Jersey.Girl.Genius

Snoop Dog Discovers the True Meaning of Vanilla

Thanks to my taller half - I stumbled across a recorded episode of a very stoned, sunglasses clad Snoop Dog on Martha Stewart today.  Martha and Snoop go together like ... well, The Olsen Twins & a Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast.  Fo'shizzle, my izzles.  The goal of the gastronomy?  To bake green brownies. 

Double up on the chocolate, top with green icing sugar and add a side of "go ahead snoop, rap while you do this."  Martha awkwardly refers to Snoop's 16 iPhone apps a few times, stating that he has a GPS application that gives you directions in rap. As if rap is a language setting.  Hmm.... Should I get my directions in German, Dutch or Rap?  She obviously has never had her shizzle dizzled, because she wouldn't know rap if it suckled on her vanizzle.

Painful to watch through and through, but this snippet made it all worthwhile.  Remember kids, no sticks, no seeds, no stems! 

working from home (aka, look boss, no pants!)

I absolutely love working from home.  The insulated down bootie shuffle from bed to "boardroom" in a matter of steps, the coffee pot brewing on timer, sporting the kind of bed head that scares grown UPS men and frightens small children.  I'm a real telecommuter and proud of it. 

You might have spoken with me about a certain brand campaign or digital sponsorship for your Fortune 500 company, and I may or may not have been wearing pants at time time.  As of late, my work-from-home or homeless person routine has reached new heights.  I need a telecommuter 12-step program. 

Hello, my name is Jersey, I'm a Sagittarius.  I like to talk on the phone without pants on.  I also enjoy Dunkin Donuts coffee and hosting Academy Awards parties.

Who needs to shower daily, especially when the only other live entity you might see on a daily basis is a squirrel that lives in the flower box?  The squirrel doesn't care if I've put my face on or not.  Ok, I've always wanted to use that phrase in a sentence ... put my face on.  So I can now axe it off the list.  Does it matter that I don't wear make-up and never have?  No.  My aunt used to tell me she had to put her face on in the morning and this is the reason why I never wanted to sleep over. I was afraid I'd see a headless body asking me if I wanted a strawberry toaster strudel or an Eggo for breakfast.  But I digress.

I could tell that the mailman was looking at me suspiciously last week.  Maybe he wonders why I'm always home to retrieve the mail?  It wasn't until later that I realized what had caused his sideways glance.  Eager to retrieve my new license and see if the new picture really is (as the woman at the DMV so graciously offered) a million times better than that last one - I didn't think twice about saying hello to Mr. Mailman.  I was wearing multi-colored M&M themed PJ pants that (may or may not) have been falling off the waist just a tad.  It's possible that there was minimal crack exposure, especially as I knelt down to retrieve the Amazon.com box he had left on the step.  I heard the mail and I rushed to find my pants.  Tying drawstrings are for chumps. 

On top I was wearing a (two sizes too small) Tide t-shirt that says Loads of Hope on the back.  Because shrunken shirts should only be worn to bed, you see.  They should not be worn to flash your postal carrier when you emerge from your house,  breathless, braless and crazy, looking like some lesbian version of the Nick Nolte DWI mugshot.  I can only imagine what he must have thought of me as I scurried off, packages in hand.  He saw my bra-less downy balls on spin cycle.  I need loads of hope, I really do.  

There have been a few times when I've been on web conference calls - when the unassuming party on the other line has requested to initiate the video conference feature.  Gee, I'm sorry ... my camera is broken!  That's such a shame, because if it was working, you'd see me sitting here with a down jacket on, no shirt, and a black winter hat that says "Bada Bing" on the front.  Not worried that you'll see that I'm sitting here in my underwear, unless you ask for a tour of the house and I have to stand up ... 

To all of the other telecommuters out there, I feel your pain.  It takes a lot to properly wardrobe day in and day out.  For those brave work-from homers who manage to wear pants and shower on a daily basis, I salute you.

I see dead weebles

Perhaps it's not as exciting as the Virgin Mary's likeness on a piece of grilled cheese. (by the way, that black lipstick is really working for you, Flo.)

 

Or as newsworthy as Jesus etched into a clothes iron ...

While showering the other day, I experienced by own giracle (that's a gay miracle, for those of you new to this blog.)  Just when I was reaching for my Aveda shampure, I spotted Hitchcock's likeness on the shower wall.  Before you go ahead and turn your nose up at my giracle, know that we all lose around 100 hairs a day.  My hair just happens to be gayer and more creative than your hair.  If I must be visited by filmmaker legends of old, so be it.  Hoping that Grace Kelly appears next, molded into my Tempur-Pedic memory foam pillow.

The Real Hitch

The Giracle

You know you watch too much TLC and Discovery Channel when you ....

know all of the different types of Dwarfism

can tell someone exactly how a parasitic twin is formed

understand why there are some people who actually are their own twin

thought about writing to The Woman with the Giant Legs in England, but then thought her walk to the mailbox might be too brutal

start to see a real pattern forming for the women who appear on "i didn't know I was pregnant"

understand that swimming before dawn, in murky water and/or choosing to be an abalone fisherman means you will be eaten alive by a great white, bull shark or tiger shark

appreciate that you are more likely to fall victim to the above if you look like a struggling sea lion when swimming and/or happen to be on your honeymoon

want to give Mama Duggar an IUD for Christmas

suspect that Jeremy Roloff might be gay ... he brings his own suitcase of shoes & pashminas on vacation

can name the top ten most venomous creatures and start to develop an unhealthy fear of the cone shell

would like to be frisked by at least (2) of the police women of broward county, but want julie to be surprised by the cast of make-over train 

same stylist, whole different kinda' jesus

 

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.... CBS isn't just pushing paps for Christmas, they're toting SCHHHMEARS for Hanukkah.  Hooray! Mazel Tov! Light up her Menorah this holiday season!

Oh, and ladies, your doctor will be Rabbi Shmuley, who would like you to please "scoot a little closer, boobala" to the edge of the table.  A little bit closer, closer still ...

Who says a diamond is forever, when you can have surgical steel?

Because nothing says "i love you" quite like a paper-thin gown and a speculum ...

Why Old People Love Donny Osmond, Slankets & Other Mysteries

Donny Osmond and the elderly go together like summer sausage & cheese.  Like hair plugs and Elton John.  Like a bottle of Benefiber and a bottle of prune juice.  Maybe he reminds our seniors of a more fragile time - a less hectic, no hullabaloo geriatric time - when the variety show was king.  Flashback 1977.  Corporate America was smoking and drinking in the office and smacking its secretaries on the ass.  Studio 54 made hedonism a household word, Donna Summer was moaning her way to disco super-stardom and Donny Osmond was playing with skunks. That's right.  Skunks.  What else do Mormons do when called upon to entertain?  Aside from charm us with their recollection of biblical phrases and god's hatred of gays, that is. 

Long before the birth of the PETA movement and the invention of the opening monologue, there was this cornholio form of entertainment:

Just what is it about this guy that captivates the semi-senile?  His stellar jitterbug dance moves?  His full head of hair?  His ability to take a pie in the face?  No, I say.  Hogwash.  Truth be told, I think it's all about the coat.  You know ... the coat o' many colors, the technicolor dreamboat's dreamcoat.  Old people are frequently cold.  With poor circulation and chilly feet, the technicolor dreamcoat is an old lady's anodyne.  The elderly equate Donny with warmth, I say ... like a cup of earl gray tea on a cold winter's night.  And just as they respect his appreciation for fine fabrics and volumizing hair product, they all secretly long to purchase some version of the coat on QVC.  If only I had a technicolor slanket for sale, I'd be a gazillionairess.

Turkey Legs & Chainmail

Y is from Australia, you see, so the words "Renaissance Festival" were met with an indifferent shrug when they initially fell from my lips.  "We don't have those," she said.  Similarly, the words it gets really cold here didn't quite resonate either, until she stepped out of baggage claim and into the frozen fire one brisk February evening.  Some things simply must be experienced to be believed.

We set off for the MN Renaissance Festival a few weekends ago, armed with the conviction that A) we would not eat a single cheese curd and B) I would not be tempted to hurl soggy rotten tomatoes at the Vegetable Justice lad, even if he were to scream at me in horror, tomato seeds dripping from his chin, stammering: "Please! Not you!  I bet you played softball!"  Did they really have softball in the Medieval days?  Even if they did not, they most certainly had softball dykes.  There are some things even a frilly frock can't hide.  Case in point, Ms. Foster as a Civil War-era lass.

We didn't set out to photograph these yahoos patrons.  I happened to have a camera in my bag and felt the experience worthy of a People Of WalMart blog opportunity.  I know blogging gold when I see it.  Almost all of the photos were taken with the permission of the drunk fair-goer in the photo, save for maybe one.  I'll let you guess which one that might be.  I'd also like to point out that the photographed die-hards do not work at the festival.  They left their houses looking like this.  Better yet, they purchased these outfits somewhere, not for Halloween, but to stroll around a dusty medieval town, turkey drummy in one hand, goblet of wine in the other.  I wonder if Martha Stewart has a remedy for spilled wine on chainmail?  Have at it, vermin.  The Flickr Set lives!

Every Rose Has Its Thorn: Thoughts on the Bachelorette Finale

Spoiler Warning!  Do not read any further if you have TIVO'd the finale of The Bachelorette, have been avoiding People.com and do not yet know who Jillian chose to be her new man. There, I said it.  You've been warned.

Ed?  She picked Ed?  Short Shorts Snoozefest ED?  Now before all of the Ed lovers out there send me nasty messages, I don't think Ed is a bad guy.  He's just not someone I'd want to spend the next 70 years with.  (If I were a heterosexual Canadian Restaurant Designer looking for love, that is .... )

For starters, Ed's hyper-nasal Chicago accent drives me bonkers.  He's fond of the word AND, I counted 27 uses last night.   Half the time, I feel like I'm watching Norm from Cheers doing his Mike Ditka Superfan Skit of Da Bears.  Two words for you Ditka, Richie, Ed not sexy.

Uh, hey dare, Jilly.  And .... Wanna go take deez short shorts off and hop in da bed over dare? 

I'm starting my Team Reid t-shirt empire today.  First shirt will say:

Come Se Dice, What the F**k? 

Hoping Reid is the new Bach, but sources say this may not be true.  Check out Reality Steve for more drama filled-goss on the Snatch ending and the After The Final Rose show.  He thinks the entire process is controlled and edited by producers and I tend to believe he's right on.  So why do I watch, you ask?  If it's all fake and scripted and edited?  Because I like a good foot fetish sub-plot, I reckon.  Mango Mango, anyone?

Most telling tidbit from Reality Steve's blog is former Bach Brad Womack's email to a relative, post finale airing, about how everything he said on the show was edited to have a different meaning.  You can see that story here. 

Surprised she didn't take Reid, Kryptonite or Ed to Gray's Papaya (37th and 8th) and ask them to make their favorite hot dog before she settled on her one true love.  Ed's a closeted chili cheese guy with the occasional relish and raw onions.  I have a feeling she'll live to regret not putting her hot dog theory to the test with this one.  Where any of them Callahan's hot dog material, I wonder?

The Man-Code Reunion Show

The Bachelorette, Men Tell Some All special aired tonight.  With the show now down to the final "two," the scripted and pre-planned drama has really hit an all-time high.  Let's recap what we already know, shall we?

David, the overly agro grabby hands Mayor of Man-Code Island, grew some facial hair after he got kicked off the show in a boozehound haze.  Clearly, this does nothing to disguise his true identity.

Reid's noticeable absence was tidily explained at the start of the show.  Chris Harrison stated that he had a prior obligation.  Mazel Tov.  Had he said that his little sister's Bat Mitzvah was the same day as the taping,  I might have believed it.  But this Jersey Girl sniffed out a Reid-filled-surprise-re-appearance a few episodes back.  No one was grilled harder about his "feelings" for Jillian, yet she lets him fly?  Fishy. Ratty.

What do we really know about Kiptyn's feelings?  Or Ed's, for that matter? Ed likes his shorts to sit about three-centimeters below the Frat House.  We know that Kip doesn't like to wear tight pants, he's never had his heart broken, he can scale a 30 foot pole in a single bound and he has a neck the size of a four-person loveseat.  Truth is, he's afraid of colorful rocks that expose his weakness ...

(Kryptonite is really a gay guy named Barry who lives in South Beach and shows standard poodles for a living.)

Remind me to ask my brothers about all of this Man-Code thingymawhoozle.  The Rock Dave said a few things about the CODE that I'm still trying to decipher.  Between his grunting and sprinting off-screen to hunt and gather, I may have missed something.  I should mention that I don't have a penis and I'm not from the country, so I'm bound to miss a few things ...

The Un-Spoken Rules of Man-Code

1. Man no sleep with other man girl who he likely likey or did likey with big stick
2. Man no break code of silence, even if man has many womens he likey 
3. Man no fake drinky or burny of drinky or man beaten with big log
4. Man who no like drinky, who wear argyle sweater, likey Barry Manilow
5. Only man who live in country and likey nice assey understand

I don't know about you, but I'm predicting a real cliffhanger of an ending next week in Maui.  A cliffhanger that likely won't be resolved until we see the After The Final Rose show on Tuesday.  Will Ed's affection for tight short shorts make Jillian re-think his ability to procreate?  Will Kryptonite's alter-ego Barry make an appearance while ring shopping?  Will Reid come back to profess his undying love and affection in Spanish, after two weeks of grueling Rosetta Stone language classes?

Vamos a ver, mi gente. Vamos a ver.

The Snatchlorette Strikes Again

Never before has an episode of The Bachelorette been so hyped.  Bloggers and faithful followers everywhere have been speculating for weeks about who the fantasy suite flop would be - going as far as analyzing stills and body hair from the previews and then matching the room to the proper hotel chain in Maui. Even I'm not that CSI about the whole thing.  Geez.

Given Kryptonite's homo status (takes one to know one, people)  I was sure that he'd be the wet noodle in this hunky reality pad thai.  He certainly must have been able to draw an elaborate mental picture of Jake wearing flamenco pants, in order to get the puff tent to cooperate on command.  Kudos to Krypt for not letting his gayness spoil a perfectly good day of pole climbing in Hula land.  Well done, you.

I, for one, was happy that it wasn't Reid who couldn't *show* Jillian how he felt about her.  Sure, he might not have the words she was looking for,  but who needs words when your penis can speak the international language?  After all his charming Spanglish and pantomiming in Spain, I developed a real affinity for the guy.

 

Let the Team Reid t-shirt empire begin.

Jillian, you crazy wingnut!  Why must you disappoint the masses by picking the hairy boring guy who wears short shorts? Did you see that little green marble bag he had on?  He's lucky the boys didn't pop out for their own cameo during the cliff jumping shot.

It was the snoozefest ED who lived up to his name in the bedroom.  It's possible that the only way ED can get aroused is if he stumbles upon a job posting for a Flash developer.  I don't care how tired or sunburned you are.  The penis is always willing to party.  Right, Patty?  After all, this isn't their first date and they need not abide by Millionaire Matchmaker rules.  In the land of The Snatch, you must take the Loch Ness Monster for a test drive through Bush Gardens before the deal is done.  Let me put this another way ...

If he's not showing you his big lei, then honey, he's just not that into you.

Do I think Jilly picked the wrong hot dog?  Yes.  Do I think Ed is a closeted kraut & chili cheese dog guy?  Definitely.  Do I think Kryptonite likes Twinks more than dogs?  Oh hell yes.  Do I think Reid was the only sincere guy on the show who could also hold an intelligent conversation.  Um, you bet your sweet ass I do.

Here's hoping that Reid magically re-appears during the finale, carrying a hot dog with ketchup, after either the gay guy or the boring guy backs out.  If not, then I hope he sells some multi-million dollar properties in Philly as a result of being on the show.  Come se dice, cha-ching?

When Love Comes Sleazy

Time for some Bachelorette highlights in 60-seconds, brought to you by la gente simpatico at Iberia Airlines:

 

The Batch was off to Spain for picnics in the park, wet-t-shirt fountain romps, perpetual snogging and birds with one damn foot.

Wes suffers from bird-in-the-hand-worth-two-in-the-bush disorder and can't seem to get cozy with Jillian

Kryptonite  confesses that a proposal "doesn't seem imminent" right before he dons some skin tight flamenco pants with matching Bolero jacket.  Perhaps his gayness is getting in the way?

Reid failed 7th Grade Spanish, but remembered the important things, like how to say I'm BIG and I'm really physically attracted to you and como se dice is that sausage bigger than my sausage?

Ed strolled Sevilla in fashion jeans with a big manly watch, while jumping into sacred fountains, horse & carriage rides and man-handling lil' Jilly all over the city.

I'm glad Ed is back, but the guy seems like a big ol' bulging bump on a log.  Nice for a one night romp in the orange tree fields, but what would you talk about in the morning?  Aside from his apparent obsession with Lion King, The Musical.  Ho hum.

Ed:  Have you seen my computer?  It's big.
Jillian:  You showed me your mouse last night, remember?
Ed:  Yeah, I know, but you didn't read the love note I wrote you in Javascript.

Ed is a geeky snoozefest.  A good-looking, intelligent snoozefest, mind you, but a snoozefest none the less.  He's more along the lines of what I'd call a trophy hunk: a trunk.  Trunks are fun to look at, but lack other important qualities, like the ability to hold a conversation.  I bet Ed likes gigabytes of ram on his hot dog.  Oh Ed.  Why did you quit your day job?

Reid, on the other hand, is adorable.  Jillian should pick Reid, but in the end, I think she'll disappoint.  If the teaser is true, sounds like Reid isn't able to rise to the occasion in the Hawaii fantasy suite.  I sincerely hope that's a bogus rumor.  My guess is that Mr. Ed will win the final rose.  Boooooor-innnngggg. He's yet to impress.

When will she put the final two in a room and ask them to whip up some hot dogs?  If Ed reaches for the raw onions, things might change for Reid rather quickly.  Until then, I'm like, completely attracted to this show.  If it keeps getting better each week, like it has been, then that's great, that's what we both want.  Que bonita.

Stay huge, Reid.

Hasta Pronto, Amigos!
JGG (who is very big in Chihuahua)

My Song

My nephew Julian sings Labi Siffre's "My Song" circa 1972.  It's his favorite song.  Who needs Elmo? Julian Sings

Paula Deen's Little Giracle

Thank god for Bravo TV.  I am so happy that Kathy Griffin's Life On The D List has finally returned for another fabulous season.  It felt like a big ol' gay Christmas morning in my house, watching Kathy Griffin, Miss Paula Deen and (her gay assistant) Brandon "Pour Me Another" Branch packed into a single episode.  Life doesn't get much better than this.  Feel free to skip to around 8:30 in the clip below, where you will see Paula's assistant Brandon on his sixth gin & tonic, in all of his faggy, deep-fried glory.

Is it wrong that I want to spoon Paula Deen?  I want to be her cabana boy.  I want to fetch her mint juleps and tell her when she needs to add more lard to her pecan pies.  *Sigh*  The way she flours naked chicken wings with her bare hands, unafraid of plunging those bejeweled fingers into a vat of Crisco.  Paula Deen is my kind of woman.  Hell, I'd even follow around her dogs, coming to the rescue of any "turd alert" emergencies in a matter of seconds.

Sure, Paula loves to laugh and she might even tuck her house guests into bed at night. But the real reason why I love Miss Deen? She just loves making meals that average 3,000 calories per serving. 

God bless your heart, my sweet southern princess.  If you were to whip me up a burger like the one below, complete with bacon and cheese, sandwiched between two sugar glazed donuts, I'd eat every single bite, y'all. 

Banana Hammocks and Mangos

There comes a time in every man's life when he must learn the difference between I'm Not Really A Waitress and Mango Mango.  It's a rite of passage, nearly as monumental as the purchase of one's first pair of thongderwear, to comfortably and heterosexually house one's long duck dong.   Right?

BZZZT! Wrong. 

Tanner P, you saucy little minx.  You nearly had me convinced you were a bonafide, foot fetishing freak.  I feared you might get down on one knee and propose, just so you could get a closer look at Jillian's high arches.  I was almost convinced, that is, until I heard two words fall from your Cher-karaoke-is-my-favorite lips:  Mango Mango.

Yes.  Mango Mango is a real nail color, brought to us by the crafty mofos at L'Oreal.

I'm convinced that L'Oreal paid for product placement on The Bachelorette & that Tanner's "foot fetish" was scripted from the get go.  How on earth would he have survived six episodes without some sort of arrangement, let alone, be invited to a) Touch or B) Rub lotion on Jillian's feet, whenever he was granted some solo time?  Can't help but wonder if the plug was worth the money. 

Whenever I think of Mango Mango, I now think of the gay guy on The Bachelorette who nearly broke into song when he realized Jillian didn't have corns, bunions or hammertoes.  I also think of Chris Kattan in short shorts.  If Mango Mango attracts the Tanner P's of the world, I'll stick with my clear polish pedi.

Women Outs Herself As White Castle Patron

I've eaten at White Castle.  Twice, even.  But you won't see me signing my name to this post.  The only reasonable excuses for a White Castle pit stop would be:

A) they have a working toilet and you might wet your pants and/or drop trow on the neighbor's lawn unless you use it
B) you drunky like skunky. must have sack o' sliders in yo' tummy.

Today I realized that some people are out and proud about their castle craving.  Meet Ariel Wade, aka Harvey Fierstein.  

Ariel's a self-confessed White Castle loving, lark scootin' rebel.  I wouldn't want to get on his her bad side, either.  She's madder than fish grease and she's just launched a motorized attack on White Castle, who refused to serve her, while attempting to dine scootside through the Drive-Thru.  When the Castle turned her down, she quickly found solace in McLovin', but she's still not satisfied.  Ariel won't sleep until scooters everywhere are treated just like mini coopers.  Those dolphin stickers might say "softy" but there's no butterin' up ol' Ariel.  It's gonna take a whole heap of sliders and a guest appearance in Harold & Kumar Scoot To White Castle to make her happy ...

The Bachelorette and Her Gay Minions

Took in yet another episode of The Bachelorette last night, which left me feeling a bit empty inside.  Kleenex really should be sponsoring this show, in tandem with Oscar Meyer.  Miss Jillian cries hard and she cries often.  Can you blame her?  The one and only guy who might not have been either gay and/or seeking a career in television has left the building.  Adios, EdTV, we will miss you, your fashion jeans and your sometimes awkwardly placed overly-gelled bangs.

It's a tragedy of epic proportions that Foot Fetish Boy is still alive and well, despite the fact that he's so homo, he's on fire.  I think I saw flames burst from his spock ears in one particular scene.  You know, the scene where he's wearing his gay belt and ankle socks, lounging on the couch next to the other gays.  I wonder if it's Tanner P who can't "perform" in the bedroom, when the fantasy suite cards are dealt?  Had there been a life-size pinup of Jake plastered to the bedroom wall, I think he would have done just fine.  Well done on the erectile dysfunction teaser, ABC.  You clever bastards.  Paving the way for Viagra product placement, perhaps?

Foot business aside, there are a few other lads who need to roll off the mountain, STAT.  Michael, break-dancer boy, is a 12-year old boy.  Someone needs to explain to him that he needn't be "on" all the time - and that it's extremely common for people to talk using their inside voices.  Is it just me, or is he always screaming and saying things like "Booya!" "Hellsssss Yeah" and "DOOOODE?"  Michael, my money's on you doing the worm on your way out next week.  Let's hope the camera doesn't catch you spooning Tanner before you leave.

Jesse seems like a good guy - and who doesn't want a Wine Maker in the family?  Hello, free wine?  Poor pinup Jake.  He's not getting any love, due to his utter perfectness-ess.  I hope they show him shirtless at least once more before he gets the boot.  Hey!  Even a Jersey Gay Genius likes a little chiseled ab work every now and again. 

I'm also a fan of Reid, he cleans up well - and he might be my dark-horse pick to make the final three.  Kryptonite has a shot as well, if he can tone down the homo and lose the douchey headgear.  My Magic 8 Ball says that Ed will suddenly re-appear before the finale, dragging his wilted rose back to the mansion.  He'll realize that a shot a true love trumps IT work, blah blah blah and then we'll have a Bachelorette "crisis" in the making, blah blah blah.  Enter more tears, more references to hot dog condiments and bad boys, more of Wes' bad tweed/acid washed suits and honky tonk twanging under the balcony.  I'm hoping Wes hits a sour note soon.  Helllls yeah!  Love don't come easy Wes, not when you're wearing a suit that belonged to one of the Backstreet Boys, circa 1997.

Some words of advice for the Bachelors moving forward: 

1)  Enough already with the "babe" this and "babe" that.  Jillian ain't yo' babe, honky.
2)  Please refrain from calling Jillian and the other women you've dated "girls" - unless you were under 18
3)  Keep your bromance spooning to yourselves
4)  Make sure you choose ketchup and mustard and avoid the raw onions and relish at all costs.

* I was granted permission to use the words faggy, homo and gay more than 12 times throughout this post by the Legion of Homo Minions that oversee the blogging stratosphere due to my own certified homo status.  No gays were harmed during this blog post.*

One Man Minneapolis

Just heard about a curious little contest taking place in my fine city, thanks to a friend's Facebook posting, where she was urging folks to vote for her man-o-choice.  (She's a fan of Holden, for those of you who just can't decide.)

The One Man Minneapolis contest has set out to find THE man who represents the Best of the Twin Cities.  Winner will receive $5,000 and a swank Tag Heuer watch, care of JB Hudson Jewelers.  His charity of choice will also receive $1,000.  From the contest website:

The 20 incredible men you see profiled on this site have been selected from hundreds of applicants. On July 18 at the Pantages Theatre, one of them will be identified as ONE MAN MINNEAPOLIS – the man who represents the best of the Twin Cities from the perspectives of community involvement, personality, intelligence, and fitness.

After checking out all of the applicants, I'm a bit confused by the lack of "Joe The Plumber" types.  While the Twin Cities does have a nice helping of GQ buff, intelligent, stylish, philanthropic, entertaining, aspiring underwear models (or Bachelorette contestants) I think the man who epitomizes the Twin Cities hombre is of a slightly different breed than these fine young cannibals who made the final cut.

Something important is missing from the mugshot lineups and accompanying descriptions of the One Man hopefuls.  I spy a serious lack of Khaki wearing, cheese curd eating, fanny pack sporting, arctic cat driving, pasty Nordic men.  Everyone here is far too tan for March, when these photos were taken.  Let's face it, we're talking about the very same city that holds an annual Mullet Contest.  You can't polish a turd, people.

Here's my choice for Best In Show. 

Bret Michaels Suffers A Herniated Weave at Tony Awards

Watching the Tony Awards as I type, due to the gaping hole that Breaking Bad's brilliant finale has left in my Sunday night lineup.  I am so happy that I chose to tune in or I might have missed a very special moment in live theater history.  And you would have missed reliving it.

Bret Michaels is on. 
WTF? 
Why is Bret Michaels at the Tonys? 
Is he in a musical? 
Ok, wait, he's singing a rock song, I get it. 
He looks out of breath.

Song is from a musical called Rock of Ages, starring that greasy Borat-ish guy from American Idol.

Ok, sorta makes sense. 
Wait, Bret's not really singing. 
He's lip syncing. 
Badly.  
Oh no ....
Oh my god ...
Holy shi**

Brett was just taken out by a stage prop!!!!

He was too busy thumping his chest, enjoying the roar of the crowd and flashing the peace sign to exit the stage on time.  The result?  One nasty clothesline and a herniated weave.

The Bachelorette, aka, Who Let The Fags Out?

On the off chance that you've been a) living under a rock or b) prefer reading a good book to reality tv, I thought you should know that Jillian Harris is the new Bachelorette this season.  She's also the Canuck talkin', hot dog toppin', boots wearin', country song lovin', midriff showin' girl who was handed the dreaded friend card in Kiwiland by the short and slimy Snatchelor last season.  I consider her the lucky one.

This time, it looks as though Jillian's been handed a crop of cauliflower-eared meatheads to choose from (save for a few diamonds in the rough) that will probably suffer the same fate.  Most intriguing, however; would be the staggering number of gays who turned up for the audition and actually wound up on the show.  Whatchyoutalkin' bout Willis?  My gaydar registered a 12 on a scale of 1-10 with some of these hunky fairies.  What's that you say Producers? Not enough straight guys with ripped abs showed up for the auditions?  I have a new hot dog theory.  This one's called ... who would you like to see holding a weiner.  Works like a charm.

A) Jillian half naked in the hot tub

or

B) Chris Harrison wearing nothing but house slippers and a thong

Did The Bachelorette hold casting calls in the same building as the Dancing With The Stars ass shaking, pro samba hopefuls?  Some of these guys look like they aspire to land recurring roles on General Hospital, with the bleached chops, faux hawks and Boflex bods to prove it.  Case in point, foot fetish boy, also known as Tanner P.

Tanner, I admire your drive to succeed and your willingness to let nothing come between you and your dream of uber-stardom.  But dragging your homo arse into the mansion, snuggling up next to breakdancer mike and then perving on Jillian's toes in the pool does not a soapy star make.  May you wake up tomorrow, surrounded by hammer toes and bunions. 

So far, my flame count has reached Defcon 4.  Sasha (the Ben Stiller look-alike), Fetish Boy, Breakdancer and Juan.  Once Jill decides to put my hot dog theory to the test, all will be revealed.  Until then, a song for Tanner P.

My weiner has a first name
It's P-E-R-V-Y
My weiner has a second name
It's Bunions Make Me Cry
I love the pedi every day
And if you ask me why I'll say ....
Cuz ...
I sure hope to run away
with
M - I - K - E any day.

Gwyneth Likes Party Jams

Woke up in the middle of the night on Thursday to find my crackberry aching to be held. 

It sleeps tucked away next to my bed, on top of the over-sized, sand ridden copy of Dirt Music I found in Antigua.  I love that little red light.  Blink, Blink, Blink.  An SOS beacon in the darkness that brings the promise of new business sold, cures for erectile dysfunction and powerball numbers from "Lucky Minnesota."  I dragged my sleepy self to the bathroom, wondering why they make Supernanny wear those frumpy white pumps with the restrictive purple suits.  They make her look like The Hamburgler, I thought, as I groped for more toilet paper.   She looks so much better when she's dressed down, Mr Rogers style, in the roomy blouse, capri pants and her Jack Purcells.

Upon returning to bed, wishing I could fall back asleep to resume dreaming about snuggling into Supernanny's bountiful bosom, I instead reached for the crackberry.  With the press of a button and the fluid motion of well-practiced thumb-on-scroll-ball, my crack will be lulled back into digital sleep, lights out.  This time, it wasn't herbal Viagra or an email scam from Nigeria, asking me to make a wire transfer. 

It was far worse.  Gwyneth Paltrow, up way past her bedtime, was once again peddling her GOOP. 

In this 3AM edition of GOOP, the newsletter I love to hate, Paltrow didn't preach 3000 thread count onesies or personal-trainer/vegan-chefs to the stars.  She was instead pushing Party Jams.  After seeing the subject line, I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.  I dreamed a bit about what kinds of jams Gwyn would approve of and how special the occassion needed to be, in order to produce said jams ...

Dear Diary,

On the road with Mario again, this time for our book tour.  He still smells like prosciutto di parma but I can't help but think of him as a vulnerable little boy sometimes.  He was telling me about Iron Chef and how he thinks he doesn't get selected for challenges as often as the other chefs because people are too intimidated by his culinary genius.  I feel badly for him.  Bobby Flay just signed another deal with The Food Network for some peasant backyard grilling show and I know they don't care much for each other.  In all honesty, I would much rather face Cat Cora than Mario any day, as long as the secret ingredient is pretention.

Apple's birthday is coming up soon, I'm not sure what to do this year.  Chris will be on the road again, so I'll have to plan it with the nannies instead.  We had the yogi retreat & colonic cleanse for kids last year, which will be hard to top.  Maybe I'll fly to Paris with the children and Madonna's new orphan so we can pluck the elusive Matin des Pyrenees Clementines?  We could make a nice party jam while the children get my face painted on their cheeks at Versailles.

Off to sign books at La Bruja bookstore in Madrid.  I bloody hope they serve me something other than pan y jamon today.  If I have to look at another ham hock this trip, I'm quitting the tour.

Love and Party Jams,
Gwynny  

Butchie Springs A Leak

A big ass pipe broke in the basement yesterday.  Big Ass is the technical name, you might also know it as a "PVC elbow."  Said pipe had been taking rainwater from the roof out to the sewers without incident for more than three years running.  The cause of the pipe-splosion was not immediately known ...  Yet upon further investigation, it was revealed to one Jersey Girl Genius what had actually caused the breach... 

A note to fellow condo association members ... This is not an admission of guilt, but rather, a recounting of the unfortunate circumstance that has affected our rainwater runoff pipe and the current condition of the basement floor.  Pseudo butchie cannot be held accountable for the rat proofing actions she took nearly six months prior that may or may not have lead to the pipesplosion.

I really need to attend a weekend workshop for Butchie hopefulls.  Know of a place I can brush up on my "girlfriend plays the role of Joe from Facts of Life" skills, when repairs need to be made?  Lessons need not be that in depth.  Maybe "changing blown out tires, 101," "why super-glue lives up to its name," or "how to use a masonry bit without winding up in the ER," you know, that kind of stuff. 

You may or may not recall that I wrote about a rat emerging in our toilet last November, which I dutifully handled with the ease of an animal naturalist on safari, thank you very much.  Post rat debacle, I was on high alert.  Every hole on the outside of the condo was a nesting place for rats, every crumb left on the floor, a rattatouille feast for vermins carrying the typhoid.  During my McGyver/Murder She Wrote investigation period, I noticed that the rainwater drain pipe on the exterior of our building lacked meshing.  That's right, I said meshing....which automatically translated to the following:

aha! look here, jersey!  an easy fix!!  giant rodents will climb up the pipe and recreate, much like you used slip n' slide as a wee knee biter.  must take self to ace hardware to remedy the situation at once ...

 

Off to the hardware store I went.  Purchased some mesh, wire cutters and a metal clamp that would hold the much-needed drain screen in place.  After some self-congratulatory chest puffing and grunting, I forgot all about my mesh handiwork.  That is, until yesterday...  Apparently the aforementioned mesh had collected a bit of sludge these past months.  I've questioned whether or not the rainwater was able to drain properly, causing a buildup of pressure in the pipe and the "Iceberg, Dead Ahead" moment we witnessed in the basement. 

Moral of the story here folks, don't trust a pseudo butchie with home repair.  Better yet, don't fasten a mesh screen to your rainwater pipe with a metal clamp that can't dislodge itself under pressure.  I'd rather have rats visit my toilet than re-enact scenes from the titanic in my basement.  At least I know how to get rid of a rat ...  Rubber gloves, tongs, trash, disinfect, Febreze. 

A very special thank you to the gaybors is in order (where a real butch resides.)  They own not one, but three Wet Dry Vacs. I clearly did not receive the guiding principals of lesbian home ownership manual, which lists owning a wet dry vac and having built a retaining wall (and/or) backyard fence as pre-requisites to domestic bliss.

 

As I sit and recount my utter failure as a handywoman (and wait for the plumber to come and assess the damage) the rain has kicked up a bit.  In another thirty minutes, I'll have to go down to the basement and empty the water that's been collecting in a giant garbage can.  Meanwhile, I'm doing my own little rain dance, praying for sunshine.  Listening to Toto sing Africa, picturing the dry desert plains and wondering who let Tootise play drums in the band?

Shagging With The Stars

I feel so geriatric these days. 

Just picked up my shiny new glasses (that I'm now required to wear at all times, not just when I feel like it) coupled with the fact that I'm actually watching and looking forward to Dancing With The Stars on a regular basis has really upped my senior citizen status.  The show should consider sponsorship by Benefiber or Metamucil next season, which would fit nicely with the core demographic I do believe.  Present company excluded, of course.

One of the celeb contestants on Stars has given me nightmares two weeks running, yet I keep coming back for more.  Last week I dreamed that I had a mouth full of caps, Steve O style, that fell out after I was asked to shimmy myself across a pit of hungry alligators, hanging upside down, rope between my knees.  I watched as the gators snapped up each giant pearly white, one by one and then woke up in a sweaty panic.  I've read a lot about "losing teeth" in dreams and it's normally thought to be stress related.  In my case, I believe it's a direct reflection of my inability to understand why anyone, even someone as devoid of brain cells as Steve O, would willingly opt for teeth the size of floor tiles.  He scares me.  More than a little.

This week, I decided to ignore the Steve O routine all-together, so as not to give my brain any fodder for REM sleep.  I'm now worried that I'll wind up in bed with Steve Wozniak instead.  He'll pick me up on his Segway for a hot date at Bob's Big Boy, long stem rose clenched between his teeth - and then force me to naked tango with him in the parking lot.  Poor Woz.  One day, the geeks shall inherit the earth.  Until then, the hot French guy from the Sex in the City movie has the world in the palm of his studly hands.  My money's on Gille to go all the way, with Melissa from The Bachelor giving him a good run for his money.  I continue to be impressed by Lil' Kim.  Mostly, I watch just to see how people will pronounce her name.  One minute, she's being called Kim, the next, someone's called her "Little" Kim.  I don't believe I've heard the proper use of the apostrophe once.  That would be Lil' Kim, Bruno.  Lil'.  As in NIL.  As in, she's had more than just a LIL' plastic surgery in order to achieve the Latoya Jackson look she's currently sporting.

Latoya:

Lil':

V is for Vampire.

I watched the much hyped Twilight this weekend.  Not because I've read the series or have a particular fetish for vampire flicks, but because I wanted to see if Kristen Stewart still looked like she could stroll around Home Depot on weekends, looking to install and mud her own drywall.  It's been years since she co-starred as a little diabetic-coma gay alongside mama gay Jodie Foster in Panic Room.  Stewart is looking less tomboy meets-future-homo these days and much more angst ridden alterna-teen in need of good grooming and a proper meal.  Some recent paparazzi shots of her with her boyfriend at LAX show her looking like she was a on a real bender the night before.  I like Kristen Stewart.  I certainly hope she doesn't pull a Lohan and start Tweeting up a storm about how her dealer is out of town and she just wants some decent blow.

Nothing remarkable to report about the movie itself, other than the fact that Jennie Garth's hubby is getting a lot of action as of late.  Peter Facinelli went from hunky art student Jimmy in Six Feet Under to the Vitamin D deficient Dr Carlisle Cullen.  Hoping that the Garth/Facinelli family saves for a rainy day.  90210 will be lucky to survive its rebirth, let alone a second season.  Papa needs to bring home the bacon.  From what I hear, he's already cast in the sequel to Twilight, which will also co-star child actor/alien Dakota Fanning.

V is also for Volvo.

The Volvo C30 has a starring role in Twilight as the new "it" car for privileged teens.  A silver stud mobile that can bust up a potential assault, Knight Rider style, burn rubber in parking lots AND exceed the speed limit on residential streets.  What else could your average pasty teen want?  Volvo also sponsored the premiere in NYC, which asked for fan reactions of both the film and the new C30.  In order to market to first-time car buyers, Volvo was extremely savvy to put the Cullen kid in the driver's seat.  Sales of the car have gone from 0-60 since the release of the film, while sales were barely justifying the manufacturing of the car in 2007.  Volvo: not just for "old people" or moms anymore.  Check out fan reactions below which amount to a brand director's wet dream.

Toupee Spoiler Alert!

That's right, I can sniff them out and spot them from ten yards away.  No one is safe.  Want to know if someone's had "work" or is sporting a new nose?  You've come to the right place.

Dancing With The Stars is on as I type and a new toup has just come into view.  Hello, Dolly!

Meet Jonathan Roberts.  Jonathan is the 2008 "Smooth" Dance Champion and holds several impressive Latin dance titles.  He's also sporting one of the worst toups on primetime.  ABC, how can you let this happen?  His rug scores a -1 in my book.  Here's how you can spot a fake and endlessly impress loved ones with your toup-a-rific expertise:

1.  The crown doesn't match the coiffe. 
Look for discoloration between crown and top of head or an "unnatural" blending of layers

2.  Wigs don't move.  Ever.
This guy spins and flips all over the place and the sturdy toup doesn't budge.  Not even a sweaty breeze or faux-hand-through-hair move can make a single follicle blow in the wind.

3.  The caesar cut is out.
I highly doubt Jonathan would willingly opt for this do.  I didn't even accept that it was ever "in" - but I do recall a few of these hair donts floating around in the 90's. 

*Disclaimer on the Caesar*

Apparently the Caesar cut is kinda/sorta ok if you are a hot runway model walking for Versace at Fashion Week.

4.  A faux hair gap is present. I call this a "hair balcony."

If you look closely (put the Tivo on pause and stare at Jonathan's head during judging) then you'll notice that the front of his faux hair fringe isn't touching the top of his head.  It juts out, leaving a noticeable toup gap between faux wig and tippy top of forehead.  Another known offender sporting a hair balcony would be Clinton Kelly from What Not To Wear.  A bit harder to detect due to the fact that he often chooses to style his wig into a faggy faux hawk, you'll have to trust me on this one.   I know something Clinton shouldn't wear ... and it's not in his closet.

Bald is beautiful!  Embrace that shiny head.  Free your wig and the bliss will follow.

A little birdy told me you're crazy.

There are but a few people in the world whose lives I would find interesting enough to follow on Twitter during a consecutive 24-hour period.  In order to participate in a future E True Hollywood Story that bears their name, I could probably be convinced to give the following some chirpy love.  Go ahead, twist my arm:

David Sedaris
The Obamas
Jonas Brothers
Miley Cyrus
Her Majesty, The Queen
and
Oprah

What would Joe Jonas tweet about, I wonder?

Tried on another pair of leather pants, they make my man thighs look hefty.  If I don't wear underwear, can I still wear the purity ring?

As a self-confessed social media junkie, I've tried hard to embrace the tweets.  Yet I find that I'm not likely to take the helm as Mayor of Tweetville anytime soon.  Call me heartless, but I don't care if you're eating the best bacon ever or that your dog just ate another pair of your underwear.  News organizations, on the other hand, have been using Twitter as a social media "scroll" for breaking news, ala CNN.  Reason number 1,757 for the inevitable demise of the physical newspaper.  RIP, Seattle Post Intelligence.  There's (begrudgingly) a new Sheriff in town and he's called search.twitter.com

I recall a scene in a Harry Potter installment (Prisoner of Azkaban) where a character is reading a newspaper that has insta-changing headlines.  JK Rowling, you wicked genius you.  If this means that I'm likely to walk into a Gap store soon, have a robot scan my retinas and ask me how my GapBody Hipster Briefs are treating me, I'm never watching another sci-fi movie again.  At least not one starring Tom Cruise, red and black pool balls and two psychic chicks submerged in water.

Read today that there was much hoopla  over the fact that tortured Lohan uses Twitter - and that she had let some drunken tweets fly.  There's trouble in paradise at Castle Greyskull.  You know what they say, don't drink and tweet.  The vase-through-window move and the calling of the LAPD is testiment to the fact that Lindsay thinks she should come before Sam's DJ gigs, especially on the eve before she's to be locked up in the big house.  If you're even remotely interested in what Lindsay has to say after a liter of vodka and a few lines of uncle charlie, you can follow her dramedy here.

Oprah is all about the Skype interviews, have you noticed this?  Whenever someone is beemed in from another city or country, she has them join via Skype.  Skype new business gurus, you clever partnership monkeys, you.  How much did you fork out to have Oprah get on board the Skype train?  Wonder if Twitter will follow suit, landing corporate sponsorships and suave product placemement?  I'd be more apt to watch Biggest Loser if someone wasn't shoving Quaker Oatmeal down my throat every three seconds.  Until Twitter becomes a tool I can't live without, right up there with things like Google and toilet paper, it's still nothing more than a buzzword with a whole lot of hype.

Walgreens, Eggs and Fetishes

It's nearly mid March. This means that spring is almost here for most of the continental US.  However, if you're a sad pasty leprechaun like me living in the frozen tundra, this means that your car windows and doors are frozen shut and you're wearing Smartwool socks to bed.  Sexy. 

It was twenty below zero the other night.  Y had to chip away at a layer of ice 3 inches thick on the windshield, just so we could squirt washer fluid - and promptly watch it freeze into mini frozen crystals on contact.  Oh how people love to compare Minnesota to Siberia.  Sad thing is, our winter is probably colder, on average, than our Siberian friends.  That reminds me.  I need to drink more vodka.  Maybe that would help warm up my toes.

With spring's arrival also comes the orgy of Easter candy at Walgreens.  I sound like a senior citizen with my fessing up to actually patronizing a Walgreens.  I believe Kathy Griffin said it best when she called CVS and Walgreens "Old People's Disneyland."  Although I'm not in the market for stool softeners or Depends, they do have an impressive range of multicolored Peeps on display.  Have you SEEN their candy aisles lately?  That's right.  Aisles.  Half the store contains chocolate.  Even the laxatives are covered in chocolate.  I would happily cast aside even the most sultry looking Peep for some time with the ephemeral Cadbury Cream Egg.

One's affection for the cream egg is either a love or hate relationship.  I'm a fan of the caramel and marshmallow variety and made sure I grabbed a couple on my last trip. 

Shopping cart contents:

1 Ped Egg for Yvette's grandmother in Australia, because nothing says I love you like "damn granny, your heels could cut through glass ...

2 Cadbury Marshmallow & Caramel Eggs

(2) Packages of 8 Mini Marshmallow Chocolate Covered Bunnies.  I had the best intentions of sending these with a care package, but sadly, all 16 bunnies have disappeared one by one, Tony Soprano style.  Yes, I whacked all of those bunnies myself.

1 People magazine featuring The Snatchelor on the cover (Boo, Snatch, Boo. Molly looks like an alien.)

1 lifetime supply of toilet paper.  They come in GIANT packs here to cater to the oops I crapped my pants crowd, I'm guessing.

 Last night, I had forgotten about the lone Cadbury egg I mindlessly stashed in the fridge.  What a pleasant surprise to come across the ol' nugget, just when I was having a major brownie craving.  What ensued is testament to the fact that my girlfriend and I are made for each other. 

Me:  *Clucking like a chicken* hiding Cadbury egg in left hand, behind my back

Y:  *knitting another sock* on the couch, looks up from her craft to give her idiot some attention

Me: *Clucking violently* moving towards the couch.  I then pretend to lay an egg on the living room carpet, next to the plate I had just eaten a crumpet on.  *Cadbury egg plops to the ground in a foil covered heap.*

Y:  *Laughing* You're ridiculous!!  You know what's scary?  I bet there are people out there who have weird egg laying fetishes.  There's probably some guy out there right now begging his wife to lay an egg.

Me:  *Laughing my chicken ass off*  Really?

What transpired wouldn't have been possible only a few short years back, when one wasn't blessed with Google-insta-graticication.  There it was, in plain view, our search results for "egg laying fetish" revealed some, er, interesting sites, none suitable for blogging.  There are many, many people out there with far too much time on their hands.  Yes, I'm talking to you.  You know who you are.  The guy with a flair for Japanese Anime and Egg Laying.  I will never look at my Cadbury egg the same way again. 

WWDRD? What Would Dr Ruth Do.

When I was around 9 or 10, I used to listen to the WYNY Dr Ruth Radio Show on the ol' trusty Sony Dream Machine before bedtime.  Ruth was my hero.  Not afraid to tell overzealous, 3-minute-man Larry from Fargo that he should masturbate before having sex, there was no one else like her.  Smurfish and spunky, she made grown men and women everywhere ask the questions they always wanted to know about sex, but were afraid to ask.   Maybe it was the thick German accent, the rap song that was penned in her honor or maybe it was just her "damn, granny knows her shit" charm that made her so approachable.  Whatever the reason for my Ruth fascination, this woman kicked some serious ass.  What would she have to say to Rihanna, I wonder?  Aside from the obvious, that is:

Dr Ruth:  Look. Re. Anna. Why do you keep saying that word over and over again? Umbrella.  So what?  It's raining outside, so you grab your umbrella. ella. ella. ella. rella. rella.  What is this song?  I don't get it.  I wear a rain hat and galoshes.

I doubt my mom knew that I stayed up late to hear things like:

Ruth:  Hello Bob from Saskatchewan!!!  What is your question?
Bob:  Well, I've been married for three years now ...
Ruth:  Um hmmm
Bob:  And I'd like to have sex more than my wife wants to have sex.
Ruth: Okay ...How often would you like to have sex, Bob?
Bob: (laughing) Every day, several times a day.
Ruth:  You are not alone, Bob, I hear this often, not just from men, but women too.
Bob: Well I figured that, but I wasn't sure.
Ruth:  How often are you having sex now?
Bob:  About once every other week or so.
Ruth:  So you're looking to have more sex.  Have you talked to your wife about this?
Bob:  Yeah, we've talked about it and she um, just doesn't have the same sex drive I do I guess.
Ruth:  Let me ask you this, Bob.  Do you spend a lot of time on foreplay?
Bob:  *long silence* Is that like when you say something you regret?
Ruth:  Heeeee heeeeee heeeeee!  Heeeee heeeee heee! Terrific!  Foreplay, Bob.. not fopaux.  You know, stimulation, heavy petting, getting each other aroused ...

I was an interesting kid at show and tell, or so I'm told.  Aside from re-counting filthy, dirty jokes I had overheard my mother telling her friends, I could also deliver a five minute seminar on any range of topics, from sex during pregnancy to hidden penis syndrome.  Dr Ruth was a wealth of knowledge.  What can I say, I was well rounded.  The film strips we were shown by the gym teacher in 7th Grade were all old hat to me by then.  Hell, I could have produced and directed that film in my basement.

This is bullshit.  What, no mention of fellatio?  Lame.  She should really stick to coaching volleyball.   I bet she doesn't talk about ectopic pregnancies, either.  Figures.  The woman thinks that like, just because she gives us a scoliosis test, she's like a sex expert now? Whatever. The only thing she's having sex with are those polyester gym shorts.  I'm getting a rash just looking at them.

The Hot Dog Theory Spreads Like Buttah

I'm not surprised, in the least, that Bachelor alum Jillian is setting up shop with a new website - and most likely - shiny new publisher in tow - to help jaded women everywhere find the right man.  Getting the friend card was the best thing that could have happened to Jillian.  She had the best edit on The Bachelor this season and looks damn good in that purple flannel.  She emerged smelling like roses, despite the fact that she didn't end up with the last one.

When films like He's Just Not That Into You are filling theaters, Jillian's timing couldn't be better.  This is exactly what women are looking for.  Sassy short-hand based on a mystery pork by-product that will predict the future.  Jillian's hot dog theory will send women to the concession stands in droves.  I can picture it now:

The stealth stalking at half-time, the hiding behind the Costco-sized ketchup barrels, the waiting in cat-pounce-stance to claw at the mustard guy ...

So what's the dish on the hot dog theory, you ask?  Your topping, if you sport a twig and berries that is, says a whole lot about you.  Here's my own interpretation of the shortcut-to-man-bliss, otherwise known as the Jersey Girl Genius Hot Dog Theory.

Sauerkraut:

Your dream guy is not a sauerkraut guy.  Sauerkraut is a loner, a rebel.  He is a walking contradiction, a rare bird amongst condiments.  Known to spend hours sculpting his fine, GQ physique, he might not wash his underwear more than once a month.  Prone to poor hygiene and lack of ambition, Kraut may also be found starting home brew projects he is unlikely to finish and collects glass bongs from frequent "business trips" to Tijuana.  You might have had a one night stand with a few Krauts back in college.  That one time on the foosball table in the Frat house was especially memorable.  But when daylight shines on this wiener, he'll show his true colors.  When push comes to shove, he can't tell the difference between tuna and chicken and thinks a hymen is a trophy given out to college football stars.  Ouch.

Chili Cheese:

CC is a risk taker who wants the best of both worlds - to have his snack and eat it too - and might be too commitment phobic for most woman.  A glutton at heart, CC thinks that life should be lived without regret, which explains the unfortunate man boobs and protruding pot belly.   (I would place Jason Mesnick in the chili cheese category and think his selection of mustard on the show was an attempt to throw Jillian off the scent.) 

A bit of a slob, you'll find discarded fast food wrappers in the back seat of his car, along with a well worn DVD box set of South Park, Seasons 1-11.  The most chivalrous of all the condiments, this character trait is often misinterpreted as marriage material.  Sneaky and calculating, he'll hold the door for you so that he can check out your ass while he decided if he wants to "tap it" after dinner.  CC is a social beast with scores of unemployed, male besties.  Don't be surprised if he skips out on dinner with your parents in order to attend a Wii Bowling tournament at his buddy's house, where you'll find he's been drinking malt liquor out of the dog dish.

Raw Onions:

Clearly, Mr. Raw Onions is a boastful extrovert who isn't getting much action.  He can often be found with his mullet against the glass at hockey games, yelling insults at the refs and starting fights with rival fans.  Not to be confused with Kraut, Onions is an intellectual giant.  Some might peg him a diamond in the rough, but it will take a special woman to tame this shrew.  He's passionate about many things, like gambling, NASCAR and fishing for catfish with his bare hands.  He'll do anything twice.  When it comes to romance, Onions is more reserved.  He'll wait until he's put away a 12-pack before approaching you and when he does, sit back and watch the magic happen.  He might say things like "you look kind of pretty when I close one eye" and "are you down with having a threesome with my cousin over there ..."  Onion emits a feral animal-esc odor when he's on the prowl that can be detected by all females within a 50 mile radius.  He's easy to avoid unless you have a bad head cold.

Jillian is one whip smart Canuck.  I smell a book deal and a lucrative sponsorship with Oscar Mayer on the horizon.  I've already said that I'd buy whatever she's peddling - and with a personality that charismatic - I'd even consider a box of Jillian Sham Wows.  Cosmetics, OB Tampons, Victoria's Secret Bras, Heinz Ketchup, Ball Park Franks.  The woman can do no wrong, so I wrote this little ditty in her honor. 

Goes a little something like this ...

My hot dog had a first name

It's J-A-S-O-N

My hot dog had a second name it's

15 Minutes of FAME

I am so glad

I did not rub

His wee wil-ly in the hot, hot tub ....

Cuz ....

Jason Mesnick did away with

M-E-L-I-S-S-A

The Snatchelor Finale!

Tonight's the night!!!

Jason Mesnick, Sleepless in Seattle Single Dad of The Year, will finally propose tonight on ABC's The Bachelor. He might just propose TWICE.  It's anyone's guess.   I'm embarrassed to say that I've been completely hooked since Jillian *insert charming Canadian accent here* entered the scene, talkin' (bout) hot dogs and Canadian Bacon and the Ukrainian men her grandmother would like her to marry.  Lost a wee bit of respect for the shirtless wonder when he sent Jill packing.  She was looking oh so adorable and poised in her auf'd interview with Ellen, however; if you care to drool. Looking like a sexy vixen on TV is always the best revenge.

Will tonight's proposal stick? 

Reality Steve released a video earlier this month, suggesting that the scripted and mucho pre-meditated series has Mesnick choose Melissa in the finale, only to dump her on live TV for Molly at the "After The Final Rose" taping.  Say it ain't so, Joe!  Are we being set up?  If the Steve spoiler is true, America will surely feel so horribly for a heart-broken Melissa that she'll become the next Bachelorette, making it the highest rated Bach in history, right?

Not so fast, Steve-O.

So many theories, so little time.  I have some theories of my own as to why tonight will be the MOST DRAMATIC ENDING IN BACHELOR HISTORY.  In no particular order, here's what I'm sniffing:

• Jason reveals he has a va-jay jay, is interested in tandem naked bunjee jumping with Chris Harrison, thinking about a future stint on Rock of Love Bus 2

• Jason picks Melissa, then picks Molly, then picks his Speedo out of his ass while spotted on vacation with Ricky Martin in Miami.  Ty and the twins get along famously.

• Jason proposes to Melissa then realizes he still loves his ex-wife who realizes she's in love with Jillian and wants to open a hot dog shop with her.  Aren't we all in love with Jillian?  Fess up now kids.

           

• Jason decided to move to Vail, become a firefighter and live a polyamorous life with Trista and Ryan

Whatever the outcome, I'll be TWITTERING like a tweet-crazed fool tonight, logging my snarky commentary via my live twitter feed here.  I hope you can join me on the twitterati.  It's so much more fun that way.

*clink clink of champagne glass*

-JGG

Return of The Snork?

I've noticed a correlation between one's age and the distance between top of head and tip of hat.  The older one gets, the greater the distance.  My dad wears hats this way too.  So much room under there, you'd think he was stashing away an extra large twist of mozzarella from Fiore's.

Case in point.  Yvette snapped this on the bus this morning with the new iPhone she can't put down.  Long live the iPhone.  Mr. Orange looks like he belongs in Whoville.

Snorks have been popping up everywhere as of late.  Waiting in line for the bus, grabbing coffee at Starbucks, delivering our mail.  Is the older man more sensitive to losing his hair, that perhaps he feels a cap with more height will allow the hair follicles to grow?  Place to put your bagel and coffee?  Spare change and a newspaper?  Or does comfort simply trump fashion sense over the age of 65? 

There are young snorks out and about too, which leads me to believe that I missed the episode of MTV Cribs where some young, hot recording artist answers the door wearing an extra tall neon knitty, much like the gentleman pictured on the bus.  Crazy kids these days.  Kids and their cushy whoville hats and their baggy pants below the crack line.  When will belts be all the rage?  Hell, pegged pants and stirrups had their day in the sun and I waited patiently for them to make their exit.  This pants below the ass thing, though ... not very sensible in the frozen tundra.  Haven't you heard of Crackbite?  Cheekfrost? Ouch.

I guess Philip Seymour Hoffman's beanie was more than just an Oscar fashion don't, now that I think of it.  He should have Snorked it up.  Maybe Jay Manuel, aka, Queen O' Sheba, would have been kinder to him had he sported a few more inches.

The Scoop on GOOP

Gwyneth Paltrow has a website.  The website is called GOOP, sporting a wank-a-rific tag-line that reads: 

Nourish The Inner Aspect. 

I once worked with a guy that we secretly called Goop.  My former boss coined the name, which doesn't say much for leading by example, but I found it fitting none the less.  He was an uber-pasty, arrogant Nord with nearly translucent skin.  Whenever questioned about his work, and this happened often, he'd raise his bushy eyebrows and open those goopy eyes as wide as can be and mutter something that only a slapdick could.  I wasn't a fan of The Goop, nor did he care much for me.  Once he figured out that I was smarter than him, things got ugly quickly.  Goop was eventually fired for having a complete pasty meltdown (he told the CEO to go *bleep* herself.  Classy.)  That was the end of Goop, or so I thought.  Until Miss Eating Her Way Through Spain showed up with a new URL.

Maybe it's the name that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.  Or perhaps it's just the fact that Gwyn takes herself oh so seriously, as if she's just given birth to Oprah.  In-between plugs for NYC doctors who cater to our circadian rhythms and suprachiasmatic nuclei and full body cleanses to help you detox properly, there are recipes.  Like this one, for Cornish Game Hen:

Roasted Poussins and Potatoes

Here I use salt from Mallorca that’s infused with hibiscus – it’s floral and delicious, but regular salt is more than okay.

SERVES: 2
TIME: 1 hour

2 poussins (Cornish hens) coarse salt 1 lemon 1 clove finely minced garlic 1 tablespoon butter, softened 1/2 teaspoon Mallorcan hibiscus salt freshly ground black pepper a dozen small creamer potatoes 1 tablespoon olive oil 1/2 teaspoon finely chopped fresh thyme

Ok Gwyn.  Calmate.  We know you speak French.  And Spanish.  No need to rub it in my face with your Poussins.  What else are you rubbing?  Hibiscus infused salt from Mallorca.  Available in every corner deli in Manhattan!  Well, not quite.  Way to make me feel like a stanky minion for having a lifetime supply of Morton's in the cabinet.  Will my meal still taste as pretentiously delicious without it?

Just for giggles, I signed up for the GOOP newsletter.  I love receiving inspiring little messages from Gwyn about how I need to Go, Be, Do, See, Get, Make any number of things.  Most of all, I love how Gwyneth fancies herself The Gandhi of Soho and I just can't resist.

Funny clip from the PBS show below, where everyone is discussing their favorite foods.  Watch as Gwyn almost hurls when they start talking about HAM.  Priceless.  She can barely stomach the carb-laden crostini she's eating, let alone, think about eating ham on a daily basis.  It's all in the "WOW."  And the accompanying grimace.

I'm on to you, Paltrow.  The jig is up. 

Jersey's Oscar Party Treats

We had a few friends over on Sunday night, for no other reason than to heckle Seacrest and huff poisonous blow darts at Miley Cyrus.  Yvette took a few snaps of the table setup.  Wanted you to see some of the oscar-themed goodies we were peddling. 

3 Parts Milk Chocolate Godiva
1 Part Vanilla Vodka
I Tablespoon Vanilla Ice Cream
Ice Ice Ice

*Shake angrily while wearing tight jeans & holding a bullhorn*

Warning.  If you shake the above martini in a metallic or aluminum shaker for more than five seconds, you might experience life threatening finger frostbite.  It's the bloody ice cream.   So creamy, yet so COLD. After a few shakes, I resorted to shaking while wearing gloves.  I was feeling quite self-congratulatory and in no way embarrassed by my need for mitts.  Yes, do try this at home.  I encourage it openly.

Wanted to make my Mickey Rourke "Robbing The Cradle" Martinis, but could not find "shaved essence of Even Rachel Wood" on the liquor store shelf.  According to Ryan Seacrest, her essence smells like a certain Benefit perfume.  Uh huh.  And baby jesus' tears.

There were also Feta & Sundried Tomato Benjamin Button Stuffed Mushrooms to be had.

12 Big ass button mushroom
Shove Feta inside big ass shroom
Insert Sundrieds into big ass shroom
Sprinkle Salt & Pepper to taste
Drizzle with olive oil

Bake at 375 for 20 minutes or until smoke alarm sounds

Our Slumdogs in a Blanket turned out well.  No pictures because we ate them all before the camera came out.  I know you're scared.  But you needn't slave over little smokies and Pillsbury crescent roll dough in order to create the perfect snack.  Just take a leap of faith (and your overpriced $50 Costco Membership Card to the warehouse) and pick up a bag of Hebrew National Frozen Bagel Dogs.  Yvette was skeptical at first, but wound up coming back for more.  Holla!  Birkat Hazan.

Oscar Goes Gay!

There's so much to talk about, I hardly know where to begin!  I'll leave the best and worst dressed cat fighting and glamastrating to the E Channel and that silver skittle-dipped leprechaun, Jay Manuel, who thinks someone died and crowned him the Queen of Sheba.

There were but a few fashion donts that I do feel compelled to discuss, although not as many disasters as I had anticipated.  Reese Witherspoon, looking neither withered nor spoonable.  Discuss.  I think she looked quite Ursula Under The Sea in that blue and black seaweed number. 

Marisa Tomei looked like she opted for the origami napkin dress while co-star Rourke looked like he preferred a tongue bath from a homeless schnauzer vs. proper grooming.  Would it kill you to wear a real tux?  Or shower before getting dressed?  I bet he smells like Ben Gay and Lucky Strikes with just the faintest hint of Cutty Sark.  MMMM, so attractive.  Yet for some reason, Sean Penn wasn't repelled.  I wonder if Sean smells like Cutty too?  He must, since he forgot to thank HIS WIFE when giving his otherwise kick ass acceptance speech.  Poor Jen-knee.  Life is like a box of chocolates, I guess.  Sometimes those chocolates are sweet and comforting, sometimes they prefer to hang out with Mickey Rourke, pet dogs and grope Petra Nemcova.

It must be said.  Rachel Evan Wood, Heavens to Murgatroyd, what in hells bells are you thinking?  Every time you say something complimentary and suggestive about Mickey Rourke, baby jesus cries.

Ben Stiller's Joaquin was brilliant, as was Anne Hathaway's singing bit in the beginning.  What wasn't so brilliant?  Sophia Lauren's Sigmund The Sea Monster ensemble.  It wasn't the time nor the place to show her versatility.  Had she actually combed the wig, things might have looked a bit different.  I have a feeling that baby chipmunks have been nesting in that thing ...in the garage, next to the box of broken Christmas tree ornaments and Sham-Wows.

Highlight of the evening for JGG was when Lance Bass won the award for Best Original Screenplay for Milk.  Did I say Lance Bass?  I meant Dustin Lance Bass, of course.  Black, Lance Black.  Best acceptance speech ever.  The times they are a changing, my friends.  When Oscar goes gay, there's no turning back.  Soon young gays everywhere will be bringing their flesh colored head set mics to show and tell, dancing and singing openly in red sequin unitards with conveniently placed fringe.  I thought Hugh Jackman did a decent job, but the musical medley was a bit cornholio.  Nothing says big oscar medley quite like a little clogging from Michael Flatley.  Given the homosplosion experienced at this year's awards, he would have fit right in.  I'm surprised they didn't have him waiting in the wings, wearing his signature tight pants under a tasteful sari, ready to clog through burning hoops of fire during Jai Ho.

 

Maybe next year.

Twit Twit Red Carpet Palooza, Part Deux

I'll be LIVE Twittering the E Channel's Red Carpet Countdown, beginning at 5 CST today.  I normally give Twitter the cold shoulder, as I don't believe you need to know that I feel bloated, or that I'm currently in line for a car wash.  Twitter does have its perks, however.  If you feel so inclined, you can follow my commentary here. 

Off to buy some last minute ingredients for our themed Oscar offerings:

Feta & Pepper Stuffed Benjamin Button Mushrooms
Vicky Christina Barcelona Croquetas
Slumdogs in a Blanket
Pound Cake Topped with Lemon-Frost Nixon
Mickey Rourke "Robbing The Cradle" Martinis (1 part evan rachel wood, two parts mount gay old rum, one shot of methadone)

Gwyneth Paltrow Eats Her Way Through Spain.

I saw the Oprah special.   Gwynny talks about how much she eats and how she just can't diet.  She also crapped on about how she's friends with Madonna, blah blah blah, they share a love of Pilates, blah blah blah.  Camera pans to Paltrow in her sweaty gym, sweating daintily in teeny shorts, complaining to her personal trainer about how much she despises cardio.  The woman does work out like a madwoman.  I'll give her that.  But there's no way this skinny minny is eating her way through Spain.  Mario Batali on the other hand could eat his way through Spain, Italy and France with room for a little slice of Greece for dessert.  Maybe, just maybe Paltrow could eat her way through Maine.  Maine she could do in a couple of days with plenty of rest in-between "Maine's Best Chowders."  As long as she didn't opt for the baguette with every meal.

Spain is approximately 499,542 square miles.  With an average of 3 restaurants per square mile, Paltrow would look more like Shallow Hal's gal if the above were really true.

I'm fascinated by the Batali/Paltrow dream team.  Flipping channels the other night and found that PBS was replaying their plutonic, giddy gastronomy.  I couldn't help but watch.  There's something quite care-free and romantic about the notion of eating your way through an entire country.  Especially if you're doing it on someone else's dime while cruising along in a new convertible Benz.  I just couldn't get the thought out of my head that there's more to Gwyn's experience than meets the eye.  If only I could get a hold of her personal travel journal.  Is the key to her heart really through her stomach?

On The Road With Mario, Day Six

Dear Journal,
It's me, Gwyn.  Flight from LAX was a total nightmare.  Sat next to an impish man from Belgium who smelled like a cross between cheese doodles and clams.  He took his shoes off and had mini elfin feet.  Revolting.  He also insisted on telling me that he had seen only one of my films, Shakespeare in Love, but confuses me with Scarlett Johansson (bitch) and I was wishing I had taken Chris' advice and just used the label's jet instead.  So much for trying to reduce my carbon footprint.  What a load of horse shit.

Mario met me at Barajas and brought me some sort of sweaty mozzarella and prosciutto sandwich with wilted basil.  I didn't have the heart to tell him that I swore off meat when I was seven.  I ate one bite and then threw the rest out the window once he fell asleep in the car.  I figured all the homeless dogs would have a real feast.

Mario and I have been getting along well so far, but I can't shake the feeling that he's secretly in love with me.  He brought me a pair of orange Crocs and then made a big deal about wanting to slip them on my feet himself, Prince Charming style.  It creeps me out.  He also had some unrecognizable crumbs in his beard that looked like they had been there for days.  Does this man bathe?  The guy is always eating bread and cheese.  And is constantly trying to get me to sing duets with him in the car.  If I have to listen to the fucking Josh Groban album one more time, I might slit my wrists.  I'm only half serious about that last part.  I owe so much to Madonna for helping me out of that deep well. 

The food in Spain is gross.  Everything is pork based and greasy.  I have no idea how everyone can stay so gorgeous and skinny.  I decided that I'm going to start smoking again and work out one less day.  All of this tapas bullshit is driving me insane.  Can I just order one thing, without breading and without sharing it with everyone?  Mario is a total booze hound.  We ordered sangria at Cuevas de Sesamo and I think he drank his weight in wine.  The next day I was driving and Mario fell asleep.  He kept passing gas all the way to Salamanca and I thought I was going to vomit.  I wish I had, now that I think about it.  I ate all of that starchy flan and those goddamn churros y chocolate the night before and will need to put in some seriously grueling hours pulling stubborn donkeys in Sevilla in order to work that shit off.  Lovely.

Marcia sent me a script to consider today, was only able to read a few pages before we had to take off again.  It's about a woman who is blinded by a high heel shoe while fighting her way through a Vera Wang sample sale.  I think it sounds compelling, but I'm checking to see if I can make her British.  I'm just so completely over New York and think she'd have more depth this way.  I'd have to work with Joaquin again though, which is a serious turn off.  His whole unibomber thing has gone way too far and he's starting to smell like moth balls.  If I have to show my ass in this movie I'm getting an ass double this time.  And I'm not kissing Joaquin again either.  He tastes like cigarettes and burning hair.  Why do I get myself into this shit in the first place?  I'm over Spain, over Mario and just want to be home with the kids in the UK where I can really find my spiritual center.  Can't get a fucking maid to iron or limpear worth shit and I actually had to wash some thongs in the sink last night.  I mean .... Are you fucking kidding me?  Never again.  I'm so grateful for Concepción and all the time she spends organizing my bra closets at home.  I don't know what I'd do without her.

Hasta pronto,
Gwyn

Bachelor Jason Mesnick Listens To Puff Tent, Ignores Reason

This season of The Bachelor has been pretty darn tootin'.   We're talking formulaic reality show genius that had me wondering if some of the women had been screened for prior stalking convictions and/or clandestine stints in the loony bin.  With the departure of all the crazies (Shannon, Nikki, Megan, Raquel and wannabe American Idol hopeful Lauren) the season became far less painful to take in.  Far less cringing on my part, much less of my imaginary poisonous blow dart antics whenever Shannon came on screen.  I found myself getting sucked in and even went out on a limb to pick my Best in Show to go all the way.  The lovely Jillian Harris. 

I was completely shocked by Jason's decision to keep Molly and Melissa and to let Jillian go on Monday night.  In fact, I'm still cursing Mesnick for his short-sightedness and his unfortunate looking Sam the Eagle muppet profile. 

Judging from my need to post about the crushing rose ceremony in Kiwiland, I'm clearly not over it.   Jason, you fool!  You bloody idiot!  Jillian was by far the coolest, cutest, smartest, funniest, most down to earth woman in Bachelor history.  She puts Blinky (DeAnna) to shame.  Do you really want to live the rest of your life with someone who, and I quote, refuses to date anyone her parents don't like?  I got over that one when I was about 13.  While Molly has nice eyes, she also has refined acting chops and The Snatchelor is falling for her "it's hard to open up" routine hook, line and STINKER.  Melissa, on the other hand, is sweet.  Sweet like cotton candy.  I don't know if you've ever tried to eat an entire wand of cotton candy in one sitting, but after a while, it's just too much sugar.  I find myself putting down the cotton candy and reaching for the hot dog.  In the end, my money's on Melissa.  But whether or not it will stick is anyone's guess.

Speaking of the hot dog, I loved Jillian's Hot Dog Theory.  What would Jillian say about me, I wonder?  I'm a ketchup girl.  Always have been.  And I like to put my ketchup on in a swirly zig zag pattern, like so:

 

More important than the actual dog condiments, in my opinion, is how one handles the dreaded hot dog burp.  I had the unfortunate experience of sitting next to a gentleman at a basketball game who had downed two dogs during a single free throw.  What transpired was nothing less than horrific.  I was downwind and had to move my seat.  But I digress.

Jillian, I bet Jason has nasty hot dog burps.  In fact, I'd place him at 5 grodies on a scale of 1 to 5.  5 being "move your seat" bad.  Who wants to date a guy whose house is so underwhelming, they have to rent a faux house and try to pawn it off as his real home?  Sure.  You live on a houseboat with a four-year old who can't swim.   Whatever you say, Bachelor.  The next time someone tells you they are looking to marry their best friend, you should come clean on your own strategy.  Puff tent first, best friend second.  Pishaw. 

I just became privy to some insider scoop on the seriously twisted, Bachelor ending.  If you're up for a spoiler, this one will leave you feeling dirty.  Very, very dirty.  Jillian, you're better off letting your Grandmother take you up north to marry you off to that nice young Ukranian man she was telling you about.  Turns out, this guy's nothing but raw onions and chili farts.  Gross.

Bubble Girl 101

I'm allergic to most living things. 

Nuts, cats, dogs, mold, smoke, you name it.  Allergic.  Sniff sniff, wheeze wheeze.  I was even allergic to an ex who owned a dog and a cat and would come over to my house wearing both.  She eventually learned to change her clothes prior to her arrival and set up shop with a spare wardrobe in her basement.  The lengths that some will go to for love ... a musty basement closet and a mental note to "please don't let the dog lick your face" before you nuzzle me.

My lovely Y asked me if we could have a bunny recently.  That's right.  A bunny.  Apparently they need rescuing.  Poor girl is so deprived of real animal cuddle time, she'd settle for a pellet eating, pellet crapping bunny to keep her company.  I had to dig deep to recall my last bunny interaction and whether or not an inhaler was involved.  Flemish, 1986, Ben Franklin Middle School.  We were learning about reproduction.  Green light!  We're good on the bunny front, but rescue or adoption is still pending, after I revealed they they tend to smell mighty funky.  Cuddle + funk isn't all its cracked up to be.

Bubble girl also has asthma, which makes my allergies to the above an extra special treat.  I always have Benadryl on hand in the man bag, like some might carry tic tacs, just incase the server was wrong about that graham cracker crust.  It's happened more than once.  Not a single JGG girlfriend has escaped the dreaded ER trip after I've ingested clandestine nuts in the meal, the bread, the dessert, the make-out.  One former flame actually sent me to the hospital herself, after mindlessly popping handfuls of cashews and then kissing me like there was no tomorrow.  I'm a sensitive creature indeed.  I also had to explain the trail of hives that lead from my neck down yonder to the ER nurse.  Good times.

All of this bubble girl ballyhoo got me thinking about the silver lining.  The good amongst the bad, the pot of gold at the end of the gaybow.  After watching Goonies again recently, it hit me like a ton of bricks.  I really should become an inhaler consultant to the stars.  Not once have I seen a single character on TV or in film hit that baby properly or with any real conviction.  Movies have dialect coaches, right?  So why not an inhaler stunt double?  Asthma consultant?  Albuterol pump operator?

Mikey from The Goonies is one of the worst offenders, followed closely by one of the Culkin clones in the movie Signs.  Anabella Sciorra has a full blown asthma attack in Hand That Rocks The Cradle that is utterly redonkulous.  Intense fear bringing on the life or death race for the inhaler just doesn't happen ...  another asthma nerd fact.  The notion of an asthmatic's sudden inability to breathe is also a complete farce.  All asthmatics are aware of the fact that they are feeling crappy, long before it reaches emergency room time.  There are warning signs, like shortness of breath, tightening in the chest and wheezing that would tip off even the dullest tool in the shed.  Fast-forward to 5:15 in the clip below to see Mikey hit the Primatene Mist pump like a junkie needs smack.  Was it extra moldy on the pirate ship?  Or does the eye-patch reveal send his lungs into spasm?  Neither.  Just a lame-ass prop that lets us know he's a sensitive little Goonie.

Note that Lil' Culkin doesn't hold his breath long here either.  A real asthma champ would hit that thing like they were taking a big ol' Michel Phelps bongholio hit.  Atta boy!

And now, watch a real bubble girl in action!  Listen as the Judge Judy sound-alike Doc tells little Arden how to inhale properly.  More than you ever wanted to know about bubble girl behavior, I know.  Attn: M Night Shamalangadingdong.  I am available for stand-in inhalations and asthma attack stunt double scenes, starting today.  Please contact my agent for more details.

Puff Puff,
JGG

You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

I'm a fixer.  Always have been.  Which is why sitting idly by and not saying a peep about Michael Phelps' bongholio debacle is just too hard to resist.  Kellogg's announced that it was dropping the merman's sponsorship yesterday.  Yawn.  Gawker just posted a hilarious article that states Subway will now follow suit.  Morons. 

Will Speedo hang on to those washboard abs or let Phelps drown in a murky, resin-filled pool of regret? 

I for one don't really know what all the hullabaloo is about.  Remember Kobe Bryant's sexual assault charge?  Yeah, I almost forgot about that one as well.  Married superstar and good-guy role model was accused of assaulting a 19-year old hotel employee in 2003 but settled out of court.  His sponsors, including a $9 million dollar deal with Nike, have all returned.  Even while Bryant was under investigation, he still had one of the best selling basketball jerseys of the year.  What does this say about sports fans?  We have a short attention span and an even shorter memory, for one.  It also might mean that we tend to judge our heroes based on their achievements and less on their personal shortcomings.  Some shortcomings are more forgivable than others, however.

Correct. Someone who has been charged with sexual assault might not make the best spokesperson and could easily be classified as an extremely dodgy role model.  There, I said it.  But when it comes to a little refer madness, can' we just look at the bright side?  This is a brilliant opportunity for corporate america to start an authentic dialogue with their sought-after youth market ... about what it means to be honest, authentic, transparent.  What it means to be human.  Phelps admitted to his pot smoking ways, he said he used bad judgment.  Tsk Tsk.  He also happens to be the most decorated Olympian on the planet.  So what's the big toking deal, Kelloggs? 

Afraid that he'll "inspire" legions of young weed smokers?  That some six year old will bring his dad's stash in for show and tell and then point fingers at the cereal aisle?  Not likely.  I'd actually go out and BUY a box of Frosted Flakes if the powers-that-be had the cojones to come out and defend Phelps' actions, like so ...

Anonymous Sposnorship Blowhard for Kelloggs:

We live in a society where many people in positions of great power make catastrophic mistakes each and every day.  As evidenced by our nation's current economic crisis, spurred on by greedy fat cats like myself, it's time to come clean.  I won't shake my golden parachute in the face of Mr Phelps, as I believe there is no better role model than someone willing to stare in the face of adversity, admit their mistakes and learn from them.  Might I also add that Frosted Flakes taste best at 4:20 and can now be found in portable twin packs, wrapped with our new "Butterfly" Funyons at select 7-Eleven convenience stores.

Some skunky facts:

Marijuana, also known as Aunt Mary, Bobby, Boom, Chronic, Dope Ganja, Gangster, Grass, Hash, Herb, Kif, Mary Jane, Pot, Reefer, Sinsemilla, Skunk, Weed .... is the most commonly used illicit drug in the United States.

Each day in June and July an average of 6,300 youths try marijuana for the first time.  I suspect this is also when a lot of kids also try swimming for the first time.

OH Miley.

Well gosh darnit, the kids sure do like her, so what the heck is my problem? Nope.  Nuh uh.  There's just no changing my mind.  I simply cannot get on board the Miley train.  That train, by the way, is on a one way track to skankytown.  Mama Botox and Papa Hasbeen are crazy, crazy drivers.

After seeing Miley interviewed at the Golden Globes on the red carpet, my initial gut read on bratty "my Disney turd ain't stanky" was confirmed. Whining about how her mother's hand me down Porsche was a lame birthday present, I wanted to slap those Mr. Ed teeth right out of her mouth.  You BRAT.  No?  Porsche hand me down not good enough for you?  Why not?  It would be good enough for The Jonas Brothers.  I bet the Jonas brothers are grateful for simple things in life like pogo sticks, cotton candy and the smell of an Abercrombie scented man.

If we were in seventh grade, you'd like totally be the girl who did you know what with the frozen hot dog.  My oh my Miley, you are but one bong hit away from an E True Hollywood Story.  I can feel it. You shall be revealed!!!  Serenity now!!!

*brief pause while I collect me-self*

Poetic justice just arrived in the form of a TMZ breaking news alert.  What's that you say, Disney execs?  Miley was just horsing around?  I agree with the horsey analogy whole-heartedly, but those faces say pass the dutchie, don't they?  High much?  I think the guy in the red shirt is either trying to give himself buck teeth or he thought he'd add a little insult to injury by doing his Stands With A Fist impression.  Is she just making"goofy faces" with her friends?  I'll let you make the call.  One quick question though:

What in hells bells is Josh Groban doing in her hotel room?

Little Gays On The Prairie

It's Monday, which means that the weekend is officially over.  I came to terms with this sad fact a mere two minutes ago when I was quite tempted to skip out on real work for an afternoon Starbucks, an impromptu chili making crock pot extravaganza and perhaps, just a wee bit o' window shopping.  It's sadly a no-can-do situation, however.  I have deadlines to meet and proposals to complete.  Which is exactly why I'm thinking about cooking and what might happen on The Bachelor this evening.  Why is it that the closer I get to my deadline, the more I feel like shopping for new paint colors for the bedroom?

Y surprised me with an amazing night away at a charming little B&B in St Croix Falls, WI on Saturday night.  We wanted to celebrate her being back in the US and nothing says US of A quite like a backed up toilet, Olivia Newton John on the hifi and a competitive game of Bananagrams.  The place was charming, because it looked a heck of a lot like the little store that the bitchy Olsens used to run on Little House, when sweet lil' half pint would come in, hoping to get some fabric in exchange for her half dozen eggs.  I always felt so bad for Mr. Olsen.  He reminds me a lot of John from John & Kate + 8, but I digress....

While Harriet was not there to greet us, Steve and Sherilyn Bed n' Breakfast were.  Rosy cheeked from a morning snowshoe, these two were very sweet.  And chatty.  And Oh For Cute You Betchya.  A genuinely nice couple who did their best to disguise what their faces had already given away:

Honey, do you think they're sisters?
Friends, maybe?
I'm confused.  The blond one doesn't look like a lesbian ...
Should I have asked if they were vegetarians?

A few short words on the geothermal heating and the ins and outs of operating a wood stove and we were off and running. Which brings us to the awkward moment.  You might know the moment that I speak of.  The moment when someone nice-yet-seemingly-clueless or not wanting to "presume" that you are indeed two big gays says:

Do you need the hide-a-bed?

No, no, that's fine.  We'll share the bed....  But what in the Sleepy Eye would Pa say?

Mama's Boys Lose Their Balls

It's been a while since I've reported back on reality show insanity this season and I would be remiss if I didn't give you at least a few parting words on Mama's Boys, which wrapped last week.  My own mom, as you may already know from my Ginny on Mama's Boys posting, was a big fan of Seacrest's new trashfest.  I believe she refered to it as "cheesey and outrageous."  I was far less enthusiastic.

While nowhere near as good as The Bachelor, the show wasn't without its high points.  Watching the women attempt matzo ball soup was a goodie.  The day that Rob was carted off to an ambulance, after the WWF workout proved to be too much for the "athlete" was pretty good TV folks.  JoJo's mom was a complete and total mess and in need of therapy.  Years and years of therapy.  She was a reality show producer's wet dream.  Ignorant, confrontational, outspoken, racist, emotionally unstable, inappropriately attached and possessive of her son.  Truly, I found her to be much more tragic than outrageous.   There were a few references to her (Mrs. B) wanting to strangle her sons balls, simply because he was getty cozy with an African American contestant. 

In the end, JoJo chose to defy mama's wishes by (begrudgingly) choosing Mindy over Mama.  Rob chose Lauren over Camilla, due to the fact that he knew "his family would never accept Camilla" because she was a) not jewish and b) not white.  Poor Rob.  He chose head over heart and ignored Mr Happy all-together.  From what I could tell, Rob's puff tent was color blind.  I heard he left the vacation early, unable to get Camilla out of his mind and regretting his inability to disagree with mom's wishes.  Firefighter Mike chose an M.D. over a PET by choosing Amanda.  If I've learned anything by watching this sub-sub-par show, its that Playboy is viewed as far more tasteful and acceptable than Penthouse.  Who knew?

Who Needs Rosetta Stone ...

when you have your very own rhythmic doomsday Japanese dancers?  This video reminds me of a favorite episode of Seinfeld, when Kramer and Mickey are given ailments to act out for med students.  I must say, Kramer's gonorrhea was much more believable than this woman's unfortunate case of .... well .... you really need to see for yourself.

There are several things going on here that perplex me.  First and foremost, in which Lonely Planet travel guide does it state that while traveling to the US, you are bound to experience a wicked case of rocket ass? And more importantly, who the hell needs an ambulance for that?  A new pair of pants, sure.  But lights and sirens?  Nahhh.  They must not have a lot of bad Mexican food in Japan, if this is classified as a medical emergency.  I hope they make an episode called "I have no travel insurance" next, where an unsuspecting tourist is hit by a NYC taxi driver and must learn to stitch his own wounds, Rambo style.

The pseudo cheerleader chicks, while dressed like Olivia Newton John in a certain work-out video, must be the Japanese equivalent of SNL's Debbie Downer.   They also like to make up their own "universal signs" for various ailments, while smiling and girating to a Macarena rip-off track.  I spied another video, same cast, where the ladies are chanting "I was robbed by two men," stepford wife style!  You can catch this Emmy worthy video here.

An Overshare at Target

This kind of stuff happens to me all the time.  On public transit, the craziest, most horrific smelling person will always plop themselves down next to me and proceed to tell me his or her life story.  It doesn't matter if I'm wearing my iPod earbuds or obviously absorbed in the latest issue of People.  These  silent cues, while obvious to most, are completely ignored by many.  The crazies always find me.  Which is why it comes as no surprise that chatty Target ladies like to strike up conversations with me in the checkout line.

Believe it or not, I set out to purchase only one item at Target today, which is normally the kiss of death.  I've been known to attempt a simple in n' out Target experience in the past, which is far easier said than done.  One minute you're pushing an empty cart in search of your aisle, the next cart you're caressing new George Forman grills, thinking about outdoor BBQs and summertinis and thirty minutes later, you have throw pillows, an ottoman, a can of baked beans, sonic electric toothbrush heads, the Juno DVD and a lifetime supply of Tampax in the cart. 

How does this happen? 

It's like a casino in there, that's how.  No clocks, no windows at the back of the store.  They also pipe in a top secret Method fragrance that hypnotizes you into believing that empty cart = empty soul.

I was quite proud of myself today.  Immune to the Method doping, I arrived at the express lane, congratulating myself, with only two items.  My Corningware and a humungo bag of bananas. 

Checkout lady:
Did you find everything ok today?

Me: 
Yes, thank you.

Checkout lady: 
Oh goodness, Corningware.  I've had mine for years.  I think it was on my wedding registry.  One of the best things I got out of that marriage.

Me: 
*Nodding, smiling*

Checkout lady: 
Are you going to make anything good in that?

Me: 
Pot Pie.  A nice, low-calorie meal (*wink*)

Checkout lady: 
You know, you really have to do that from time to time.  We Minnesotans need that during the winter time.  A nice, hearty meal.  I made it once.  The trick is the crust, getting it flaky.

Me:
Yeah ...

Checkout lady:
I have a son-in-law who never allows my grandkids to eat sweets.  So you know what?  When they come over to my place, guess what they want?

Me:
Sweets?

Checkout lady: 
Bingo!  And I give them sweets.  You bet I do.  Now if my son-in-law gave them sweets every now and then, they wouldn't be so crazy for them.  But since they can't have them normally, they really go nuts.  It's not right.

Me:
Smiling

Checkout lady: 
Good luck with the pot pie.  And don't you feel bad about it either!

Thank you, Target lady.  I will now proceed to research chicken pot pie recipes for my Aussie, completely guilt free.  Aussie has a thing for Perkins pot pies, you see.  Didn't think it was possible to have a thing for Perkins, but she's got it alright.  Don't know if I can replicate the Perkins experience, but I'll do my best.  Maybe if I stack some half and half creamers on the table in the shape of a pyramid, she won't know the difference.

Selma's Golden Globes

It has to be mentioned.  Just give me a few seconds to get it off my chest and I'll never breathe word of it again.  Talk about a pink elephant in the room!  Selma Hayek's boobies in that strapless gown?  A dios mio, jesus maria y joseph.  She looked like she was attempting to conceal bowling balls inside of a change purse.  WWRZD?  What Would Rachel Zoe Do? 

Correct, oh wise one.  This is not the outfit she wore last night.  But it might as well be.  No amount of boob tape or nipple guard action could have helped her there.  I'm no fashionista and I'm certainly no Jay Manuel, but lord have mercy girl, you need a permit to carry those things around in public.  If you can't keep them in check, you can at least make sure that they don't get lose.  Just one teeny tiny flash of areola would have been enough to send Micky Rourke on a bender.  Thank goodness for the two second delay.

I think it's best to start with the gripes and groans before we move on to greener pastures, shall we?  I started watching the Globes at 5pm CST, when all of the starlets and wannabe starlets started strolling down the red carpet.  First and foremost, I was watching this all unfold on the E Channel.  It was the lesser of two evils, really.  Never thought I'd say this, but I'd prefer to watch Ryan Seacrest over Tiki Barber and the Flusies any day.  I do miss Kathy Griffin somethin' fierce, but after her foul mouthed shockers on CNN, I doubt that E would take a chance on paying her FCC fines.  E channel had the pointless "star tracker" device, complete with Jay Manuel ala John Madden with that blue pen, marking up gowns like they were playing some warped game of fashion football:

"Now can you just freeze the frame here please.  Debra, turn around.  Ok, now hold it there.  Pose, pose. I love the earrings here and all of the bling here.  Girl, you can do no wrong in my book.  Look at this silhouette! Don't get me started on the ruching!  Now let's make sure we cover the blitz and keep our eye out for the tight end."

Miley Cyrus must fall from grace.  STAT.  I cannot stand the sight of her, let alone, the sound of her.  She reminds me of an extremely precocious Mr. Ed. 

To make things even less palatable, she showed up with has-been dad (cut your hair, please, for the love of god) and her Dinah Lohan wanna-be mom. What about this interview makes me want to knock her out with a golden statue, you ask?  Oh, just about ... everything ...

There were some obvious fashion donts last night.  Marisa Tomei wearing Pirates of Penzance, Cameron Diaz looking extra trashy and unkempt, as if she just rolled out of bed in that pink taffeta Chanel Haute Couture gown.  Glenn Close, bless your heart.  I will always worship you and your Fatal Attraction rabbit boiling ways.  But those floods you were wearing left me high and dry.  The gold jacket looked a bit Liberace-meets-Doorman at Mann's Chinese Theater.  Sorry, Glenn.  It's a no-go for me.

 

Last but not least, we have Drew Barrymore and Renee Zelwegger, looking like they escaped from the Phyllis Diller Center for Glue Sniffers.

  

I really miss the old Renee.  Back when her face actually moved and wasn't frozen and pursed in the unfortunate position of looking like she needs to eat a bag of prunes.  Drew's dress, not such a tragedy.  But the hair ... oh my loins...the hair.  Numero uno, time for a color touch-up, sweetness.  Numero dos, Jessica Lange must have slept off her vicodin coma while sleeping on Drew's unruly mane on the limo ride over.  How in the bloody hell does this happen? 

The highlight of the evening had to be Kate Winslet's second acceptance speech.  I love this woman.  Sam Mendes is one lucky scruffian.  Well deserved wins.  Good on you, Winslet.  Good on you.  I especially enjoyed her "American" anchorwoman voice.  She sounds a bit like Miley Cyrus.  Like, seriously.

It was my house, but it wasn't my house ...

When listening to someone recount their dream, it's probably best to stick with a simple, five second overview.  Once you start telling me how big your teeth were or how you were taken by surprise by your ability to shoot Skittles out of your ass, you've crossed a line.  Some simple rules to live by when you absolutely must talk about your vivid David Lynch lucid dreaming experience:

1.  Keep it short, like so.

I had sex with Carrot Top last night.  I'm blaming VH1's "Where Are They Now" for the underwhelming tryst.

2.  Think of it like a Haiku.  Tell me your dream in three melodic phrases.  If it rhymes, you get bonus points.  Stick to the 5-7-5 rule and I might just give you extra time to tell me about that third eye you sprouted after you drank the poison tea in the house that looked like your house, but wasn't your house.

I ate sushi roll
I lived in a piece of toast
Lohan smelled like smoke

3.  Never, under any circumstance, try to analyze the dream while simultaneously recounting it.

So, I felt really bad for the gorilla that was chained up.  Maybe it was a monkey.  Or an orangutan.  Are they gorillas or monkeys?  Anyway, it was monkey-like.  I just wanted to help set it free, but instead of hands, I had oven mitts.  I had no fingers so I couldn't grab the key, you know?  Do you think I'm watching too much Top Chef?  Maybe I just feel really inadequate when it comes to baking.  What do you think?

A good example of a dream recounted that breaks many, many rules. Special thanks to the ginbomb for being such a good sport. 

An Overshare at Trader Joe's

I'm quick at Trader Joe's.  Quick like bunny.  I know where they keep the chicken gyoza, the crumpets and the soyaki.  I'm in and out in 10 minutes.  On a particular gluttonous day, I know the sliver of freezer space that the strawberry mochi call home.  It's a rare day indeed when I cruise all aisles at the TD, although it has been known to happen every now and again.  If I do every aisle, I wind up buying shit I don't need.  And who needs shit they don't need?  Not moi.  We're in a recession and I just can't afford to be stocking up on ingredients for savory baked goods that I've not yet explored.

Wow, blueberry scones!  I've never made scones before.  Maybe I'll like them?
Clotted cream?  What on earth might you be?

(perhaps this can be reslution #1 for 2009 - stop buying shit to bake because you just watched Giatta or Nigella whip up some 3,000 calorie fat ass explosion ...)

Rounding the last aisle and on my way to the home stretch, I flicked the last lonely package of Turkey Jerky into my basket.  Post flick is when a chatty dude in a blue Hawaiian shirt caught my eye.

I can ring you up here if you're ready ...

Dude:  So, did you find everything you wanted?

Me: Yup.

Dude:  Did you have a fun New Year's?

Me:  It was relaxing (code for I didn't go out, chatty boy.)

Dude:  I was all about the drinking, until my girlfriend's aunt started hitting on me

Me:  Yikes, that's not good.

Dude:  Yeah, seriously.  It was a little awkward.

Me:  I bet.

Dude:  My girlfriend was cool, we were all just having a good time

Me:  *nodding*

Dude:  I feel bad for her though, she's going through a nasty divorce right now

Me:  Ouch

Dude:  Wow!  Those are some BIG bananas!

The New Palin

It's no secret that I'm fascinated by baby names ... be it celebrity invention or stranger in-checkout-line-at-Target born.  Had to chuckle when I heard Bristol Palin named her kid Tripp.  Tripp Easton Mitchell Johnston to be exact.  With a name like that, he'll grow up to be a well groomed, mulletless Brett Easton Ellis character with friends called Clay, Sloan and Blythe.  I know this is so four days ago, but I've been a bit behind on my has-been gossip.  Too much Prosecco and seasons 1 & 2 of Dexter make JGG a dull girl.

Speaking of Prosecco, was it the bubbles talking or did Kathy Griffin actually ask Dr. Sanjay Gupta for a pap smear live on CNN?  Gotta love KG.  That woman has no fear.  Anderson Cooper was looking rather sporty and studly as well in his puffy black Prada michelin man jacket. 

Tripp fits in quite nicely with the whole Palin clan, don't you think?  The Latin route word for Tripp means misstep, as in, I really f'd up royally by getting preggers again while mommy was trying to you betchya her way into the White House.  Again, a very well thought out name that has real meaning attached to it, related to circumstance that is.

In other news, Ginny is now back in Jersey and has been reunited with her cats.  The cats who eat turkey breast from Pathmark.  While she was here for the holidays we saw four movies.  The Ginny movie reviews can be found below and are written verbatim by the ginbomb herself.  Please note, the Sweater Scale ranges from one to five.  Five being the absolute best thing evah!  For added effect, please insert Jersey accent while reading the following reviews aloud.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Review:  About an hour too long.  Cate Blanchett is gorgeous and Brad Pitt was just "eh" okay.  I thought it was very slow and way too far-fetched.  If Erin didn't elbow me, I would have fallen asleep after I ate half of the Raisinettes.  I don't know what the hell everyone's raving about.  I had to try hard to stay awake.  So the kid is born old and then keeps getting younger.  What's so great about watching Brad Pitt lose the cane for 180 minutes?  Forget it.

Number of Second-Hand Holiday Sweaters Ginny gives this movie:  2

Milk
Review:  Sean Penn was sensational.  Dynamite.  I remember when Milk was shot and I also remember Anita Bryant's career tanked after she supported Proposition 6.  It's sad how little has really changed since then, isn't it?  Sean Penn's jeans were so tight.  Did he lose weight?  He must have.   I don't know how he could breathe in those.  The kid who was in that wilderness movie was good.  You know, the one who walks into the woods without boots and eats the wrong berries ...  The guy who plays his boyfriend was in that Spanish "Two Mamma" movie that I hated and everyone loved and he annoyed me. Other than that, I thought it was really well done.  He should get the Oscar for this.  My money's on him.

Number of Second-Hand Holiday Sweaters Ginny gives this movie: 4

Slumdog Millionaire
Review:  I thought this was going to have subtitles and I'm so glad it was in English.  I left my glasses on top of the toilet bowl.  This movie was phenomenal.  So different!  Great music.  I have absolutely no desire to go to India.  The water looked so scummy.  Lots of little twists and turns and the camera made me dizzy a few times.  It must have been hard to film, especially some of those big chase scenes with all of those people.  I really, really liked this movie.  The little Indian kids were adorable and such good little actors.

Number of Second-Hand Holiday Sweaters Ginny gives this movie: 4

Dan In Real Life:
Review:  I love Steve Carell.  He has a really big nose but nice teeth.  Are those caps?  They look good whatever they are.  I bet they're caps.  I don't like that Dane Cook but he was decent in this.  The cinematography was beautiful, it looks like it's filmed in New England but the credits showed Newport, Rhode Island.  Lots of old mansions there.  Music was great.  A fantastic feel-good movie with some unexpected moments.  Dianne Wiest is always sensational and the French chick was good too.  What else has she been in?

Number of Second-Hand Holiday Sweaters Ginny gives this movie: 4

Looking forward to the Golden Globes on January 11.  Be sure to check back for Ginny picks and red carpet commentary.  What will you be wearing?

Ginny on "Mama's Boys"

A synopsis of the new reality show in thirty seconds or less, as recounted by Ginny, the reality TV/celebrity wonder guru. (Double click on the image below to get things rolling ...)

Granny's Got Balls

An 88 year-old woman fought off an intruder by grabbing for the family jewels.  Not her jewels, his.  My heart aches for granny, but boy am I glad she watched the nightly news eight years ago.

In a poetic turn of events, the intruder, Michael Dick, was apprehended and jailed.  Woop Woop!  That'll teach you to mess with Granny, Dick.  She's a bad ass and I applaud her effort.