Egads.

So here I am, preparing to go to the (rainy) beach for a summers-end vacation and researching my review of Paris Hilton's debut CD Paris.

Snicker all you like, but that's exactly what I was doing. In the interest of full disclosure I will admit to not actually buying the CD, but listening to snippets of songs from it on the internet instead. Really, that's all anyone should be asked to endure.

I was a-ready with haw-haws like, "vocal layering like a digital baklava", and "music as thin and insipid as the artist herself", when I found this, already brilliantly written.

Enjoy!

More E-A-G-L-E-S news

Friday, September 1 at 7:00pm, the EAGLES play some dumb NY team, Superfly's favorite I guess. Whatever.

Go Birds!

Fans of Jeremy Bloom take heart: his hamstring is healing nicely.

Speedy Recovery

Philadelphia Eagles WR/KR Jeremy Bloom

Gold medal winner in the 2006 Olympics for hotness, former University of Colorado and Loveland High School football star, and rookie for my Philadelphia Eagles...is on IR.

Ain't pre-season a bitch!

Exodus Decoded

Anyone else catch this show on the History Channel?

Mr. Titanic, James Cameron,produced--and it shows. Production quality is outstanding, making for lots of "wow" and "wouldjalookitthat" moments; the oddly charming host, Simcha Jacobovici, narrates in a non-preachy, non-political, but reverent style and neatly ties up centuries of loose ends about the hand of G-d versus acts of Nature and whether or not the Exodus story is metaphor or myth. Plus, awesome CGI recreations!

Of course, plenty of cranks stepped forward with their criticisms of the theory posited by Jacobovici (like certain Muslims who take issue with archaeological evidence that supports the land of Israel) but it all sounds jealous and/or self-serving. A big "nyah nyah" to them.

I was positively riveting to every moment of the program--and I am a notorious channel flipper!

Biblical intrigue--What's not to like? They're sure to rerun the program on History, but I see the DVD is already for sale.

*HAPPY BIRTHDAY* Trouble Jr.!

Today my first baby turns 17. (Sigh!) Where did the time go?

As a baby she was sweet and silly.
As a schoolkid she charmed everyone she met and loved school.
As a jr. high kid she loved the Spice Girls.
As a high schooler she went all punk/emo/screamo/electronica
Now, beginning her senior year of high school, she is a poised and (mostly) together young lady.

When some kid in jr. high gave her a hard time for not wearing the unofficial Abercrombie & Fitch school uniform, Sarah totally schooled that kid: "Don't you know the clothes at Ambercrombie & Fitch come from the same sweatshops as the clothes from KMart?" Her affrontery, mixed with intelligence,beauty and charm, garners her the admiration of all.

She reminds me of my sister. She reminds me of myself at her age. When she is hurt or sad I want to die. Sometimes when she smiles I remember her 5-year old self doing an authentic-looking rave dance for an appreciative audience of early-'90s ravers. She always surprises. I'm very proud of her.

She sometimes checks out mom's "totally gay" blog every now and then, won't you please wish her a happy birthday?

Plus ca change

The Scene: A Country Club in New Jersey. The outdoor patio overlooking the greens.

The Players: A group of blue-collar, 30-50 year old Italian-American men on one side and your humble (though fetchingly dressed in full Preppie Handbook regalia) narrator, quietly sipping her coffee, on the other.

The Show: The tough-looking men assemble, greeting each other with "Howyadoin?" and "What's up, jerkoff?" and doing that strange and awkward man-hug hetero-men apply to their closest friends. Cigars are passed out among them and a server ordered to bring more wine and whiskey. They talk about business. You know, wiseguy business.

A raffle is announced over the P.A., prompting everyone but the table full of "the Sopranos" extras and myself to run inside. The night is gorgeous: cool, clear, and (except for a scary overhead conversation) quiet. I eat my cannoli, sip coffee, and stare out at the incredible houses ringing the golf course.

Suddenly, the men go silent. Although my back is to them, I get an oogy feeling someone is staring at me. I wonder what they are thinking. I think about getting up, moving to another room, but I've been put in charge of watching the expensive (and heavy) equipment. So, I work on my invisibility superpower.

"You ever been with two women?" asks one of the guys.

"(Italian expletive) What are you talking about now?" says another.

Clearing of throats, mumbling, some laughing

The first one rephrases his admission: "That's my greatest fantasy, to see my wife and another woman getting it on." He's told that he's crazy and that he's a pervert.

Everyone in the group sits down now, and leans in.

"Man, I would love to have J--- and A---- at the same time, but not them together--that's gross," announces the loudest guy in the bunch. He's answered with hooting, cackling, and mocking.

They quietly contemplate the possibilities for a moment, then crack up, poke and shove each other, and otherwise tease each other like 13-year old boys.

Me overhearing men talking about threesomes is a weird and rather unwelcome trend. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm being punk'd. Or, perhaps, all hetero male conversations eventually run to this topic. Any representative of hetero males care to weigh in?

For the record, my answer is and always will be "No".

Bush League

Billy "Access Hollywood" Bush was a presenter at the Emmys. He was awkward, stupid, and wholly deserving of the mocking he got from man-whore Jeremy Piven. Billy Bush is a douchebag, just like his first cousin, George W. Bush. When will the handing out of choice jobs to Bush family members end? Next we'll see little Barbara appointed Ambassador to Spain, with an official residence in Ibiza. "Tee Hee! Omigod, I love this song! Let's dance, yo!" "Miss Bush, the committee awaits your answer to the councilman's query." "Shhh! This is my jam!"

Bush family members' job highlights:

*Became heavily embroiled in the S&L Scandal of the 1980s
*Turned the C.I.A. into the hopelessly corrupt bureaucracy it is today
*Exchanged arms and military support to vicious dictatorship for a poll-boosting hostage release
*Allowed the Saudi royal family to direct American national policy
*Twice went to war over spurious and suspect reasons
*Wantonly spied on U.S. Citizens
*Rigged two national elections in a blatant and outrageous fashion
*Answered solely to Mid-East oil and gas sheiks (Screw the American people!)
*Got kids, cousins, mistresses, and political friends powerful jobs and appointments

If ever a rich family that should be forcibly sterilized, it's this one.

Allow me to point out that this isn't my "opinion". Not only is the above list factual, it barely scrapes the surface. Also, I'm not a Liberal, a Democrat, or a Conspiracy Theorist. I don't feel the President of the United States is above the law or absolved of scrutiny. George W. Bush will go down in history as the Worst President, I'm certain. All the hangers-on like Karl Rove, the Cheneys, Santorum, O'Reilly and the Coulternut will go down with him. Maybe you don't see it yet, but you will.

That last part is my opinion. But I'm right. Want a politico you can actually respect? There are up-and-comers you should get to know, like Barak Obama.

Meanwhile, Billy Bush is still a douchebag and needs to get off TV.

Geek Out

I don't care how "over" they are, I still crack up at:

All Your Base Are Belong to Us

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

Fat Asian Kid


Enjoy!

Funny Ass Shit

A/V Dream Job

VIDEO

Almost Finished With Tedious Postings

I want a bike. I haven't owned a bike for a mighty long time, say, the late '80s. It was a Nishiki city bike and I absolutely loved it. They don't make them no more, so I'm looking at these fabulous beach cruisers all the cool kids have.

Doubt it will surprise you to learn I'm not exactly the off-roading type. Not outdoorsy, no, not at all. Weather and insects are what keeps me mostly indoors. But Superfly adores biking and--under the right circumstances--I do, too. Shared activities make for goo fun in relationships, we can all agreee. Why, in the interest of sharing I even went camping for the first time last summer! Granted, it was on a beach and we had an air mattress and nearby shower, but I slept outside, people!

So, anyway, no "mountain" bikes for this filly. I even found a beach cruiser that's black and pink with a darling little skull on the seat! Besides, these fancy-geared bikes all cost wa-a-a-ay too much for an occasional activity. If--heaven forbid--I have to go up a steep hill or something, I'll just manage it the old-fashioned way: stand up on the pedals and heave myself up the damn hill. Gears, shmears.

And when someone steals my cool beach cruiser, I'll be out less than $100, as opposed to more than $500. Of course, they won't enjoy their theivery for long, as I'll find them, beat them senseless, and take their wallet.

Anyone have experience with beach cruisers or buying a bike they'd like to share?

Mahalo, Superfly!

Go to Google and type in the word "Failure".

Haw!

It's a WINNER!

Ok, my two weeks of Fat Flush Plan are finished and I have two things to say: "Woot! Woot!" As promised, fat and cellulite melted off my body like butter off a pancake. I lost 10 lbs. and went from a size 8 to a size 5/6, in two weeks.

Highlights:

- Despite not exercising one iota the first week, I dropped 5 lbs.
- Going to the gym the second week really amped-up the results
- Only 2 days of awkward adjustment to the diet and caffeine withdrawal
- Phenomenal energy without any "crash" (as with caffeine, sugar, energy drinks)
- No need for sleep medication or alarm clock
- No more IBS symptoms (best result of all, I say)
- Nothing quite like putting on underwear and finding it to be too big!

So, HELL yes the Fat Flush Plan works. I highly recommend! Superfly, Bobulah and K-Money are all going on it, too, so we can all look forward to hearing their testimonials.

Thank you for putting up with my reports on this and thank you for your words of encouragement. MWAH!

House Party

Things I learned from Saturday night's Bobulah house party, where Superfly and I got our karaoke hosting on:

1. K-Money's chicken sammich recipe is awesome.
2. Thou Shalt Not Use the G.D. Words in This House, Trouble.
3. People who are drunk and high are easy to torment by hiding baggies and/or lighters.
4. No amount of coercing, badgering, or threats will get K-Money's sister to sing karaoke.
5. Despite being enormously drunk and high, Bobulah can sing the shit out of anything.
6. Basements are poorly ventilated, making contact highs easy to come by.
7. Bobulah's parents are either heavy sleepers or big fans of "Love Shack".
8. Bobulah's house is set in the movie "Children of the Corn".
9. White people cannot rap.
10. Dogs prefer to drink room-temperature Lager.

Sorry if you weren't invited to this one, hope to see you at upcoming events--we are also always alliteratively available for all your house party entertainment needs. Got karaoke?

JonBenet

I was living in Denver, Colorado when JonBenet Ramsey was murdered on Christmas Eve, 1996. The media attention there was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed; the details of her horrible death laid out in grisly detail in the papers and on TV day after day, blame thrown around in an ugly hysteria. In the end, more was lost than a pretty little girl.

The Boulder police and D.A.'s office may never repair the credibility lost in the frenzy for justice and the family's grief, pain, and loss cannot be imagined. Patsy, JonBenet's mother, may have been a pushy stage mom, may have--knowingly or unknowningly--sexualized her toddler daughter through all the beauty pageantry, but did that make her culpable in her daughter's death? No parents are perfect, no marriage is perfect, yet the Ramsey family stayed together through society's devastasting scrutiny and judgement.

I believed all along that an intruder--probably a family friend--committed the crime, and it looks like this ex-schoolteacher/pedophile sick fuck Karr is the guy. Authorities apparently knew about him for some time (it's rumored he sent disgusting emails to Patsy Ramsey about JonBenet's murder before Patsy died) but waited until they had sufficient evidence to collect the bastard from Bangkok. Even if he didn't kill JonBenet, that's one less pedophile hurting Thai children. Difficult to imagine him getting a fair trial in Boulder, but here's hoping he's tried and convicted there. Boulder committed untold funds and manpower to solving this murder and deserve some vindication, I think.

At some point, I think the media outlets that made the Ramsey family's life a living, breathing Hell should issue a sincere and public apology. There are so many people desperate for closure on this senseless tragedy, a need for an end to mystery and finger-pointing. Putting JonBenet's killer to death seems the only solution.

Rest in Peace, JonBenet and Patsy Ramsey.

"I Wish I'd Never Met You"

"I wish I'd never met you," he said, holding my hand and gently kissing it, all gallant-like. I don't know that we technically ever did meet, we simply shared a table and some bawdy jokes with eight other people at karaoke. When I sang some Zep, he ambled on stage and pretended to be my groupie. "You're amazing," he continued, "and I'm happily married. I'm very sorry I met you."

Dumbya visits the Amish

As usual, I was first to arrive at my yoga class. I rolled out my sticky mat in the spot where I prefer to get my bendy on and turned on all the lovely, muted lights around the room.

10 minutes after the start of class, the instructor and all the other yogis finally arrived.

"My goodness! Can you believe all that traffic--and those helicopters?" exclaimed the instructor, stripping off her street clothes on the way to the stage.

Bewildered, I said, "Helicopters?"

"The PRESIDENT is here! He was gonna stay at the Eden but there was some security issue. So he's at the Host. Man, you cannot believe the traffic on Route 30! Didn't you hear all the helicopters?"

I wearily replied, "I live in Brooklyn. I never hear or see anything, anymore."

"Oh. Well can you just believe you can take a picture with the PRESIDENT for $10,000? I would just like to meet him, but who has time," enthused our instructor.

And the class tittered about Secret Service goons all over town (searching the Amish buggies?) and how you can't go anywhere without sitting in traffic and waiting in line.

I asked the instructor, "Why is Bush here?"

"Uh..um..oh yeah! Lynn Swann. He's here to support Lynn Swann," she replied.

Right. Former NFL star Lynn Swann, running against beloved Ed Rendell. Good luck with that, Lynn.

One more week of dental agony before I return to the mean streets of Bay Ridge. I cannot fucking wait! Seriously, I come down here for the peace and serenity (cue: "Ode to Spring") of the beautiful PA countryside and the warm and friendly people I know and love. I do my celebrity to-dos, traffic, and waiting on line in New York, thank you very little.

GO HOME BUSH (and don't come back!)

I Have Superpowers

Not long after being added to my blogroll:

--Snowbizzlebaby, a/k/a Mandy Stadtmiller was all over the news for being molested by Andy Dick.

--Tremble, a/k/a Todd Levin was featured in a New York magazine article about beards.

Ok, ok, so both are hard-working and talented comedians who earned their brush with fame on their own right, but dammit--I'm taking some credit and that's all there is to it.

Got a beef? Make a meatloaf.

Week 2, Day 1

Great galloping herds! I lost 5 lbs. since last week--without exercising. Clearly, the Fat Flush Plan works. Week 2 features a more varied and less restrictive menu, which I will supplement with daily workouts. No, Marty, I have no aspirations toward acting stardom: the diet is pure vanity, the dental work extremely necessary and not exactly cosmetic. Not to mention painful. Took some painkillers last night and tripped my balls off for about 3 hours, probably thanks to my sparkling clean liver.

For future reference: Oxycodone + chocolate shake = epic barfing

Drilling in My Skull

Round two of the dental work jamboree finished up this afternoon with 6 more fillings. I think when I'm all finished I'll be able to get WiFi in my mouth. My whole face is swollen, Quasimodo-style, and I'm forced to cheat on my FFP diet in the form of a chocolate milkshake. Nothing will be masticated for some time, seeing I go back next week for more of the same.

In happier news, I wrote a couple of pieces for metroblogNYC on Famous Fictional New Yorkers--a idea stolen from metroblogLA, but come on: New York has better characters than LA, hands down. (Though LB may argue this case!) I chose Auntie Mame (of course), Tony Manero (Yo! Bay Ridge in the hizz-ouse!), and Eloise (my and my troublebabes' favorite after Lyle, Lyle Crocodile). Please do check it out!

Songs About Trouble

I'll give you the song title, see if you can come up with the artist. An exhaustive search (right!) of all genres of music produced these titles. The songs simply called "Trouble" are numerous, so I've provided the best known of those artists.

1. TROUBLE - Elvis Presley
2. Trouble - Pink
3. Trouble - Ray Lamontagne (w/thanks to Marty)
4. Trouble - Akon
5. Trouble - Whitesnake
6. Trouble - Buckwheat Zydeco
7. Trouble - Coldplay
8. Trouble - Cat Stevens

Ok, here we go: (note: I'm looking for the orignial artist, no stupid remakes)

UPDATE: ANSWERS

"There's Your Trouble"- Dixie Chicks
"I Think I'm in Trouble"- Lindsey Buckingham
"Trouble Tribe"- Trouble Tribe
"Trouble in Shrangri-La"-Stevie Nicks
"Trouble in the Land"- Black 47
"Big Trouble"- Trout Fishing in America
"Here Comes Trouble"- Bad Company
"Trouble Man"- Marvin Gaye
"Trouble in Paradise"- Randy Newman
"Making Trouble"- Geto Boys
"Trouble With Normal"- Bruce Cockburn
"Trouble is"- Kenny Wayne Shepard
"Trouble Ahead, Trouble Behind"- the Greatful Dead
"Trouble at the Henhouse"- the Tragically Hip
"Trouble's House"- Paul "Trouble" Anderson
"Trouble Sleeping Pt. 1"- Corrine Bailey-Rae
"The Trouble With Being Myself"- Macy Gray
"Born for Trouble"- Willie Nelson
"Trouble With Love Is" (Bobulah gimme)- Kelly Clarkson
"Trouble No More"- John Mellencamp
"Double Trouble"- Lynrd Skynyrd
"Little Trouble Girl"- Sonic Youth

Day 5

(With apologies to those already damn sick of hearing about the diet)

It seems a fat-heavy, salty, chemical-laden, and caffeine-fueled diet/lifestyle makes one irritable, miserable, and fat. Shocking! Just five days into the FFP I've discovered a disturbing side effect: uncontrollable giddiness. I wake up feeling dynamite at 8 freaking a.m. I be-bop through the day, smiling like a cult newbie selling daisies, and being impossibly nice to everyone. I am a sea of calm when they cut me off in traffic--I'm in no hurry, pal, go ahead! This is fundamentally, unquestionably wrong.

However, I see progress in the form of not-seen-in-many-years abdominal muscle definition. The clothes are looser and easier to squeeze on. Random strangers in non-consecutive meetings complimented my overall hotness. Ok, this isn't so bad.

The food improves as you head into the second week of the program (salsa!)and I'm now sucking down unsweetened cranberry juice/water/ground flaxseeds like there's no tomorrow.

Back at the health food store this morning (reinforcements and organic coffee-whee!)I am ashamed of my self for thinking the Lilith Fair girls were mean and judgemental. They are nice girls. We had an interesting conversation about beer--news is, Rolling Rock is leaving Pennsylvania. Meh. My beer is Yuengling Lager, always was, always will be. America's Oldest Brewery and a family business that should serve as a model to all family business. Plus, the beer is awesome, and you can often find it in a "Yuengs and Wings" special at local taverns for under $5. I ask you, what could be better than Lager, chicken wings, and fantasy football?

I don't get to have beer yet, on the FFP. I go out and endure the endless teasing of the barkeep and all the bargeeks for my cranberry-and-club sodas. Nuts to that. Giddy or not, I still don't give a flying monkey fuck about what anybody thinks of me.

Back to the diet (ahem), so far, highly recommend. A bit of a harsh start and the opportunity for whining is endless (er, obviously), but it looks like a sure bet for giving your poor, abused internal organs a fresh start.

I don't have time for blogging: I have cran-water to drink! Ciao, bella e bello!

Related: Ok, another drawback of the FFP is bizarre cravings. Lately I feel like I could murder for a BLT. I don't eat bacon.

My Friends

For them, anything!

Anyone interested in, or involved in, the film community is invited to check out this posting by my friend Star.

Buzz! Whirr!

Received my first two of fifteen fillings today, the "worst" ones. Must say that local anaesthetics are much improved from the last time I visited the dentist (eigth grade) for some hot dental amalgam action. I only jumped through the ceiling once, when the good Dr.'s miniature belt sander veered a bit close to my poor nerve. Tried valiantly to keep my stupid tongue out of the way so I could actually talk later, and failed. Noticed that the dental hygienist kept asking me questions so she could determine if I was sufficiently numb and stopped trying to speak normally.

It was quick and dirty, done in 30 minutes. I get to go back on Monday for 5-6 more. The left side of my head is gooey and my jaw hurts from clenching my teeth (lest I drool), but it was otherwise no big whoop. I'm not exactly looking forward to more drilling, sanding, buffing, and metalwork in my skull but I am certainly looking forward to an end to the heinous tooth pain ruining all my meals.

Apologies to those afraid of dentists for the graphic imagery. Really sorry, actually, because the longer you put off a trip to the dentist, the worse it will be for you--I didn't go because I was (am) lazy. Do you want to be like me? A root canal and 15 fillings? Of course not. So make that appointment TODAY. Many dentists now offer heavy sedation for even the tiniest dental procedure, so you chickens will only have to endure the waiting room for your annual cleaning.

Off to buy straws, through which I'll enjoy my supper--MWAH!

Day 2

Caffeine withdrawal, what?

Oy, the headache, the exhaustion, the irritability. The author, Anne Louise Gittleman, warns of the initial crappiness of the Fat Flush Plan in her book. I skipped those pages, of course.

Even if I don't lose weight on this diet I'm sure losing lots of money. Stuff at the health food store costs wa-a-a-ay too much. And, similar to Costco, you can only buy your whey protein powder or ground flaxseed in vat sizes. The hippies who staff my health food store are mean and judgmental. Or, maybe that's the caffeine withdrawal talking.

Did I mention irritability?

The food commercials and cooking shows on TV are driving me batshit. Yes, Mario, more gnocchi for me! Oh, hell yes, I'll take a Crispy Grilled Stuft Burrito! That Prime Burger at Ruby Tuesday looks like porn to me. Ay chihuahua!

Would you like to know what food I miss most? Butter. Previously, I ate the real deal, whole fat, plenty salt Plugra butter, copiously, on almost every damn thing I ate. You want me to eat steamed asparagus with no butter? Sacre bleu! Popcorn with flaxseed oil? Are you mad?

How sad: two days into the diet and I'm nostalgic for butter.

No more posts like this, I promise. And now to finish the most repulsive Raspberry Smoothie I've ever seen. Whi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ne

Out of Comission --Enjoy this photo!

Flushing

(No, I'm not in Queens today.)

After many years of pooh-poohing the idea of fad diets, I embarked this morning on Anne Louise Gittleman's Fat Flush Plan. Over the weekend, Superfly and I saw a friend we hadn't seen for about a year and she looked stupefyingly amazing. She credited only Gittleman for her scorching bod. I remembered reading about the Plan in Oz Garcia's book a few years ago and whatever Oz says, goes, as far as I am concerned. $22 for the book and $77 at the grocery and health food stores later (No wonder rich people are thinner!), I'm raring to go.

Flaxseed oil cannot be heated: No problem. Cranberry Juice, unsweetened: Check! I, who am loath to give up anything at all, ever, am giving up: coffee, alcohol, dairy, salt & pepper, soda, all sugar, white flour, and everything else I like, for two weeks.

Let me just say this: scrambled eggs are MEANT to be mixed with cheese, a dollop of milk, and some seasoning. Scrambled eggs, plain, with spinach, green pepper, scallions, and parsley? Hot water with lemon instead of coffee? I had more fun getting my teeth cleaned earlier this morning.

Unlike the well-known program TK is trying out, the Fat Flush Plan aims to cleanse the liver, not the colon. Sort of "heading the fat off at the pass", if you will. It promises weight loss, better health, and all-around well being. Neato! I shall stick to this Plan like Paris Hilton to paparazzi and let you know how it goes.

Meanwhile, if you've tried FF or know someone who has, please feel free to throwdown them testimonials in the comments section herein, bitches.

Alas, Poor Me

Sonsabitches.

After being bitten up by a million fire ants in Memphis: my feet swollen and intensely itchy and painful, hives inching their way across my chest, and the delightful side effects of Benadryl cracking me out; I invested in some topical corticosteroid cream and made sure I had an Epi-Pen at the ready to ward off anaphylactic shock.

God knows I won't die from a motherfucking, cocksucking insect bite. I absolutely refuse.

So I'm in Virginia Beach with Superfly, slathered in sunscreen and whooping it up in the sand and surf. Because I'm allergic to bug spray (naturally), there's no stopping the mosquitoes and spiders and whatever other creepy crawlers from feasting on my fair, freckled skin.

Those 20 or so bites are now the scariest wounds you've ever seen. I'm waiting for one of them to turn black, sprout pustules, and rot off a limb. Allergic to bug bites. How lame is that?

Clearly, I am not meant to spend any time outdoors. Not in the warm months--the bug jamboree--nor indoors during the cold months, when bug spray to control the little fuckers are napalmed hither and yon, interrupting my fabulously busy life with trips to the ER for life-saving injections. How nice. Is there somewhere I can live where insects don't like to live? The moon, you say? Excellent.

My aunt has an auto-immune disorder called Porphyria--you may remember a Julianne Moore movie called Safe, in which she battles the disease. Basically, you're allergic to absolutely everything and must live in a bubble. If I inherited that, on top of inherited bipolar disorder, inherited weirdo defected wrists, and a family history of huge tits, I'm officially quitting.

Clearly, my DNA is something of a cosmic joke. How nice.

Perhaps this whole bug allergy thing is payback for all the roaches I ignited with hairspray and a lighter, or maybe for the flowering tree we had in our yard growing up, from which you capture a bee in a flower and throw it at someone as hard as you could. Bug karma. Oh yeah? FUCK YOU, INSECTS.

Please, friends: murder every biting, stinging insect you encounter. Let no bee, wasp, yellowjacket, bad spider, bad ant, roach, tick, flea, or fly be allowed to roam or fly free.

Meanwhile, I'll be over here in my bubble, slathering anti-itch cream on myself and whimpering.

Stripper Chic

Are ya kidding me? When did skeezy pole dancers become beauty and fashion icons?

Seriously, though, look around. Your average soccer mom, celebutart, and high schooler all sport the same stuff-some-money-in-my-thong look: overly tanned skin, overly hairspray'd hair, sparkles, and extremely questionable sartorial choices best left to coke whores. Some women think "burlesque" is a fine exercise option--one girl who frequents the Lodge (and in all other respects appears to be a normal, sweet girl) busts out her patented pole dance move--bend and touch toes, slowly arise butt-first, and...hair flip and sultry look. Nice! Here's a fiver, honey!

And this is acceptable how?

Really, how low must one's self esteem be in order to spend hours every day transforming oneself from Average Jane to Krysyl, Champion of the Pole'lympics with the application of "glowing" lotion on top of radioactive fake tan and just the right mix of short shorts and high heels. Uh, yeah.

Maybe men like their wives, daughters, sisters, and friends resembling the strippers from their friend's bachelor party, maybe not. In any case, I'm super anxious for this atrocious trend's demise.

:end rant:

Plenty A/C in A.C.

One moment, me, DJ Star, and Alem (most fabulous Bosnian-German Muslim, ever!) were soaking in some frightful karaoke at the Lodge; The next, we were speeding down the turnpike towards Atlantic City at 1:30am. Why, you ask? Why the hell not!

Three irrepresible and irresponsible fools cracking wise and trying to get stupid songs stuck in each other's heads, munching on FunYuns (me) and Skittles (them) and discussing things of a decidedly indelicate nature, rocketing down the road in a banana yellow Jeep with a leaky A/C. Jealous much? I thought so. We reached our starter casino, the Sands, and floated ecstatically in the deliciously frigid A/C.

High rollers we are not. Alem and I are afflicted with similar "Ooh, look! Shiny!" and vanishing cash problems. Star's been to AC so many times, the bums call out to him from their boardwalk bench perches. He plays a respectable electronic poker but loses his shirt on blackjack. We casino-hop and collect Rewards cards. Our Captain, Adam, can't be with us but calls every few minutes to hear about the fun we're having without him. Everybody now: "Awwwwwwww"

At my insistence, we make for the Boardwalk to see the sunrise, which ends up being a hideous orange orb in a filthy haze. Locking elbows and launching into a smoke and sleep deprivation-tinged, croaking rendition of "We're Off to See the Wizard", we make our way back to the Sands. What's this? Police and an ambulance parked on the Boardwalk, and a soggy and sobbing girl in her bra and shorts, being tended to by unmoved paramedics. What kind of glactic idiot goes for a daybreak swim in Atlantic City?

The boys were extremely pleased with their decision to invite me along for this adventure when they learned I'm an insomniac. Ergo, I was designated driver while those oafs snored their brains out from the instant I turned over the ignition.

Thanks to the leaky A/C in the Jeep, we drove home with windows wide open for the hot air outside to rush around and wreak havoc with my 'fro and cause an epic sweat. I do not complain about the heat. Know why? Well, partly because I have Satanic DNA, but mostly because I remember winter very clearly. Specifically, I remember the Blizzard of '06 and the terrifying feeling I'd never be warm again. So bring on that heat index, that stupefying humidity, the never-ending sweat and frizzy hair. I rejoice in Summer, in heat, and that's all there is to it.

Oh, I almost forgot: night before last I was invited to a pool party. OH MY GAW! That is the solution, my friends--midnight swims. Pleased to announce I won the underwater handstand contest and a freestyle swimming race, and held my own in pool football. :PREEN:

Someday, Superfly and I will live in a house with a pool. Let the sucking-up begin!

An I Hate My Boobs Rant

Working for them, apparently

Don't get me wrong, I love Dolly Parton: She's iconic, she's talented and she reportedly is a wonderful person. Pamela Anderson has my respect for turning a gimmick into untold fame while retaining a sense of humor about it all. Both are beautiful and successful women, both have gigantic racks.

I do, too. I hate it so much, I had the suckers chopped off when I was 19 and a size 0 dancer (not the pole kind) sick of taping my breasts and concocting elaborate layered clothing ensembles in order to disguise my enormous jugs. A couple of kids later, the damn things grew back! I still dress in strategic layers and mostly black, my own amazing magic trick. See 36DDD disappear!

Thing is, boys and men have X-ray vision when it comes to gazongas. Most men have a primal response to the sight of huge funbags that is tough to explain and even tougher to endure. What Dolly and Pam and I can tell you about that is that, if we want to, we in the big-tittie club can sometimes take advantage of men when they are in a drooling, staring, blubbering state.

Unlike Dolly and Pam, perhaps, I am usually too busy being mad at the guy to try anything. Unlike Dolly and Pam, I de-emphasize my bazooms in clothing, posture, and every damn thing else, and anyone who makes a big deal about them is off my Break-the-Fast list. I hate my boobs! Did I mention I hate them?

Clothes do not fit. Bras are expensive. Chronic back pain is a way of life. Exercise is made difficult by bouncing boobies and them just being in the way. Women with large busts usually have excess fat in other places--unless the busts are of the silicone variety or the woman has liposuction, or works out ferociously. I could have a flatter stomach, but I'm otherwise in good shape; I'm petite and work out all the time. Which makes the rack all the more pronounced and prompts idiots to ask me if they are real.

Why someone would choose and pay for this misery is beyond my comprehension. I don't want attention from men based on my milk-makers! I don't want to be known for my bra size! I want to buy a shirt that fits, in the same size as my pants. I want to work out without staring into my cavernous cleavage when downward dogging! Waaaaaaaah!

I'm telling you, when I hit that Lotto jackpot, they're going chop-chop (again). Any flat-chested girls interested in inheriting all the aches, pains, and embarassment of epic jiggle are welcome to the proceeds.