Tag Archives: teebee

Something’s come along, gonna burst our bubble

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I am using the Power of My Mind to send messages to the producers of Paradise Hotel. My brilliant idea? The losing couple should be shot into space. Oh, let it be Dave. Must. Kill. Nerds.

Today I had to write a cover letter. That is sooo hard. The best thing I came up with was this:

“I can’t help but notice that your office is just next door to my current office building and on the 5th floor. I work on the 5th floor too! This makes me a natural choice for this position. Also, the Starbucks on the corner already knows my order, which facillitates maximum coffee break efficiency.”

And there are other dilemmas of course. Word doc, PDF, or elbow macaroni? If I make a shrine-like box out of popsicle sticks to enclose the scroll, do I still need to laminate a photo of myself? Couldn’t hurt, after all, I am attractive.

No, a subtle approach *is* better. I will probably just spray paint the box silver. I want to save something for the interview after all, and I have the most fetching sweater.

The annoying thing is that I’m not even unemployed yet. But the writing is on the wall in eight foot tall letters due to a summer of layoffs and about half an hour of billable time in the past two weeks. Having been through one particularly disasterous company implosion two years ago, I am taking no chances. That company still owes me (and other unfortunate souls) about 6 months of 401k contributions that were sucked out of my paycheck and never plonked into the account. Not to mention 3 weeks of final pay. Plus I got my Social Security statement the other day, and apparently they think I only made $17k in 2001. Ha. I think I spent that much on shoes. And, er, charitable contributions. Other people also had the same problem with under-reported income, so now we’re thinking the management (“pigfuckers”) may have also diverted SS contributions. The fun never stops, and all the agencies you’d think would help out, such as the Attorney General’s office and the Department of Labor, seem to have their thumbs solidly lodged in their collective hindparts. I am thisclose to writing a “help me Hank!” letter to Hank Phillipi Ryan, the local consumer adovcate news harpy. At the very least it would be amusing to see the dynamic ex-mgmt. duo shoo cameras away from their van down by the river.

But I’m not bitter!

-xxoo

Fish, Barrel, Barrel, Fish

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gary shandling

Hey, ampoule the Emmys were on last night! How about that? Most of the country demonstrated the same level of rabid appreciation as some lady on the train this morning.

“Did Friends win anything? No? Oh. But that girl from the gay show did? I like her hair.”

I enjoyed the triumph of The Daily Show and the Hispanic monkeypox montage, treatment but then I realized there was probably an episode of Law & Order on some other channel, help so I flipped around until I found it. Then I fell asleep because my couch is soooo comfortable. I missed the tribute to John Ritter. From eOnline: “Henry Winkler delivered a touching tribute to his friend John Ritter and asked that we remember the star for his versatility, not just for his pratfalls. And then they showed a hilarious clip where Ritter slams facefirst into a bowl of guacamole.”

Other than that, slow news weekend. Lambchop (who is currently without internet access) and I went to a horrendous art show that a friend had some great pieces in. The highlight besides her lamps was definitely the portrait of the cats done in sequins. No really, it was sparky. The lowlight? All the giant photos of female genitalia. I got in trouble by saying “Oh look, a clam sandwich,” and the clam in question was standing behind me. She glared at me. I scuttled away. Fighting a giant clam is a little more Mario Brothers than I care to get into on a Saturday night.

We also saw Goldfrapp; she really does make those crazy noises! Check it out. I love that she dresses like a deranged girl scout crossed with Nazi youth. People should really get into hats more.

-xxoo

Glonk

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I have to get a “knowledge transfer” today from someone at work. I think that’s like the episode of Star Trek where Spock’s consciousness went missing. A wacky search will ensue, and the knowledge will be discovered in a comely nurse.

Last night Lambchop and I saw Lost in Translation, which was just hot stuff. In a low key, perfectly crafted way of course. Really gorgeous. I wanted to get on a plane and go to Tokyo. It would beat sitting in dreary Boston. Which still beats sitting in Arizona with a stick. The one saving grace of today was buying David Bowie tickets. I could have clued you all in that they went on sale today, but I am selfish, with small beady eyes like a snake.

And speaking of David Bowie, I watched Mr. Pants robotically make his way through a performance on the Today Show yesterday. The camera panned across the audience a few times, and I had to wonder yet again at how the most stylish man on the planet manages to attract fat, unkempt goths as a major part of his fanbase. You’d think these poor sods would take a memo! Mr. Bowie did not get to his present perfectly preserved state without daily jogs, a good cosmetic dentist, hairstylist, colorist, wardrobe mistress, and plastic surgeon. Whatever happened to emulating one’s idols?

-xxoo

Gay Day

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Light the candles, physician delicately scented of hydrangea, health sip a manhattan and nibble at some hot pepper chocolates! In between all the delighted squeals of praise for the Fab Five, I have heard complaints that “Queer Eye” is enforcing the stereotype of homos as refined, attractive, youthful and creative people. Heavens no! I urge anyone who finds this an ill-applied and offensive distinction to march in protest. Please choose a remote location so that I may safely ignore your bloated visage, painful body odor, and the misspellings of your poorly handwritten sign.

Lambchop fully supports myths of beauty. Feel free to assume that I, being female, am perfect in every way. That violets blossom in my tiny footprints as I emerge from the bath like a silken Aphrodite.

The only drawback to being female that I can see is that Carson Kressley will never take me shopping!

-xo

Dah-ling I love you but give me Park Avenue

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Licketysplit

I am reading my sister’s telenovela, and it’s coming right along. There is a mustachioed villain, who ties a poor orphan to some railroad tracks, and then there is a guest appearance by Cher, who teams up with yet another orphan to save the day. I wish all those things I just said were true. Actually, it’s a lot of thinly-veiled autobiographical material. I think I am the the fussy older sister, except I don’t fucking shop at Target. And I don’t power-walk with little ankle weights, I do Pilates!

Anyway, we are on an unbearable memory lane promenade. So much of what she’s brought up is simply horrifying. For instance, she reminded me of all the gaping voids in my cultural knowledge. We didn’t have a TV until I was at least 8, maybe 9. Compound that with being home schooled until the age of 12 (breastfed until 3!), and you have a real freak on your hands. Lately I’ve been thinking of taking up sharpshooting for fun.

But when the TV did finally arrive, on a faux wood finish rolly cart, I rightly set out to cram as much pop culture as possible. I knew they were holding me back with their crunchy weirdness. Our mother and father had this delusion that we were only going to watch educational programs. There was much squalling and complaining, so they amended that to include anything they’d already seen that they knew wasn’t “insolent.” They last had a TV in about 1975, before their crazy “drop out of society” experiment of 1976-1986. So that meant I could watch all the Bewitched, Green Acres, and I Dream of Jeanie that I wanted. All fine, parentally approved stereotypes. “Oh Master!”

Insolence, if you were wondering, included Charles in Charge, Growing Pains, The Facts of Life, and so much more. Also objectionable: Alvin and the Chipmunks, because of their whiny little voices. What were these people thinking? I ask myself that to this day. If you ask them that very question, there is confused blinking, as if you are shining a painful light directly on them. At least they finally allowed that the Golden Girls was a pretty great show. For some reason, Small Wonder, with the robot daughter, was also OK. Then my mother eventually became hooked on Fresh Prince of Bel-Air reruns. She would tape it so she could fast foward through the commercials. She became so wrapped up in the character that when we told her that she might like to see Six Degrees of Separation, she jumped at the chance. But then after she saw it, she was nonplussed: “MY Will would never do those things!”

What was I saying about shooting?

Viewer outrage

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Gremlins

Oh readers, what a discombobulating day. Our Lambchop is off touring through Bavaria with Steele for the Easter holidays. She doesn’t know this, but Steele took me into strict confidence and mentioned they will be visiting a few realtors to shop for a castle! He is eager to find one with a suitable balcony for Lambchop to let down her tresses, the rosy gloaming delicately highlighting her cheekbones.

In other news, I am stuck in Boston for the duration of Jesus’ rising, making a valiant go at starting my morning the way normal people do: watching the Today show and drinking a medium regular from Dunkin’ Donuts. But I was ASSAULTED, yes ASSAULTED, by a Lamisil ad that features a maniacal newt-like critter wreaking havoc with an unsuspecting toe. You think that flip-top head in the toothbrush commercial of recent years was bad? Try the trap-door toenail! Dear God. Foot care is near and dear to my own heart, but this, this is crossing the line of propriety!

See my letter to Lamisil, sent via their website. If you have seen this ad and are similarly concerned, do not be shy: let them know!

>

Dear Lamisil:

Just saw the Lamisil TV ad with the gremlin character flipping up the cartoon toenail and running under it to munch on the nail bed and otherwise root around like a pig under a blanket. I almost spat out my coffee. That is absolutely disgusting! I found myself clutching my own toes, howling in distress, til the end of the ad. I never want to see that ad again. While I’m sure nail fungus is painful and your product no doubt effective, why do I, a fungus-free individual, need to see this graphic imagery during my breakfast?

Please stop running this ad!

-yours, Lickety

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Now I’m off to shiver in a darkened room.

-xxoo

The Forceps Is Introduced

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Do you like songs about dental practice and the “Impossible Dream” of a well-made shirt? Do you love Telly Savalas? Thats only the beginning, kats and kittens. It’s all in Here.

My pal j.o.writes “I think my favorites might be Tableau of a Bladder Operation or 1966 American Lung Association Flu Jingle, but really they all have a special place in my heart.” Thanks j.o.!

Linoleum!

smooch

The humanity

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Licketysplit

In these times of “AUGGGHHHHH,” it is somehow less appealing to natter away about boys and makeup and low-fat yogurt, but I’ll just have to give it the old college try. I just got an email about a mass “die-in” scheduled for this Saturday in the Boston Common. Hoo boy. Guess I will be avoiding that area. So much for walking uninterrupted between my house and the gym! Shouldn’t I be fit in case I’m called to serve my country? Perhaps in the Miss World pageant, or an international swimsuit model-off? Americans have the poweful Mother of All Bikini Waxes on their side. Not to mention Pilates and numerous Sephora locations. It would be a slaughter.

But the gym is depressing. Everyone stares bug-eyed at CNN on the individual TVs on the cardio machines. It is pretty hard to slack off when you’re watching marines slinking around on their bellies via a night vision cam. There is nothing you can possibly think but “Damn, do I have it good right now. Now I must PAY.” So everyone is limping pitifully when they get off the machines. And no one is obviously picking each other up, phooey on terror sex.

My actual opinion about current events changes every 10 or 15 minutes. I am in no way an accurate barometer of American pacifism or jingoism. Right now I’m wavering in the camp of “Enough of this shit, I’ll personally go over and rip off some moustaches and berets.” Just get it over with. I know people who are serving in the middle east, and I’d quite like to get them back. The TV news is also stepping up Iraqi human rights atrocity footage. The best story so far was unquestionably the human meat grinder with direct outlet to the sewer. You have to wonder how much is true, but Barbara Walters has recruited a prodigious amount of people with hideous scars. I am certainly all for ending torture (who isn’t! Well, maybe Barbara Walters.), but we are establishing a dangerous precedent of intervention, and we all know that Iraqi human rights are not the real motivation for this war. Ugh ugh ugh.

Oh, what was I talking about? Makeup! Yes. I may have to totter over to Sephora at lunch and spritz myself with various fragrant potions ’til I reek like a French whore. Or I could just sniff this whiteboard cleaner….mmm tolulene. I believe that’s the stuff that melts styrofoam.

Ah, but let’s not forget my real port in a storm! Heather has introduced me to Steele’s twin brother Sloane. Sloane is a pillar of the community. He looks good in bike shorts. He makes a stunning spring vegetable risotto. Sloane is always available for consultation on matters of fashion. He plucked my eyebrows the other day, and I must say he uncovered a natural arch I never thought possible.

xxoo

Number 1 in Vomit and Vomit-related products

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Licketysplit

That’s kind of a lie. www.vomit.com is number one in vomit. We’re number 1 in vomitola! Don’t go to www.vomit.com. It will trigger an epileptic fit of some sort. Worse than Pokemon or the voice of Mary Hart. If you go, remember that I warned you. Once my friend had a seizure at an Iggy Pop show. People hardly noticed! I was the only one remotely concerned as security hauled her off.

But people come here searching for some really strange things. A search terms report is pure zeitgeist, I guess. People turn to us for up-to-the-minute coverage of 50 Cent lyrics, Pop You in the Pooper, and all things Bachelorette. And bukkake. And “manchowder.”

The other funny thing is that people come here at all. Really, what’s wrong with you? Hi mom. It’s ok, I know you’re all just here to get berated by Kitty Winn! I can handle it, really. She’s a swell bird; she deserves all the perfumed fan letters and locks of hair that she gets!

As if you couldn’t tell by now, this is the equivalent of phoning in a clip show. I spent all weekend crouched in front of a computer faking my way through coding some PHP for a freelance project. Luckily my ass is good at cashing checks. Wait, wait, that’s not how it is! I mean….don’t write a check that your ass can’t cash. But I have the utmost confidence in my ass. It’s never failed me. Maybe next weekend I’ll take over the world, or learn French. Anyway, I’m beat, I’m drained, I’m going to get hot noodles.

xxoo

Could you be mine, would you be mine?

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Lambchop

Mr.Rogers

O, Mr. Rogers! You have gone on to tv heaven. Every afternoon in 1978 Little Lambchop sat too close to the tv, rocking her bottom and singing along while Fred cardigan swapped. I don’t really have any jokes to insert here, because I am having a rare moment of a sincerely fond recollection.

I must add, however, that I am rather agape at Mr. Rogers mode of checking out. What’s the point of me trying to quit smoking and curb my alcoholism if Mr. Bloody Rogers dies of Cancer?! How can such a soft-spoken man have been riddled with tumors? Can’t really picture him bingeing on red meat and pouring vodka down his throat, lighting a smoke with the butt of the last one and screaming at his wife to get off his back about the goddamned dishes, can you? Well, another of the universe’s mysteries.

Thanks for Sharing. Farewell, Fred.