The Morning After

Oh, hey guys. Just happened to stumble across this pic of me after a one-night stand with a guy, two midgets and a Black & Decker power drill. Not bad, right?

Much to my chagrin, I do NOT look like this after a night of hard drinkin' and hard shaggin'. By 6:47 AM my mascara and eyeliner have cut a wide swath from my eyelids to both pillows and sheets, the MAC matte Ruby Woo red lipstick that made my lips pout just so has now left a Ragu-spaghetti sauce ring around my mouth and nose, my hair looks like a suitable nesting place for a family of field mice, and my breath could kill small animals and children within a 3-mile radius. If I miraculously make it to a bathroom mirror before the screw-fest and I can see less than 5 of me, I may be able to wipe some of it off. But see, I can't take it all off, because when I wash my face I look like a ghastly version of Aunt Edith, may she rest in peace. And you didn't take home Aunt Edith.

I do have a girlfriend who will have sex, pretend to fall asleep, get up, REAPPLY her makeup, and then go back to bed. That's just insane. It takes 3 hours for me to put my face on once a night. If I had to do it more then I might as well enroll in clown school.

You know the solution to this, don't you. It makes perfect sense: DON'T STAY OVER.
And yet, over and over, as I awake to a ray of blinding sunlight in my blood-shot eyeball and the glass-chewing chatter of a morning radio DJ, I think, ah fuck. I did it again. Let the Walk of Shame begin.

It's Amazing How That Mouth Can Make Your Troubles Disappear

Not to belittle the suffering and loss of anyone in the world who has ever been affected by an earthquake, but... if God wants to swallow up my apartment and shitbox car and plop me in some hospital bed where I wake up to find Angelina Jolie's lips within a four foot radius of my cock... I say bring it on. I mean, what other chance do I have of getting Angelina's supremely-crafted ass anywhere remotely close to my bedside? Fuck FEMA and their insipid relocation plans. You wanna bring real comfort to disaster victims? Get Ms. Jolie on the payroll, fit her in some kinda snug, leather FEMA catsuit, and zip her out to the scene. Oh, and a sympathtic handjob goes a long way, too.

Yeah, but she's got a great personality.

In the land of boob jobs and eating disorders, being witty or having a decent personality falls somewhere on the list between "no stretch marks" and "cute toes." And while I've been told that men extoll the virtues of intellect and snappy repartee, at the end of the day those big words and funny comebacks better be pouring out of a pair of beestung (collagen enhanced) lips and a knockout (surgically altered) body, otherwise they're outta here and headed for the Spearamint Rhino.

Is that really the case? Are men indeed purely visual? Understandably, because 90% of the female population in LA are former prom queens and beauty pageant contestants all vying for fame and fortune (translation: a reality show gig), guys are pretty spoiled by the eye candy out here. So it's tough to get a straight answer from someone who has a permaboner from the moment they go out to get coffee. So what's the deal, people? I'd like to hear from the rest of you who are more grounded in reality and from a planet called "Earth." Does personality and/or smarts count for anything? Or should I take that money I've been saving up for my Masters degree in physics and buy myself a pair of double-D's?

Does It Make Me a Bad Person?

So I'm watching the Thanksgiving parade yesterday and all I can think about as I watch Matt Lauer and Katie Couric go through the motions is...

have they fucked?

My money says they have.

Thanksgiving Day Cometh

My fellow Americans,
Thanksgiving is nearly upon us. And unless you're a card-carrying member of Al Kay-duh, we're all stuck with this one. Think of it as the opportunity to go back from whence we came; to unlock the secrets of our past. And, as Aunt Ida slaps Cousin Ronnie and Grandpa farts during Grace, we will realize, once again, why we're so fucked up. So stuff your face with turkey and pumpkin pie until the pain of a deprived childhood is huddled somewhere between your pancreas and large intestine. Drown your infinite sorrows with the case of PBR that Uncle Johnny was thoughtful enough to bring (again) this year. And don't forget to tell your date, sitting in a catatonic trance as your father relates his disappointment with Cialis, that hey, if you play yer cards right, all this could someday be yours.

Screw Bird Flu... Here's The New Pandemic

Is it just me, or is the dorky-guys-with-cute-chicks ratio officially off the charts? It started out in the imaginary world of TV, where balding, beer-bellied dolts like Jim Belushi and that guy from that other show could land aging but still quite hot women like Courtney Thorne-Smith and Jami Gertz. Now it seems to have spilled out into real life, where I am constantly amazed at how many near-gimps have hooked up with women who wouldn't give them the time of day in high school.

Bring Back The Fonz

This post laments the dearth of cool dudes on TV. I want this generation's version of "The Outsiders" and I get Ryan from "The OC." What the fuck, people. He looks like the dude that just handed me another pair of jeans to try on at Diesel. Blue collar TV now means you're either from Jeff Foxworthy's School for Redneck Mullets or you're 350 pounds and have an neurotic-anorexic wife. I'm just so dang tired of the pussy boys on Laguna Beach whose version of rough living is losing their Treo at the club last night. Oh, the horror. Strip 'em down to their J Crew boxers and leave them for a few weeks in South Central. Make it next season's "Survivor" and you got your #1 fan right here!

Was it Good for You?

These days, you could drive a miniature camera up Shakira's ass on TRL and no one would bat an eye [well, Shakira herself might, but that's about it]. But I still sit aghast at the shit they got away with on Seinfeld.

Seriously, I don't think there's ever been a show packed with so many cunnilingus references. Elaine's saxophonist boyfriend who refused to do it [then eventually caved, screwing up his ability to "perform" during an important gig later on]. Jerry bragging about "the swirl." George complaining that he "needs a map for down there." And lemme just say there's nothing like sitting around with your folks watching the tube when the characters start talking about eating pussy. Good times, those.

My personal fave is the one where George gets "the Tap": That ego-crushing motion that a woman can sometimes apply to the back of your head to let you know that whatever you're doing just ain't workin'. Myself... I'm proud to say I've never gotten the Tap. See, I try to make up with the tongue what I lack in the jimmy [being Irish and all]. But if you've ever received and/or given the Tap, please feel free to 'splain.

No one knows what it's like...to be the fat man

Tyra: "The people that were staring and laughing in my face - that shocked me the most."

Us: "Hey, check out that model/actress/talk show host in a fat suit and bad pancake makeup!"



Gwenyth: "Well I put on the suit and I went outside and walked around. But...nobody would even look in my direction."

Us: "Ho hum. Another Oscar-winning actress in a fat suit. Did I remember to turn the oven off?"

Madonna's Ass Reconsidered

Okay, after taking some heat via comments and e-mail regarding the photo selection for yesterday's post, I grabbed a screenshot from the Big M's latest video which casts her derriere in a better perspective. Not to devolve into a "Madonna: Hot or Not" discussion [because she's totally still so frickin' hot], I will say that for a fortysomething mama, she owns one fine arse. Better than, say, my forty-six year old Aunt Candace, whose ass looks like a sick boulder.

MILF Alert

Almost...what? Fifty? And still the best ass in the business.

Yow.

A Case of the Mondays

For those of you dissatisfied with your current employment sitch, perhaps it's time for a career change...

Your Weekend Rental

The Sweetest Thing.

What, you're gonna hate on a movie that includes one of the most spectacularly gratuitous ass shots in the history of American cinema, in which none other than Cameron Diaz bends over to get something out of the backseat of a car?

This is all on top of Christina Applegate simulating a BJ and pretending to rim Diaz. And, God help us, let's not forget the piece de resistance: Diaz, Applegate and the impossibly hot Selma Blair singing "The Penis Song."

It's as if the filmmakers looked inside my brain.

Girl Crush #42

Folks, I got a thing for Amanda Peet. It's not all the time, but when the camera catches her at a certain angle, I'd sell my left tit for an ounce of her beauty. And she seems like a hot shit, someone you could do shots with and who would rather hang out and party than pose and obsess over who was checking out her ass. And, she had the cojones to show her breasts in The Whole Nine Yards. And it wasn't just a flash, it was like a ten-minute, should-get-a-best-supporting-actress-nod-kinda show. That's right guurl, you kick Alba's ass!

Click Click

This morning, I'd like to salute one of my favorite barroom and/or keg party phenomenons: the photo of two girls pretending to hump each other. Anyone who's ever participated in such merriment, feel free to raise your hand.

In 2006, I fully expect this sort of photo to surpass the obligatory "girls showing off their thongs" and "frat guys putting balls on passed out guy's head" as the single most popular party souvenir.

Once You Go Brown...

You know who's most likely in your office to bang Tina the hot receptionist, Jenny from Sales and Melissa in HR? No, I'm sorry, Norm in Accounting, even after those six Lemon Drops and eight Bud Lights at the company summer outing, you still have no chance in hell. Nope, it's your friendly neighborhood UPS guy. He's always super nice (I think that's one of their hiring requirements), nice legs and arms (all that lifting), always carrying a decent-sized package (run with that one!) and has to take off just when the conversation starts to get interesting. And that just leaves us wanting more.

And you know who comes in second to getting office tail? Sorry Norm, still not you; it's the water cooler delivery guy. Kinda makes you realize those white collar jobs are pretty overrated, huh?

Understanding Women

Dear National Academy of Sciences:

Thanks muchly for providing the results of your recent study on what men and women find funny. The subtle differences between how men and women perceive humor will prove invaluable as I sharpen my stand-up routine for the next open mic night at the Hong Kong.

In the meantime, however, please feel free to dedicate your time and resources to the pursuit of more, shall I say, meaningful data, such as "women who are into rimjobs and beer who live in your neighborhood" or "Massachusetts-based college girls who are exceptionally good at giving head." Not that your current study isn't enlightening. It's good to know what makes women laugh, beyond my pathetic attempts to bring them to orgasm. But just think of the type of impact you could make with The National Academy of Sciences Presents: Local Sluts and Their Phone Numbers.

I'll be waiting.

And the Award for Singlehandedly Setting Humanity Back One Hundred Years Goes To...

I've often wondered exactly what, beyond Fergie, constituted the actual appeal of the Black Eyed Peas. Now, with the song and video "My Humps," the truth has been revealed: posi-fucking-lutely nothing.

TGIF

The following scenarios may be in your 5:30PM Friday future:







But you'll never know until you get through the next five hours.
Buck up, little campers.

Mission Statement of Your Ex

You know how when you guys see us around town with the latest criminal, glue sniffer and/or welfare applicant, you scratch your head and say, "What the fuck is she doing with that low-life scumbag? I'm a perfectly nice guy with a steady job and a few minor parking violations. Why wouldn't she go out with me?" Well, we think the same thing when we see you with Cuntbitch from Hell in the parking lot at Target, beating you with a Swiffer because you didn't pack the shopping bags properly. Or at a party when she's got you cornered just a foot too far from the keg, her piercing voice causing everyone's eardrums to simultaneously bleed, screeching that you never listen, your measly income and pathetic career makes a streetsweeper seem attractive by comparison, and by the way did she mention that her ex had a much bigger cock? Or at THE MALL, for the love of God, carrying her SHOPPING BAGS and agreeing to go to BATH AND BODY WORKS! And while she gets in a huff because you had the audacity to ask how much longer she needs to shop, you stand there, head down, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like "sorry, baby."
WTF, dude. Does she give earth- shattering, toe-curling head? Fuck like a porn star on speed? I'll let you in on a little secret: you needn't suffer so to get a little slice of heaven. Kick the bitch to the curb and pick me up at 8:00PM.

Deep Thoughts

Are online dating sites such as match.com, nerve.com, etc. a mild form of prostitution? You are, in essence, paying for eventual sex. (Well, let's hope to God it's eventual.) Does this make everyone a john? And is there one Internet Pimp Daddy?

Embrace Your Inner Hussy

Another Halloween has come and gone...Time to put the slutty nurse, slutty maid, slutty cat, slutty angel, slutty frog, and slutty slut costumes back in storage.
Sure, we could dress as a slutty elf in a few month's time, but it's just not the same. So barring any fantasy role-playing activities with the boyfriend, it looks like we'll just have to wait until next year to express our true nature.
*Sigh*