And baby makes three...or four...depending, Dept.
From the page:
"Palin's daughter gives birth to son named Tripp"
Yes. So, let's review the bidding: the 18-year-old daughter of Alaska's governor gives birth to the bastard of a high school dropout whose mother is currently facing felony drug charges for attempting to sell OxyContin to police informants. And she names the child "Tripp." Presumably in order not to break the run of ass names started by her brother, Track, and brother/son, Trig. Now, let he who is without sin, yatta yatta, but FTW?!? I'm having a very hard time piecing together any additional fillips that could drag this further into Trailerpark Tragedie. I mean, Christ, Sarahcuda's already been accused of covering up her daughter's first pregnancy by claiming the child as her own. It's not like I have to festoon the case with transgender dwarf hookers to pass Jerry Springer's sniff test.
So, yeah. Li'l baby Tripp--I guess "Tramp" was already taken for Bristol's Secret Service tag--joined the world today. Can't wait for the nup-chals. They should make a chav wedding look like Charles and Diana at St. Paul's Cathedral, and a NASCAR tailgate party like Act One of The Importance of Being Earnest.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Hey Paula, Dept.
I may have written in these pages about my opinion of Paula Cole's song, "Feelin' Love." My uncertainty is rooted in the fact that I can't be arsed to rummage about my archives, 'cause that's just the kind of lazy shitsack I am.
At any rate, Paula Cole. I myself was not a huge fan of hers back when dried semen on a blue dress was the greatest of this nation's problems. I didn't particularly like "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone" or "I Don't Want to Wait," but mine was a lonely dissenting voice in Lilith Fair America. Young women were discovering not only the magick of their bodies but also their God-given right to give vent, bitterly if tunefully, to their crippling penis envy. We owned the CD, heard those two songs and that was about that for the oeuvre of Paula Cole.
Fast-forward to the mid-Oughties. The country is, by this point, well and truly screwed without a smile. Your sobsister is aimlessly trawling the Webs, when I come upon a site at break.com. For those of you who are still here, having resisted the temptation to open a new tab and bail, break.com is aimed at those young fellows who find maxim.com a tad too intellectually rigorous. Features like "Dude Slips Pipe Inbetween (sic) Bikers (sic) Tire" and "Hot Chick Kicks Boyfriends (sic) Ass." Yes?
At any rate, I land there and see some sort of competition they sponsor. Videos of "babes" or "chix" or "gashes" or however they refer to women are voted upon, and one lucky damsel becomes "Break Girl of the Day." This was the winner the day I visited.
Yes. Lalita. La. Lee. Ta. Not to get all Vlad the Impaler on y'all. But I have to thank her for a number of things, not least of which is the fact that she burned "Feelin' Love" onto my musical motherboard. I'm usually not a huge fan of the YouTube Lipsync. Gawky girls flying their goofy flag high. Or smudgily aping moves kiped from BET videos. The 21st century equivalent of singing into a hairbrush while jumping up and down on the bed. But this particular effort I found...engaging. Yes. Engaging. All the more so given that it appears to have been shot in an attic closet. And, then, when I found out that homegirl is based here in Choc City, well, how could I help but admire her achievement. By which I mean her apparent ability to transcribe the Declaration of Independence by using a pen attached to her pelvis.
"Lalita" has a MySpace page where fellows can apparently implore her to slip their straining members from the surly bonds of denim, and on which she notes, "I'm a laid-back girl that can be girly as hell but I can also kick it wit da boys. So holla atcha girl if your interested in being friends or something more." Yes. Opening at Feinstein's next week.
But, yeah, "Feelin' Love." Hottest fucking song EVER. And the referenced a perfect video introduction to it. I have a newfound admiration for Paula Cole as a songwriter. To begin with.
The lyrics:
You make me feel like a sticky pistil leanin' into a stamen.
You make me feel like a Mr. Sunshine, himself.
You make me feel like splendor in the grass, while we're rollin'.
Damn skippy, baby!
You make me feel like the Amazon's runnin' between my thighs.
(Chorus)
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love, love, love.
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love-ah, love-ah.
You make me feel like a candy apple, red and horny.
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde in a centerfold,
the girl next door.
And I would open the door, and I'd be all wet,
With my tits soaking through this tiny flannel t-shirt
that I'm wearing,
And you would open the door and tie me up to the bed.
(Chorus)
Lover, I don't know who I am.
Am I Barry White, am I Isis?
Lover, I'm laced with your unconscience.
I will be your Desdemona.
(take you home)
Damn skippy, baby.
I may have written in these pages about my opinion of Paula Cole's song, "Feelin' Love." My uncertainty is rooted in the fact that I can't be arsed to rummage about my archives, 'cause that's just the kind of lazy shitsack I am.
At any rate, Paula Cole. I myself was not a huge fan of hers back when dried semen on a blue dress was the greatest of this nation's problems. I didn't particularly like "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone" or "I Don't Want to Wait," but mine was a lonely dissenting voice in Lilith Fair America. Young women were discovering not only the magick of their bodies but also their God-given right to give vent, bitterly if tunefully, to their crippling penis envy. We owned the CD, heard those two songs and that was about that for the oeuvre of Paula Cole.
Fast-forward to the mid-Oughties. The country is, by this point, well and truly screwed without a smile. Your sobsister is aimlessly trawling the Webs, when I come upon a site at break.com. For those of you who are still here, having resisted the temptation to open a new tab and bail, break.com is aimed at those young fellows who find maxim.com a tad too intellectually rigorous. Features like "Dude Slips Pipe Inbetween (sic) Bikers (sic) Tire" and "Hot Chick Kicks Boyfriends (sic) Ass." Yes?
At any rate, I land there and see some sort of competition they sponsor. Videos of "babes" or "chix" or "gashes" or however they refer to women are voted upon, and one lucky damsel becomes "Break Girl of the Day." This was the winner the day I visited.
Yes. Lalita. La. Lee. Ta. Not to get all Vlad the Impaler on y'all. But I have to thank her for a number of things, not least of which is the fact that she burned "Feelin' Love" onto my musical motherboard. I'm usually not a huge fan of the YouTube Lipsync. Gawky girls flying their goofy flag high. Or smudgily aping moves kiped from BET videos. The 21st century equivalent of singing into a hairbrush while jumping up and down on the bed. But this particular effort I found...engaging. Yes. Engaging. All the more so given that it appears to have been shot in an attic closet. And, then, when I found out that homegirl is based here in Choc City, well, how could I help but admire her achievement. By which I mean her apparent ability to transcribe the Declaration of Independence by using a pen attached to her pelvis.
"Lalita" has a MySpace page where fellows can apparently implore her to slip their straining members from the surly bonds of denim, and on which she notes, "I'm a laid-back girl that can be girly as hell but I can also kick it wit da boys. So holla atcha girl if your interested in being friends or something more." Yes. Opening at Feinstein's next week.
But, yeah, "Feelin' Love." Hottest fucking song EVER. And the referenced a perfect video introduction to it. I have a newfound admiration for Paula Cole as a songwriter. To begin with.
The lyrics:
You make me feel like a sticky pistil leanin' into a stamen.
You make me feel like a Mr. Sunshine, himself.
You make me feel like splendor in the grass, while we're rollin'.
Damn skippy, baby!
You make me feel like the Amazon's runnin' between my thighs.
(Chorus)
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love, love, love.
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love-ah, love-ah.
You make me feel like a candy apple, red and horny.
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde in a centerfold,
the girl next door.
And I would open the door, and I'd be all wet,
With my tits soaking through this tiny flannel t-shirt
that I'm wearing,
And you would open the door and tie me up to the bed.
(Chorus)
Lover, I don't know who I am.
Am I Barry White, am I Isis?
Lover, I'm laced with your unconscience.
I will be your Desdemona.
(take you home)
Damn skippy, baby.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I Love My Cigar, Too, But I Take It Out of My Mouth Once in a While, Dept
From the page:
"Duggar Family Already Thinking About 19th Child
For Jim and Michelle Duggar, eighteen isn't enough.
After welcoming a 7-lb., 3 oz. daughter via C-section on Thursday to join their 17 other children, the proud papa tells the Associated Press: "We both would love to have more."
The Duggars now have 10 sons and eight daughters, ranging in age from 17 months to 20 years, all with first names starting with the letter J, including the newborn addition, Jordyn-Grace Makiya Duggar.
'The ultimate Christmas gift from God,' said Jim tells AP. 'She's just absolutely beautiful, like her mom and her sisters.'"
Yow. Seems like only yesterday Michelle squeezed out no.17, and I was all up in her shit about being a Jesus-bothering uterus with legs...and, wouldn't'cha know it! Out pops another one! Christ on a cracker, her snatch is like a clown car, isn't it? What else is up there? A set of World Book encyclopedias and a case of Budweiser, at a minimum.
Well, better enjoy this one fast 'cause she's got that look in her eye that says, "I'm a hollow vessel for my Lord Jim Bob's holy seed, and I need to be topped up right about now." Good thing she never found out about oral, huh, kids? Our nation would've been shy 18 fewer cult members.
And "Jordyn-Grace Makiya"...stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Wait! What about both?! Anything's possible when you come from a family so large that you have no sense of self or of anything, really, but the discipline that your egomaniacal father metes out in equal doses with camera-ready "affection."
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Jim Bob, keep that fucking thing in your pants, cowboy! Even the Lone Ranger holsters his gun sometimes! *ha ha!*
They make me want to puke.
From the page:
"Duggar Family Already Thinking About 19th Child
For Jim and Michelle Duggar, eighteen isn't enough.
After welcoming a 7-lb., 3 oz. daughter via C-section on Thursday to join their 17 other children, the proud papa tells the Associated Press: "We both would love to have more."
The Duggars now have 10 sons and eight daughters, ranging in age from 17 months to 20 years, all with first names starting with the letter J, including the newborn addition, Jordyn-Grace Makiya Duggar.
'The ultimate Christmas gift from God,' said Jim tells AP. 'She's just absolutely beautiful, like her mom and her sisters.'"
Yow. Seems like only yesterday Michelle squeezed out no.17, and I was all up in her shit about being a Jesus-bothering uterus with legs...and, wouldn't'cha know it! Out pops another one! Christ on a cracker, her snatch is like a clown car, isn't it? What else is up there? A set of World Book encyclopedias and a case of Budweiser, at a minimum.
Well, better enjoy this one fast 'cause she's got that look in her eye that says, "I'm a hollow vessel for my Lord Jim Bob's holy seed, and I need to be topped up right about now." Good thing she never found out about oral, huh, kids? Our nation would've been shy 18 fewer cult members.
And "Jordyn-Grace Makiya"...stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Wait! What about both?! Anything's possible when you come from a family so large that you have no sense of self or of anything, really, but the discipline that your egomaniacal father metes out in equal doses with camera-ready "affection."
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Jim Bob, keep that fucking thing in your pants, cowboy! Even the Lone Ranger holsters his gun sometimes! *ha ha!*
They make me want to puke.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Telling Shit from Shinola, Dept.
Arts, Briefly - That’s All, She Wrote - NYTimes.com
Who says the American public has the taste of a famished buzzard?
"That's All, She Wrote
Rosie O'Donnell's homage to television variety shows of the 1970s, Rosie Live, seems destined to be a one-night-only event. On the Ask Ro feature on the Web site, rosie.com, Ms. O'Donnell wrote, 'there will b no more' in response to a question about the future of the show, which was broadcast on NBC on Wednesday. The special was supposed to be a trial balloon and could have led to a series, depending on its success. But Rosie Live� which featured performances by Liza Minnelli, Alanis Morissette and others, attracted just five million viewers, according to Nielsen's estimates, finishing a distant third in the 8 p.m. hour. Ms. O'Donnell...responded to many messages on her Web site over the weekend, writing in her style that eschews traditional spellings. To another viewer she acknowledged, 'I gave it my best shot.' She also wrote that "its up to nbc," but added, 'bad ratings and reviews usually mean no more.'"
Arts, Briefly - That’s All, She Wrote - NYTimes.com
Who says the American public has the taste of a famished buzzard?
"That's All, She Wrote
Rosie O'Donnell's homage to television variety shows of the 1970s, Rosie Live, seems destined to be a one-night-only event. On the Ask Ro feature on the Web site, rosie.com, Ms. O'Donnell wrote, 'there will b no more' in response to a question about the future of the show, which was broadcast on NBC on Wednesday. The special was supposed to be a trial balloon and could have led to a series, depending on its success. But Rosie Live� which featured performances by Liza Minnelli, Alanis Morissette and others, attracted just five million viewers, according to Nielsen's estimates, finishing a distant third in the 8 p.m. hour. Ms. O'Donnell...responded to many messages on her Web site over the weekend, writing in her style that eschews traditional spellings. To another viewer she acknowledged, 'I gave it my best shot.' She also wrote that "its up to nbc," but added, 'bad ratings and reviews usually mean no more.'"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
