got worse though when her four year old son appeared with a matching solar powered visor in black.

..

..

Later I glanced down to see a man with “BORN TO F-CK” tattooed on his toes, each letter on a single toe. That was an interesting choice.

Lastly, good old SkyMall had some material to gawk at as well. How about this douche:

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Oh great! They make it in cadet style. I’m not sure which is worse—the hat, or the tool’s face in the ad.

Back to the Asians. What is wrong with them?  Their style is so rotten. They’ve lost their minds. Why can’t they stick to things that they’re good at like developing technology and making fried rice? Stay away from the fashion industry, zipperheads. You can’t do it right.

Boy do I like their food though.

I’m having a lovely time with my new Droid X2. It’s taking a little while to teach it all the cuss words, but it’s catching on quickly. I am a little sad about the battery life, although what can I expect from it when I’m playing with it 16 hours a day.

WELL, that’s all for now, gals and non-gals. Cheerio.

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“You can’t pee in here, Wilfred.”

“Why? Everybody else is!”

Technicolor.

Human beings are hoarders of life. We keep animals as pets, dozens of plants, some of us have an ungodly amount of children (“one or more”). I think it’s bizarre. It’s weird that humans keep animals around. Haha. Don’t you think?

I’ll stop smoking now.

I just saw a movie trailer for Final Destination 5.  Enough already. How many “final” destinations can there be? The real answer is only one. After that it’s a continuing journey. I think the makers of these movies meant to title them something else, but “Neverending Story” was already taken.

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I want Burger King to start selling eyeshadow. Then I could mix and match and have it “my way.” I think the Maybellines and Revlons out there purposely pair perfectly normal coppery and golden tones with prostitute pinks and mermaid hooker turquoise color blocks so that we’re forced to buy two or three shadow palettes to get the desired color combinations we want. “Instead of pairing copper, gold, and bronze, let’s pair copper, gold, and Finding Nemo orange so that they have to spend another $8 on another compact with bronze with lime green in it, lolol!”   they scheme.  Assholes.

They win though. They always do.

The phrase “It’s all downhill from here” is confusing to me. At first, it sounds negative, like it only gets worse from here. But really, it means things are “looking up” and getting better. Going downhill is much easier than going uphill. They really took us for a spin with these ups and downs connotations though, didn’t they?

Connotations is a hard word to spell.

I used the phrase “to the max” the other day out loud. I was embarrassed. Not as embarrassed as this guy is going to be when he finds a three-way mirror:

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I just discovered Sheetz french fries. This is a problem, because they are delicious and are sold in buckets. It is also a problem because Sheetz is in walking distance from my house.

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Okay. I’m going. I’ll be going now. I’m taking off. I’m going to take off.

(my clothes)

Come on guys, that’s perverted.

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“I sharted driving home from a friend’s tonight. Life gets easier, right?”

Moo la la.

Back in high school, I wouldn’t wear anything that didn’t say Hollister or American Eagle across the chest. I was a douche. Pretty much everyone was though. We all wanted to be “cool.” Unless of course you were “gothic” back then and only bought things that were black or lime green from Hot Topic, like Invader Zim backpacks, spiked dog collars, and Jnco Jeans with pockets deeper than the Pacific Ocean, and played “Magic” at lunch by yourself in the corner of the cafeteria.

Kids. So gullible. There really isn’t anything fashionable, period, about a graphic tee that just says “Abercrombie & Fitch” on front. It’s just a t-shirt. A t-shirt that costs $60, that is. Unbelievable.

Listen, all you high schoolers out there. Abercrombie & Fitch and Hollister are overpriced articles of generic clothing. You don’t believe me now, and you won’t believe me for quite some time, but in a couple years when you’re broke in college, you’ll realize that a white t-shirt from Target that costs $11 is the same as the white t-shirt from Hollister. The only difference is the Hollister one has a teeny-tiny logo of a seagull on it, and costs five times as much.

You’ll learn.

$9. Target.

$39. Hollister.

While we’re on the topic, what in god’s name are the jeans manufacturers up there at Hollister Company modeling their pants sizes off of? Trees?

Back in 10th grade, I had to buy a size 11 jeans at Hollister. I weighed 114 pounds. I should have been wearing a standard size 2 or 3. Unfortunately, Hollister’s “size 3” jeans have pant legs no wider than baseball bats, while their waists could fit around a 100 year old oak tree trunk. They’re basically upside-down cone shaped. I had no option but to purchase a size 11 to fit my human-sized (maybe on the meaty side) legs, and then use a belt in the most obnoxious way to scrunch in the excess four inches of denim around my hips so they would stay up. Stupid.

I love Target. A lot. Target is one of my favorite places to go. If I’m bored, I often cruise over to Target just to browse. They have a LOT of cute clothes, swim suits, shoes, great cosmetics, and everything is so moderately priced. I have been surprised with Wal-Mart’s selection as of late also. Granted, the majority of their clothing is size XXL and up and has Tweety Bird or the American flag across the chest, but if you dig around enough, they have some pretty stylish threads. Take this maxi dress that I purchased yesterday, for example:

Only $14. I looked like a hot hippie all day. Can’t beat it.

Why don’t they put Equal or Sweet n Low in every gallon of milk ever made? This is a brilliant idea. Everyone knows milk that has had Frosted Flakes marinating in it for ten minutes is the greatest tasting nectar known to mankind. Sweet-milk has got to be a million dollar idea, I’m sure of it. I’m not talking about super dense Carnation brand style condensed and sweetened milk. I mean delicious, fresh skim milk lightly sweetened with artificial sweeteners. I have been sprinkling several packets of Equal on my heaping bowl of sliced bananas and strawberries with All-Bran on a daily basis, and BOY is it ever delicious. I love artificial sweeteners. Never mind the risk of brain cancer that people keep talking about. Flavor is more important to me than the 50/50 chance of disease.

Well, I’m off to take my bored dog on a play date. He has dug string cheese out of the trash and Bubblicious out of my purse between today and yesterday because it’s been 100 degrees outside and mama refuses to take him out to exercise. Poor bastard.

Merry Christmas,

Rebecca.

________________________________________________________________________

“I hate it when all of my clothes are dirty and I’m forced to wear things that I would normally do yard work in to school.”

Hasta la vista, baby.

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:

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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,

Rebecca.

__________________________________________________________________

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