July 28, 2009


Good Morning! For those of you that don't know what the title to this post stands for (because, we all know if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything . . rep to MLK, Jr.) you'll have to read and re-read this post, as you normally do, because I just don't feel like giving anyone a hand out today. Right?

I do hope you all had a glorious weekend and a terrific Monday - I know I did. Lots of goings on in our world today - as usual. This morning, however, I've noticed a bit of a theme.

First of all, Sarah Palin stepped the hell back/down/whatever. Whew. Regardless of your political or personal opinions on the former governor of the frozen tundra known as Alaska, you've gotta give her credit for consistency. She went out in a blaze of glory - attempting to throw verbal Chinese stars (y'all know what I'm talking about) the whole way. You go girl! Although, I don't really like a quitter. It's just like I say every time my Pops tries to get me to put down the Marlboro Light: "Winners never quit and quitters never win!" Its obvious that that quip was invented by some American, as we are the epitome of staying in the game way too fucking long (Hillary? Madonna? Michael Jackson (RIP)? No? Too soon? Whatever.) and continuing to achieve, despite the bullshit media getting up in our face and other typical, everyday obstacles we all have to overcome (cue R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly.") It will be so interesting to see what happens to our favorite hypocrite . . . IDK about you, but I'm crossing my fingers for a "PALIN GONE WILD" video to hit shelves before Christmas.

Moving on, Michael Vick. Homeboy wants another chance, the Commissioner says he should get it. Wait . . . what? Another chance to what? Kill puppies? Player please! Another chance to get his hurr all braided and then look at you with those beady eyes? I'll pass. I really think, at this point in his game (no pun intended) his only option is to rap. . . a tougher Ron Artest, if you will - and I totally would (lit/fig)! Gah, I'm going go continue to pray about that one.

It seems like everyone these days is asking for a fucking break. Come on! Sarah Palin has requested we give Bristol (and the rest of her family, right?) a break . . but it seems to me Bristol's been breaking it off for everyone, not just the Wasilla High School JV Athletic Teams. Yuck! Kim and Reggie broke up and they want time out of the limelight to recoup (which, in essence, is a break). Silly ho's! Kim Kardashian is like a whiny, overfed Siamese cat - she deserves nothing of the sort. Mike Vick wants a break. Nah. David Hasselhoff's daughters have some new album he wants us to buy . . . but wait, what about that Wendy's incident? Oh! That's right! He wants a break! Silly me! He's too sloppy for a break in my book. Sloppy! If there's one thing that's unforgivable its sloppiness, closely followed by un-manicured nails. Ew. Gross.

Yes, some people that beg and plead for a respite in the craziness of their day to day actually deserve it. Do they get it? IDK, not from me, but that's not the point. Those people have not been mentioned in this post/blog/ever. Mainly because I don't allow most of those people to exist in my world. But that's the way it is; ah, c'est la vie!

In response to all of the Palins, Vicks, Hasselhoffs and whoever else feels like annoying the fuck out of me (but not really, annoyance is technically an emotion, and we all know I was born without those - just like my 2 top wisdom teeth) there's a break waiting for you right here, in my office freezer. But this break is far better than the one you've requested - this is a more literal break, in the form of 4 layers of thinly-cut, chocolate-covered wafers, wrapped in foil.

Dig in.

July 23, 2009

I'm so sorry!

I hate that I only post once a week; its such a shame. IDK how y'all are surviving. In lieu of me wasting my breath, I'll just use Chris Brown's heartfelt apology video. So Google that business and instead of "Rhianna" I really mean "my millions of readers" and when homeboy talks about being a "God fearing man" (I'm sorry, man? don't even tell me that means that Rhianna gave it up) replace it with "adorable mid-twenty year old with great hair who is straddling the line between alcohol dependence, but is always a good time (lit/lit)."

So that takes care of my end of the apology. Did you all see that shit? Amazing.
I'm trying to remember what my apology video looked like when I was arrested for breaking the law and received five years probation.

Oh, that's right. I spent a week in jail in addition to a mere $25,000.

Talk about racial fucking profiling.

And to add insult to injury . . . I didn't get to head tilt in my mug shot (until I started whining) and Officer Young only snapped it once! And almost didn't let me review. Player please! If that shit's going to be public record, you better believe I'm going to need to see if I need a re-take. Duh.

So, don't hold your breath, darlings. Unfortunately there isn't a YouTube video of yours truly gazing doe-eyed at you, begging for your forgiveness. I'll leave that insincere bullshit to Breezy.

There is, however, a three-hour long blockbuster floating around with a painstaking hour's worth of field sobriety tests, a few real tears and countless side glances (in search of an escape route, obvi).

I guess Chris B. and I both are kind of on the same page right? We both like to get it "On & Poppin" (although a bit more literally for him), we both are the sincerest we can be for being so attractive and we both of are acting (or acted, my shit cleared, PTL!) extremely apologetic as long as the world (or the APD) watches! OMFG, I am the white version of Chris Brown. Huge revelation, even though I haven't won a Grammy yet - oh wait, neither has he.

So, in turn, and finally, please accept my (bullshit) apology, too, Rhianna! And to my fans, Al Sharpton, Jay-Z, my spiritual guides, my momz and/or God . . . I'm so (not) sorry, really, and that's from the heart.


July 16, 2009

"Sir Jackass" is more like it.

Well hello darlings! IDK how much time I've got before I ditch work for the afternoon, so I'm not even going to waste your (my) time explaining what I've been filling my days with since we last spoke. This is probably more likely due to the fact that I've been unimpressed with goings-on lately and haven't felt like anything has deserved my time, comment or most importantly, wit. I don't mean the previous statement negatively. Life is amazing, I'm amazing, and odds are, you're pretty spectacular yourself. Unfortunately, as we all know (Nancy Grace), you can only talk about Michael Jackson or the 'tot mom' so many times before you're played the hell out.

Anyway, as I was cruising into work this morning, only mildly late I might add, one of my favorite radio morning newz programs began to discuss celebrity. Everyone should know by now that fame is a fickle thing (Potter reference! -Don't judge me . . .) and unless you're a celebrity & your lawyer/husband happens to be (or should I say, "happened to be" . . . ?) Howard K. Stern, you've got it pretty good. Of course, "having it pretty good" equates to being a decent person - or at least acting like it. Sign a couple body parts, kiss a few drunk co-eds at bars, fuck, even utter a couple anti-Semitic remarks, but, above all, don't be a jackass.

The deejay was asking his listeners to call and put jackass celebrities "on blast." Amazing. Talking shit about people that can't hear you above all the money they're making? Don't mind if you do! Since the validity of morning radio as an effective medium is not up for debate this afternoon, I have something to add to the melee, if you will.

Needless to say, I've met . . . yeah, probs a million people fortunate enough to have been smiled upon by the good graces of fame; and have had pleasurable experiences with each. We aren't here for that today, though. I don't want to tell you about Tom Green and how I drunk stumbled into him, thanked him profusely for his TV special on testicular cancer, and how it resulted in me finally getting tested (I was negative, FYI). I would never bore you with a quip about the time I had my shoes shined with Steadman Graham, or drone on about the concert I bit some girl at just so I could meet Nick Lachey (it was 2000, shut your trap . . . and also, it was worth it.) No, no, those all ended far better than I ever expected. I'm here to talk about the one instance I was snubbed in life, and by a celebrity at that! Come in closer, little ones, and let me take you back.

I'm going to withhold the exact year, as I don't want anyone all up in my shit, but this story is set on a hot August afternoon, in a year that pre-dates Y2K. I had just been in a terrible accident that had nearly killed me - so when you picture me with a boy hair cut, jean shorts and a matching button up shirt (left open, obvi, with a tank underneath), add a right leg cast, a right arm cast, sling for the left arm and a motherfucking wheelchair. Yeah, you heard me, w-h-e-e-l-c-h-a-i-r (feeling bad? don't worry! in lieu of charitable donations, please send gifts to my roommate/mother). I was wheeling myself (okay, I'll stop with the pity, I milked it enough to get into college) around a local country club for an incredibly prestigious charity/celebrity golf tournament. My dad and I followed stars around to various greens and after they'd swing, they'd take a moment and sign a few autographs, have a laugh, and ask for the bottle of water you just paid $7 (to charity) for.

After we were done talking pierogies with Coach K (my grandmother had quickly singled his Polish ass out in church the first Sunday after we had moved here and he (grudgingly?) has been a friend since), we moved to the next hole - I'll never forget it, Number 12, where Charles Barkley was scheduled to be. We rushed over - and keep in mind, I didn't have a fucking golf cart, I was being pushed, which is not as easy as you're imagining, to get in line for an autograph. I was so excited! He was a childhood hero of mine. Looking back, I think it was more because he was black and that made my parents mad, and less because of his basketball skills, but, whatev. I was a little ways back but the line wasn't that long. I could hardly contain my excitement . . . although, given the fact that half of my body was strapped down, the containment was more natural than anything. Before he started signing people's random shit, he announced that he would only give 15 autographs, total. Done.

Um, excuse me. What did you just say? No, go ahead, repeat that last statement. And he did, each time he would sign something. Typical.

I was 11th in line, so I really didn't give it a second thought. What the fuck did I care if some actual fans who loved the Suns and those deodorant commercials got their ridiculously overpriced jerseys/posters/basketballs signed? I didn't! I wanted that man to sign my cast! Yes, it would get thrown away, but I had at least 2 weeks left with those motherfuckers all up on me - I might as well have Sir Charles adorn one (both) with his "John Hancock."

I should have known he meant 15 actual signatures, not people. Soooo very jackass. The woman before me, in her Sunday best no doubt, had three items - some 8-track looking bullshit and 2 basketballs for her sonz who OF COURSE "wasn't there." Chuck signs them and then . . . leaves. I was right there. A young lad/girl eagerly awaiting his signature. Are you fucking kidding me? Am I being (whatever came before) Punk'd? Ashton? Johnny Carson? Show the candid cameras right this instant.

Oh no, he had said 15, and he is a man of his word. Plus, he didn't have a pen to sign on a cast, and from 19 feet in the air, it was probs really hard to see the one I was obnoxiously waiving as my poor Dad tried to rebuild my youthful dream (for that afternoon, at least). But no, Sir Charles couldn't be bothered.

But, right, I was in a damn wheelchair. Not even the single tear running down my face swayed him, nor did it thaw his heart of stone. Even worse, it was 3:00 and approximately 145 degrees, so I'm sure we can all imagine what a hot mess I was.

As I wheeled onto the next celebrity (the ever-talented Sharon Lawrence), I felt a little bit of me and a lot bit of my innocence die forever. Of course, the loss of innocence was probs the result of the expletive-filled rant - compliments of my pops, but, either way.

I'm going to have to leave you all with here. Its not easy talking about being a "poor, crippled boy" at age 12 when you really are a girl; but its even more painstaking being ignored by the Round Mound of Rebound. I still don't get it! We were both round, I've "mistakenly" spit on a young girl before and been arrested unfairly, too! Damnit, Charles!

P.S. Call me! (?)

July 7, 2009

"Keep the change, ya filthy animal."

Dude, I'm all about remembering Michael Jackson but have been so disappointed. Not in Joe Jackson's leather-face or Debbie Rowe continuing on her white-trash odyssey. My disgust isn't because my roommate/mother has watched so many MJ tributes since June 25th that I'm thinking of filming it for submission to "Intervention." This is far more serious. Is it just me or has anyone else noticed a glaring absence since news broke about America's fallen one-gloved hero?

Yeah, that's right. Where the fuck has Macaulay Culkin been in the past 2 weeks? He's already divorced his family and broke up with that ugly high school chick he married. I don't think he's scheduled to cameo in any shitty indie movies that are releasing this summer (or ever), so its obvious he has nothing else going on. Besides, if my BFF was "dead" because of an overdose of pain meds, you know I would have (1) taken probably just as many with said BFF and/or (2) milked this shit for all its worth (that is, of course, if the best thing I'd ever done was in the early 90's). Something just isn't right about this - has anyone checked on Macauly lately? If I lived closer (and he still looked like Kevin McAllister) I'd totes do it. Someone call Buzz . . . or his girlfriend (woof!). Right?

To be honest, given the hours of (forced) coverage I've watched and analyzed (thanks, Mom!) I think Michael Jackson is about as "dead" as Notorious B.I.G. and Tupac. But whatever, agree with me or not, but while I'm waiting for the return, I'd at least like to hear one (or a dozen) thoughts from Macaulay, right? Yes.

School Daze.

Hello you! I hope this break has treated you all very well! I sure needed it. IDK - with all the death and destruction in the news (MJ, Farrah, Billy Mays, and so on), plus the state of the world in general . . coupled with the fact that I have about 7 important birthdays coming up and my best friend & 2 other favorites all have gotten engaged within the past week. Its a wonder I'm still with you. Add all that to my 30 hour work week and it makes my head spin.

But, enough about me, let's talk about something far more relevant to each of us - school projects and historical figures. Two of my favorites. Now, if you know anything about me you are aware that I am first and foremost adorable and coming in a close second? Academically gifted, per se, high-IQ, former Mensa member (the camps were way too weird) . . . I could go on forever! I was the top AR-point earner in my school (and almost county, but lost to a small Indian boy . . figures). One of the many areas in which I excelled was school projects. Perhaps this was because my roommate/mother (then and now) pretty much did all of them. Yes, I'd read the articles and non-fiction books (they were my favorite) and make sure Joan knew the gist of what I wanted to get across in my tri-fold poster board but then I'd watch Inspector Gadget and she would work. I've always been a good delegator.

Speaking of which, I know we've all had the pleasure of dressing up as a famous American historical figure and pretending to be them for an entire day at school. Some year round schools are getting ready to start back up and I just had this discussion with one of the children I used to nanny yesterday - so I figured I'd share some of my best ideas, and in doing so, inspire each of us to be better Americans, tutors, mentors . . . and people in general. Plus, it was just America's birthday so, this all ties in.

So yesterday, one of the little ones texts me (I know, kids today) asking about the best costume and person from American history I've ever dressed up as. While I was their nanny, I had the kids dress up as all kinds of eccentric Americans. One year we did Cesar Chavez and I sent him to school with some Tostitos, grapes and a sombrero. Cakewalk! Going through my own memory I have 2 choices that I'll share with you - each equally amazing, although for different reasons. They are as follows:

1. George Washington Carver. I used this in 5th grade, at which point, surprisingly, I was just as much of a jackass as I am now. Firstly, choosing a black man, although unorthodox, helped me aggravate the shit out of my parents - which was always a plus. Putting that aside - I wore an old paint smock, some stirrup leggings (hey, I was a round kid - finding coveralls would have been way too difficult) and wore my hair short (okay, fuck you - my hair was already fashioned in a 'boy cut' if you will - and Joan did). I sat at my desk and ate fucking peanut butter all day. Genius. I brought in Ritz, and even though some fuckhead said that Ritz probably weren't invented yet, I made sure to (1) tell my teacher I was being harassed because I was talking funny [ebonics] and (2) "bump" into him accidentally with a whole mess of Jif on my hands that somehow ended up in his face. Whatevs - I was a kid! I don't know if this is what started my affinity for African Americans, but, seriously, I paid homage to GWC that day and with every subsequent peanut butter sandwich I've had since.

2. Helen Keller. Before each of you start spouting some 3oh!3 lyrics that I've been saying for years, please allow me to explain. This was probably my best school project, ever, out of all my skipped and repeated grades. Costume was easy - whatever the fuck I wanted. Most likely some stirrup leggings and a turtleneck with a bonnet. There weren't cameras back then and its hard to stereotype blind/deaf people like I could with George Washington Carver. I got my costume ready (i.e. got dressed) and went to school and on to Mrs. Newsome's classroom. And I sat. And I sat. And I sat. The bitch couldn't talk or read but was a total bad ass. Of course, I was pre-Anne Sullivan Helen. Obvi. My idiot classmates would ask me stupid questions and I just held my American Girl doll and said nothing. I returned their pointless questions with death stares. After all, how rude is it to ask a deaf/blind person a question? They can't hear you or respond!

The point of all this is that I got an A+ on both assignments. Impossible, you say? False. I was lauded for getting "so into character" . . . for bringing props, really playing the part - and because my roommate/mother had written my essays exactly how I told her to. Ahh, you're welcome.