Tag Archives: lindsay lohan panties

The Difference in Good and Bad










Pictured: at left, moi. At right, Lambchop.

Oh, I kid, I kid! But this reminds me, someone is having a birthday soon. What to get her this year, besides my customary boudoir photo set? I wonder if she needs any new housewares for her chamber of horrors? The one month anniversary is the corkscrew anniversary. I think we can officially say the horrors are no longer makeshift.

If Lindsay Lohan were my friend, I would be the pal who knows what she really could use: a jug of baby urine, for surprise drug tests. We would probably eat prescription drugs like Skittles and get in a slap fight. Come to think of it, this is actually similar to many of my most prized relationships. Call me, girl. I am also good at credible court testimony and impromptu eulogies.

I am noticing a very real national epidemic: people have no idea that they do not know everything. The Dunning-Kruger effect has swept the population, leading to pitiful displays of assumed prowess and total lack of awareness of failure. This issue directly relates to the complete inability to distinguish good from bad. Some people are so quality blind that even when presented with a dire test case, like our Lohan diptych, they still may not be able to discern which Lindsay is the complete trainwreck. You could always argue both of them, as one harbors deep-seated intentions to become a trainwreck. Pre-crime.

How can you avoid falling on your face in public? Well, you probably can’t. That’s the good news. You just have to accept that in all certainty, you will fail, and you should accept the counsel of your betters, if you can even tell who those are. Knowing you may fail is liberating. Assuming you will not and then not recognizing when you have actually must be pretty peachy too, judging from the affable countenances of many I encounter on the regular. If you are not horrified most of the time, you’re probably doing it wrong.

Happy Friday! No, it’s Fuck You Friday!

Self-Importance, the fragrance for jerks

I wore my largest pair of sunglasses to brunch today, and I came down with quick-onset glamour poisoning. I hate that. I feel faint. I could barely finish my blinis.

Living in a small town is insane-o. In one quick trip to the coffee shop, I encountered my hair stylist, the local crazy person who prays for the souls of things in store windows, the guy who sells hot dogs at the ballpark, and my lawyer. I am on a need-to-know basis with all of them, it seems. We chat. And then people just walk up and ask you to do work for them because you are having a meeting with someone else, and they overheard. My hair stylist randomly decided she couldn’t live without search engine optimization. And really, who can? Vomitola is no longer #1 for Lindsay Lohan Panties. I am a poor example in all ways. Don’t expose me, please.

People are trainwrecks/ So why should it be

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG. What is your standard deviation? I took a huge handful of vitamins thinking they were Jelly Belly jellybeans. Whoops. No es piña colada! No es popcorn! Throw your hands in the air. How is it possible that a jellybean can taste like popcorn? We are so alone in the universe.

I decided not to get a job since something better came up. The moral: complain on the internet, and ye shall receive! I am moving to Tahiti! If I’m going to have syphilis, that’s the place to have it. Ok, I’m not moving to Tahiti. I am redecorating. There is a new condo building being built across the street, and they painted the entry way “goldenrod.” So I went over and painted sort of a seafoam over that. That’ll teach them. *I* have to look at that entry way, not them!

Uh. Where was I. Syphilis. Yes. This is the thing to have. I got mine from using the toilet after Lindsay Lohan. What? You don’t have the sif? Get on the stick! Sorry, sorry, I have this brain tumor that presses on my vulgarity center. It doesn’t feel as good as you would think.