Monday, January 30, 2012

She's trading her MG for a white Chrysler LeBaron

Courtesy of Mr. Gleemonex:

That poor kid, getting mashed on by a "completely lit" proto-coug Demi Moore, just sitting there, you know with the most raging but useless (thank Shatner, unseen!) stiffie that whole time ... and that weird blonde friend with several more teeth than the usual and a Caroline Mulford party dress, making like the torch singer at the bar at the end of the universe ...

What the fuhhhhhhh?

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Thursday, January 26, 2012

At Citibank we will meet accident'ly

So you know how the NYT Mag got all redesigned for hipness and such not too long ago? Well, they now have this page of Short Attnention Span Theatre called the one-page magazine, chockablock with ickle tiny bitsies of things, and this last week one of them was a "brain twister" authored by Wil Shortz, whose day job is creating something I hate (crossword puzzles) and who has managed to create here something I hate even more: brain twisters.

Like the stupid riddle about the fox, the duck and the sack of grain and the farmer or whatever who has to get them all across the river in a rowboat without any of them injuring or eating the other (somebody actually asked Mr. Gleemonex this one in a JOB INTERVIEW once, kill me now), things advertised as "brain twisters" make me want to go on a tri-state arson spree.

This one was, specifically: Take "Frank Sinatra," remove six letters, leave the remaining ones in order, and what world capital is revealed?

I DON'T CARE. I don't care and you can't make me, and just because I don't fucking know and don't care doesn't mean I'm stupid and you are smart and clever and awesome. It just means you like these annoying goddamn brain twisters and I don't. "Take 'Frank Sinatra,'" my ass -- I wish you'd TRY to take Frank Sinatra. He'd knock you deader than old dad's hatband. You and that bitch Marilyn Vos Savant can go fuck yourselves.

The only brain twister I like is Stolichnaya vodka. Yeaaaah boyeeee!

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Wednesday, January 18, 2012

M is for Mrs. Scott Strauss, which is also my name.

Movie Boyfriends of the Golden Age of Teen Cinema, As Assessed By Teenage Me and Grown-Ass Woman Me: The Third In a Series.

7) RANDALL "PINK" FLOYD, Dazed and Confused

---Teenage (well, 20-year-old) Me: Hey now! Great hair, hips look real nice in them jeans, social chameleon, athletic but not beefy, stoner but not dangerous, nice to kids, music fan, stubborn streak a mile wide -- this right here is the guy for me.

---Grown-Ass Woman Me: Indeed. I mean, he'd grow out of adoring his own teen rebelliousness bullshit, right? Surely. He did have the kind of clarity about peaking in high school that your popular types usually don't, so I'd double down on young Mr. Floyd here.

8) BRYAN, Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead

---Teenage Me: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH DEAD POETS SOCIETY! So cute, so sweet. I will go on a date with him and then I will put my mouth on his mouth!

---Grown-Ass Woman Me: Srsly. Dead Poets Society. Future marine biologist. Goofy, fun date ideas. We don't have to live in the same house as his megabitch sister, so: this'll work.

9) FERRIS BUELLER, Ferris Bueller's Day Off

---Teenage Me: "He's going to marry me." [swoons, dies]

---Grown-Ass Woman Me: Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want? Yes, still. God, what a great high-school boyfriend Ferris would've made. Not sure about the long game, but were I Sloane in that moment, you goddamn right I would've married him that day. It would've made a great story, even after we went to separate colleges and got divorced. Totally worth it.

Still to come: Knox Overstreet, Jake Ryan, J.D., and more ...

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Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Boris ... why always Boris?

You know how Louis C.K. speculates as to what a "bag of dicks" is? Like, do they stick out of a brown paper bag, like baguettes, or what?

Well, that turn of phrase was introduced into my life by my Kansass pal K., who knows who he is if he's reading this, and was usually meant in the context of hung over -- as in we'd all be shuffling around Diamond Mike & Blondie's house the morning after a night of epic rocking and he'd go, "I feel like a bag of dicks." And I'd laugh and it would hurt, because epic rocking goes along with many beers and like as not a shot or three of Sauza or Hornitos because even though we are all old now, WE DON'T LEARN.

And but so, in my mind, the bag of dicks has always been something in the neighborhood of five to eight dicks, depending, and they're in one of those flimsy pink see-through plastic grocery bags like they only use in Chinatown and you see everyone schlepping around on the 30 bus, and the top of the bag is knotted and the aforementioned dicks are just kind of sloshing around in there.

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