Because I have yet to say anything about Tiger...

Merry Christmas!

Ugliest Mom on the Planet.

Join the Revolution!

The Tights Are Not Pants Manifesto

Century-Old Butter Found in Antarctica

Yummmmmmm! Who wants toast?? 
http://news.discovery.com/history/century-old-butter-found-antarctica.html

Always Wear Protective Clothing!

Condom Fashion Show.

Only in China. I love it.

It's hard to dislike cute little girls.

But if anything could do it, it's this.

Why do teenaged boys get to dress normally...

While teenaged girls have options like this?

I took this photo in a suburban mall.

Be careful with the Velveeta!

I have a freelance gig that allows me to learn FUN FACTS about the human body.

What I learned yesterday is that Cheese Washer's Lung is an actual malady (as are Cat Scratch Fever, Bird Fancier's Lung, Farmer's Lung, Malt Worker's Lung, Mushroom Worker's Lung [AKA Dung Lung], and Hot Tub Lung!).

I love to pass on fabulous information like this. 

Another thing, after all I've read so far, I'd advise staying the hell away from hot tubs.

But you do what you have to.

Weird Dreams.

Last night, I dreamt that a bunch of folks were together at a party my beau's best friend (since birth) was throwing. It was in New Orleans. And I had one of my cats with me. Suddenly, he got everybody's attention and announced that, rather than a party, we were there for some sort of biker initiation. Then he announced that myself and the first boy I ever kissed (yuck, by the way) were going to duel. To the death. With handguns.

I didn't want to be a part of it, so I ran, cat in hand, through the streets of NOLA, trying to hide. Everybody in the party was after me because there was a price on my head. No matter where I went, it wasn't good enough. The Beau found me a couple of times, and though he didn't hurt me, he wouldn't help me. I wanted to get a hotel room so I could hide out, but all of the hotels had glass fronts and I'd be caught and killed while I was registering. And the cat, (understandably) upset and tired of being carried around, was constantly trying to escape.

It was exhausting. I hate waking up more tired than when I went to bed.

So cute it almost hurts to watch.

Boozecats.com

Ever wondered what candid drinking photos would look like if folks were holding cats instead of bottles?

Me either.

But apparently, a lot of folks do. 

HO HO HO HACK COUGH AHEM MU HU AH HA HA!

SketchySantas.com 

Enjoy the creepy goodness of the season!

 

Commas are important.

Helen Hunt, what happened to you??

I love my dad. My dad loves golf.

I want to get my dad a book or two on how to improve his golf game.

However, I simply cannot give my dad a book with any of the following titles:

• The Art of Scoring
• Ben Hogan's Magical Device
• Getting Up and Down: How to Save Strokes From Forty Yards and In

Who knew golf was so dirty?

OddlySpecific.com

Gotta love specificty.

If you've got waaaay too much money and more than a little insecurity...

Perhaps The Perfect 10! Aesthetic Toe Shortening™ is for you!

http://www.beverlyhillsfootsurgery.com/aesthetic-toe-shortening/

2012

The planets are aligning. The asteroid has chosen its path. It’s on its way to get us on December 21, 2012 (my cousin’s birthday—that ought to be one hell of a party). Get your ducks in a row! Gather your loved ones! Build a bomb shelter! We. Are. All. DOOMED.

Or not.

Despite what the Mayans proclaimed (and, indeed, if they were soooo smart, where are they now?), I’m not too concerned about 2012. Even if it’s true, what are any of us gonna do about it?

To counteract all of the gloom and doom, I’ve decided to look on the bright side.

IF the world ends on 12/21/12:

Nobody has to file 2012 income taxes.
No New Year’s Resolutions (and the inevitable depression that follows the day you give in and eat a dozen donuts in one sitting).
Ladies, no 2013 swimsuit season.
No more biting into a burger and finding one of those little hard things.
I, personally, will never turn 40.
No more traffic jams.
No more campaign ads.
No more waiting in line.
No more Emergency Broadcast System Test interruptions (who’s gonna miss THAT ear-splitting noise?).
No reruns.
No alarm clocks.
No junk mail.
No papercuts.
No shirt!
No shoes!
No service!

Well, you get the idea.

Enjoy that screeching alarm clock on the morning of 12/22/12.

Wanna Join the Band?

My friend V and I were talking about how much we dislike it when people post and tag unattractive photos of us on Facebook.

"Like this one," she said, pointing out a photo of herself in a swimsuit on vacation. "Ugh. It's all white thighs and boobies."

White Thighs and Boobies, we decided, is a GREAT name for a band.

I even came up with some awesome lyrics:
Play your cards riiiiiiight
And you just miiiiiiight
See some white thighs and boobies toniiiiiiight!

Of course, neither of us has any musical ability, but with a kick-ass name like White Thighs and Boobies, who needs talent?

We'll be holding tryouts in the next few weeks. 

Well, at least they're happy and well-socialized.

ProbablyBadNews.com is a treasure trove of fabulous ridiculousness.

Ah, the office.

Every office has those personalities that make your day better (and those that don’t). Here’s a list of some of the super-duper personalities at my office.

• The Cheese-Grater Voice: This woman shrieks every inanity that comes into her mind. Let me tell you why I don’t like Romaine lettuce anymore! Dogs are nice! How am I going to make it to spin class on time? Or, my personal favorite: TUNA!! If she ever leaves the company, she’s got a future in peeling paint off of walls with that voice.
• The Stomper: This fella buys all of his shoes based on the decibels they put out when he walks down the hall. If he’s upset about anything, you know about it a good 15 seconds before he arrives.
• The Munchausen Woman: If she has a new ailment or new food allergy, you hear about it. You hear ALL about it. You get updates every day. You don’t know much about her personal life, but you do know whether she’s pooped or not on any given day. And it’s then that you realize you’re witnessing the genesis of that old woman who tells complete strangers about the corns on her feet. 
• Supply-Cabinet Marauder: Dude, how many staplers do you need?
• The Fish Microwaver: She is possibly the most heinous office offender. This person coldheartedly funkifies the entire office with the reek of reheated fish and runs to hide (though, let’s be honest, she’s not hard to find—just follow the stench).
• The Every-Day’s-a-Musical Guy:  He always makes my day better. Even when there’s a problem, he manages to sing it for me. 
• The Whistler: The Andy Griffith Show theme song is going through your head? Thaaaaaanks for whistling it. Now it’s going through my head too.
• The Farter: Enough said.
  

Never underestimate the power of xenophobia.

peopleofwalmart.com

You'll thank me. I think.

Oh. My. God.

• Go to Google
• Type in the words "why won't"
• Look at the first entry in the auto-fill list below

I am speechless. I am without speech.

Glade and Geico: You Lost Me

Glade and Geico, who does your marketing?

Glade, I'll start with you. Why have you chosen as your spokesperson a woman who is so ashamed of the fact that she uses your products that she goes to great lengths to hide them? Furthermore, when her dirty fragrance secret is found out, all of her friends make fun of her for using your products. The little tagline you give her—And, yes, it's Glade—is such pathetic and resigned end punctuation to the ad. It's the cherry on top of the saddest sundae around.

Your new commercial for your holiday candles is adorably befuddling as well. A beautiful blonde makes a snowy trek over the river and through the woods to pick some cranberries from a bush to add a lovely holiday scent to her candles. However, you managed to forget that cranberries grow in bogs, not at the tips of branches in the dead of winter.

Geico, what's with the weird stack of money with googly eyes and annoying 80s soundtrack? I don't get it (and not in the way that I don't get some scenes in The Shining but love the movie anyway—what the hell was the guy in the dog costume doing to the fella in the tux anyway??). I've polled a number of folks in the Ad Business, and they can't decipher it either. It's not clever. It's annoying. And it doesn't make me want to purchase insurance from you.

I also notice that you've got a schizophrenic approach to your campaigns. You have the googly money, the gecko, and—sigh—the cavemen (once their sitcom was canceled, you coulda taken that as a sign and ditched that campaign). Who's your target audience?

You make the FreeCreditReport.com (Yeehaw! I could've seen this comin' at me like an atom bomb...) guys look brilliant in comparison.

My Ode to Solitude

Let me start by saying that I adore my beau. We have lots of fun together. And we spend a lot of time in each other’s company. Let me also add that one of the things I love about him is that his house is more than 15 miles away from mine. There’s something about being able to come home and completely be myself that’s so lovely. Living alone affords lots of creature comforts.

• I can come home and change into my uniform of sloppy sweater and Care Bear pajama pants without worrying about being sexy (because, believe me, it’s not a sexy look).
• After a long day at work, I can decide against cooking and have a meal of string cheese, gummi bears, and wine with nary an eyebrow raised.
• My pets aren’t forced to divide their loyalties.
• I can use all of the hot water.
• I can sleep in the middle of the bed on all of the pillows.
• I can up my chances of going to the Olympics in the Sliding Across the Kitchen Floor in Socks category through constant practice.
• My cooking failures don’t have witnesses (I was the only one in attendance for the Empanada Disaster of 2009).
• I can watch all of the embarrassing TV I want. My beau would never sit through an entire episode of Project Runway, much less an entire season (don’t even get me started on the embarrassments that can be found in my Netflix queue).
• Two words: remote control.
• I can conduct all beauty rituals in private. In public, my roots are magically nonexistent, my eyebrows magically shaped, and my toenails magically painted. Why ruin the mystery?
• Nobody has to hear my annoying renditions of popular songs when I insert my pets’ names where the lyrics call for baby.
• When I dance around the house, the potential for injuring someone with my flailing limbs is greatly reduced when nobody else is there.
• I choose all of the décor. I can put owl decals on the living room wall and paint the whole place Pepto-Bismol pink if I want to (though, really, yuck).
• When I’m sick, nobody has to bear witness to a coffee table that’s piled with crumpled Kleenexes and mini-donut wrappers.

After reviewing the above, I’m pretty sure my beau is fine with that 15-mile distance as well.

Part of the Madding Crowd.

I’ve been to a number of concerts. And while I love seeing bands live, the memories that stick with me the most are the ones of the concertgoers around me. Of course I remember being filled with happiness and thoughts of John Cusack with a boom box when Peter Gabriel sang “In Your Eyes,” but I can also vividly picture the dude next to me who was so drunk he swayed at the most gravity-defying angles and never once fell over—a stunning achievement. Here’s a list of some more memorable concertgoers.

Huey Lewis and the News—(Go ahead and laugh; you know you perk up when you hear “I Want a New Drug.”) It was one of my first concerts. There was a couple next to my friend and I. The girl was much older and more sophisticated than we were (probably around 20), and she was disgusted that she and her date had to sit next to children. When she crawled over us to buy a T-shirt, she gave us the nastiest look she could muster. It gave us great pleasure to note that her fly was wide open.

Norah Jones—The guy behind me repeated the same mantra for the duration of the show: OhMyGodShe’sSoHotOhMyGodShe’sSoHotOhMyGodShe’sSoHotOhMyGodShe’sSoHot OhMyGodShe’sSoHotOhMyGodShe’sSoHotOhMyGodShe’sSoHotOhMyGodShe’sSoHotOhMyGodShe’sSoHot.

Hank Williams III—Half of the show was an old-time country tribute to his dad and his grandpa; the other half was ear-bloodying, hair-curling death metal. Three elderly women came to the show and really enjoyed the first half; they also sat through the entire second half (surrounded by head-banging, purple-haired, pierced metalheads), and smiled and clapped politely after each song.

Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood—A woman in the next row slept through the concert (in a $150 seat—that’s an expensive nap). She did wake up eventually, but it was only to go buy a cookie.

Death Cab for Cutie—It was at an outdoor venue. The kids in front of us (early 20s) were so excited to see the band that they jumped up and down… for the entire show. Ah, youth.

The Rockettes Christmas Spectacular—I had overindulged (over-overindulged, to be honest) the night before at the company holiday party, but I’d promised my family I’d be there to enjoy the show with them the next morning. I arrived on time (a little green) and settled in. Everything was fine, until the little kid in front of me (who must have overindulged in something as well) puked all over his row. That was the longest show of my life.

Super Diamond—Everybody seemed to be chemically enhanced at this Neil Diamond tribute (Mr. Diamond, by the way, was my very first concert). It’s hard to pick out one memory from this show, but it would have to be the woman who was so swept away by the music (and whatever she’d taken before the show) that she climbed into the lap of the wheelchair-bound man next to her and rode him and the chair around for the rest of the concert.

Aerosmith and ZZ Top—The fellow in front of us seemed very popular with the women around him, even though they didn’t seem to know each other very well. It became clear to us later that he’d hired his dates. Ohhhhhhh.

Robbie Fulks—My date kept screeching “Play Burn Together!” at the band. When they finally played it, he leaned over and whispered, “This is our song.” The song is about how we’d burn together in Hell. You’ll be shocked to know that the relationship did not last, and he’ll be experiencing eternal damnation with some other lucky lady.

Joys and Annoyances. Joynoyances?

Joys:

• The smell of the Halloween-candy aisle
  
• Big, fluffy snowflakes (Date Snow—it looks really good in your hair)
  
• Scary-movie marathons during October
• Windshield wipers that work really well
  
• Warm, fuzzy socks
  

Annoyances:

• The guy who has to wear shorts when it's snowing outside
• When folks pronounce it "Supposably"
  
• My neighbor who just happens to stand at the window buck naked when she sees my beau pull up outside
• Those plastic, faux testicles that hang from the backs of trucks
• Walmart
  

Balloon Family Christmas Special—Prison Edition

Well knock me over with a feather. It turns out that the Heenes just wanted to pitch their own reality show (I heard Balloon Dad’s self-recorded theme songs for two proposed shows. Based on those alone, neither show was going to get—ahem—off the ground). Don’t we have enough reality shows? And when are we finally going to take the “reality” tag off of them? I was thinking about this last night. If someone lived in a vacuum and these shows were their only grasp on reality, the following would completely cease to exist:

• People with desk jobs
• Real breasts
• 20-somethings who live in large cities and have crap jobs, crappier apartments, and subsist on Ramen noodles
• Women Hugh Hefner’s age
• Couples who have six children or more and jobs to support their families
• Women who can dress themselves
• Cakes that do not turn out well
• Shy people
  
• Washed-up celebrities who fade gracefully into oblivion
• Functional families
• Wedding dresses that cost less than $9,000
• Average cooks
• Women who are single and are fine with that
  
• People who work for Donald Trump who don’t see him every day
• Folks who can have a drink or two and then stop
• Individuals who met a significant other in any kind of normal fashion (i.e., not from a pool of bachelors or bachelorettes who vie for fantasy dates and roses)
  
• People who are neither too fat nor too skinny who just try to eat well and exercise a bit
• People who read
• Playboy Playmates who date men their own age
• Folks who get pulled over by the cops and calmly hand over their license and registration and accept the ticket
• Women who think plastic surgery is a bad idea

If that's reality, I'm about as unreal as it gets, folks.