For right now . . .

First off.

The last post was my 100th post. You're so welcome! Yes, in lieu of gifts to charitable donations, please send all congratulatory presents/monetary donations/travelers cheques directly to me. Ahh, thank you. Its certainly a milestone, and to think, a silly bitch inspired it all (then ruined it, but then re-inspired it) . . . big ups to that. Let's save the true celebration for something more important, like 105th blowout post, or when Raven Symone becomes a Twitter follower of @theblowout. Alas, I digress. So much has happened in the last ten days, I hardly know where to start. Anyway you look at the sen-say-tional bullshit that's been in the news lately, its almost too easy. Perhaps bulleted/numbered points so we can bring each other up to speed . . . ? Methinks, yes.

1. Tiger Wood(s). Y'all knew I was going to start here. Its far too easy, as stated above. I mean, really? Seriously Tiger? Cheat on your mannish, yet fair-skinned Swedish wife with Jersey trash? Please, give me a second while I finish up that yawn. As the endorsements start to drop (or I guess I should say finish dropping) keep in mind that this is what you get for being a motherfucking idiot. 11 girls have come out of the . . . wood (get it) work to claim they nailed the caramel skinned anomoly of the whitest sport ever. You go girls! I mean, even though the fact you hooked up with Tiger Woods and aren't a hooker means you not only were underpaid, but you banged an ugly dude. Pity sex is only for ugly people. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. If Tiger played tennis, I wouldn't be so worried. He would have grown up idolizing Arthur Ashe and would probably keep his shit clean, but golf? Who's the role model there? Happy Gilmore? Exactly. Dumbass. If I were Tiger (and thank god Joan had more sense than that) I'd tell him not to worry about Cadillac dropping his ass. I mean, let's be honest . . . who hasn't banged out in the back of an Escalade with a married man. Right. We all have.

2. The Jackson 5 Show premiered last night. I mean really, despite the fact that the first episode was filmed B.MJ. in Spring and shit, it might as well be called the Jackson 1: Jermaine and his crazy Middle Eastern wife, Jermajesty, Siggy and that horrible has-been Kanye scarf he wore to the mosque. I'm pretty sure Tito could get a cameo credit for that horrible moustache he's sporting. I mean, really? This further proves my point that Michael Jackson was so extra-ordinary he probably wasn't human. (That hope also has me believing in robots and aliens and all kinds of crazy shit . . I've waited 10 years for Biggie to come back, I'll hold out for Biggie and Michael).

3. Iran is going bat shit crazy(ier) with those goddamn nukes. Every time I get a "Breaking News Headline" from the Washington Post and it starts with "Iran" and a colon mark, I hold my breath. Why don't they just put something along the lines of the following:

From: Washington Post
Subject: Iran: "We don't give a fuck!" and or "Blow me!"

Because seriously, they don't and they wish. I mean they really could give a shit about US/us. Lit and fig. And that's totally fine. They don't want McDonald's or Beanie Babies or to see the faces of women up in their shit? Whatever. I've got way more important things to be doing while I'm enjoying my Diet Coke and Marlboro Light. Like focusing my efforts on real news and actual important happenings and goings on in our world today.

Speaking of, where the fuck has Jon Gosselin been? Don't worry, I'll let you know immediately.

99 problems.

. . . and yes, a bitch is one. Okay not really, but, allow me to explain. You're probably wondering where I've been. I hate that my absences are creating a rift between us, darling. As the subject line states, I've got a new bitch in my life. Oh, no, no, only in the strictly scientific-est of terms. Her name is Lucinda, and she is the cutest bitch I've ever seen (when not looking in a mirror.) You can admire below. I know, I know, adorable. You're absolutely right. I somehow must have forgotten about all the work a little one takes. Thank god my roommate/mother is around to do some (by "some" I mean "all") of the grunt work, and any other work after the grunting is finished. The birth canal voyage is the least of Joan's problems nowadays. But enough anatomy. Let's move on.



I've been celebrating a self-hanukkah. I don't know how to spell it, nor do I care enough to right click to activate the "Spell Check" feature. I doubt Merriam Webster was Jewish anyway. (Deepest apologies to Rahm Emmanuel and SJ, naturally). I've been so busy filling the past 8 days with just enough oil to light the way to my car, where all of the presents I've purchased for myself lie. Obvi. Hopefully that shit is going to last 40 days. Right? Am I mixing fables or psalms or whatever here? Anyway, continuing . . .

I've spent some of my time in the past 2 weeks getting yelled at and having to do real work, which activities are obviously followed by "not giving a fuck." All of that has been exhausting, trust me. Don't even get me started on having to blowout during all of that stress, don't do it.

Finally, I've had to compile my Christmas list. You think I'm gonna let the Klaus check my shit twice and discover spelling errors or a half-ass compilation of exactly what I want him to bring me (that my jackass friends and family couldn't purchase during the prior 365 days) . . ? Fuck no. IDK how school works up at the North Pole, but I'll have you (and the Klaus) know that I graduated from a public ivy, and yes, my list will reflect it. We all know that lists don't have to be officially complete until 10 days before the delivering of presents (the real reason for my season . . plus Red/Green crystal light and rum) but here's a sneak peek at what I've got so far. And yes, this list is for Santa and the aforementioned jackass friends and family who slack 11/12th's of the calendar year. It is as follows:

1. A national championship for Texas.
2. The resurrection of Michael Jackson.
3. A slumber party with Raven Symone.

So far, that's all I've got.

I'll keep thinking. Meanwhile, you bitches get seance-ing, or turning water into wine, whichever will get me MJ the fastest. Duh.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Or a God, or whatever, and he doesn't necessarily live at Macy's. He does live within walking distance of Russia, apparently. Anyway, I was sent this, and obvi had to make your day as well. Let's keep our fingers crossed. I will say, for all of you out there that were putting "softcore porn featuring Levi Johnston" on your Christmas list, its time to mark it off, and move the ZhuZhu pets back to the top where they belong.

You're welcome.

Guess what I'm doing? Blogging (via text). Guess what else I'm doing? 85 in a 65. Illegal? Unsafe? Perhaps. Take that Bev Marlene Moore Eaves Perdue.

Maury Povich?

I have captioned this post as such because we've got a few things to settle up, and you're probably the big-eyed version of Connie Chung (I mean, if we're being honest, and you better be.) Anyway, I know I've been totes MIA lately (I know I've used that before.) and just giving you all little snippets here and there, and I feel bad, but not really. My list of things to talk to you about keeps growing longer and longer, work has piled up on my desk (where it conveniently slips into my trashcan) -- this is going to be a damn busy winter. Whatever. In the end, I guess, I'm going to tell you to sit tight and just wait for it (today). I mean, after all, its my blog, I do what I want.

Typical California.

Hey, what's up? I'll be back later, but look what I just stumbled upon.
I'm stumbling, of course, because I'm fucking baked.

Feds' New Stance on Medical Marijuana May Be Boon for West Palm-Based "GreenCard"

You know the Governator is stoked (lit/fig).

Wonder when it will be available in every state that isn't California?