Good Evening, Friend.

­Alright – let’s channel two of my favorite things for this – yes, the second post of today. I know – I’m a giver. But, to be honest, I have always have been. Anyway – how’s about a “stream-of-consciousness” response to the brand new season of “Dancing with the Stars” . . . as it happens?

Okay – here we go. 

IDFK about you but I’m jazzed to see the following: 

1.      1.     A one Ms. Nancy Grace letting her hair down (so to speak) and to see whether she let John David and Lucy out of the toddler pool they are always in (I mean I’m all about safety, too, but children can drown in just six inches of water!) Also – any chances we think Tot Mom and Jose Baez are in the audience. Oh shut it – you know those bitches are definitely voting tonight.

2.       2.    Kristin Cavallari. We all know she’s a bitch and we all love it. All I care about is the panning of the audience during her cha-cha (or whatever the hell it will be) – I can’t wait to see Jason W. Or Steven – what if he’s there? Oh my gosh. Cannot wait. I wonder if that bitch Jessica will be there to whine with her broken arm and try to steal (back) her homeboy Jason W. back. Oh – and no, most of those people don’t have last names for me.)

3.      3.     Chastity Bono. I mean. Y’all know me. I don’t give a shit – man, woman, gay, straight. As long as you’re not keeping me from mystic tanning or protesting child labor outside American Apparel when I’m just trying to buy a goddamn crewneck tank – I could care less. I don’t know what the big fuss is. Anyway. I just want to know how Chastity Bono is going to look in heels!  Okay – he’s officially made the change – and here – all this time I thought “Chastity” was a name because no one would bang her. Boy do I feel like a jackass. At least I see that tree up ahead. (R.I.P. Sonny Bono, obvs.)

4.    And, it’s on. Don’t you worry - Now – Ron Artest, or whatever his name is – pass. Rob Kardashian? I totes didn’t watch it that closely – mainly because I saw as much of a Kardashian on film for life in Kim and Ray-J’s video debut. No thanks, but no thanks. I did hear Carrie Ann tell him that he cleaned up nice – it makes me shudder to think what her new husband looks like. Another reason for my non-watching? I’m not a fan of five-heads, or eight-heads for that matter. Cheryl Burke’s forehead (or, as previously mentioned, eight-head) is way too shiny for me to watch without my new Chloe shades on that I ordered from Neiman’s (yes, really). Hopefully they’ll be in before next week – you know how Cheryl’s mop head always manages to sleep with the judges long enough at least until midseason. (Probably Rob, too, let’s be honest, it’s a family legacy.)

5.     Okay Chynna Philips. She gets major props because “Bridesmaids” is my favorite movie, besides “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” She also gets props for not being a bitch to Carlie when Carlie was . . . well – any status update on the gastric bypass? Anyone know whether Chynna was nice to her sister as a white-8 Ball? I sure hope so. I know people that have experience with that. IT takes all kinds, people. Also, I thought Chynna Phillips was that woman (man) wrestler from the days of yore! I was really puzzled as to which two professional dancers they would stack to pair with her. Damnit. Note to producers – look into that.

Alright, Nance is coming up next, friend. And my first thought (right after “Get it, girl!”) is that the desk on Nancy’s Headline News Set hides a lot of Nancy. I mean, don’t get me wrong – she’d still fit in my breast pocket and would totes be able to pop out and apply my rouge as needed, but  - I feel a little like I’ve just gotten the old “bait and switch.” The jury is still out on this one. (Get it?) Also – for the love of Christ – can’t our girl take off that motherfucking leather jacket? Is it like Ursula with Ariel’s voice in the shell? Or something like that. Okay – I’m just patiently waiting for commercials to cease. 

Uh, anyone else speechless? As if I could love Nancy anymore! My best friend and I are definitely Nancy fans – I mean, really, as much as we are Lil’ Wayne fans, and I think I can safely say Momma did us proud. I know you’re all expecting me to be way more of a snarky bitch, but there’s a time and a place, ladies. 

I’m going to have to finish my recap tomorrow – I’ve got to start my SMS voting – you bitches better do it, too – don’t make me disappointed, not vote and have Reuben Studdard steal the crown again from Clay Aiken. Chocolate Teddy Bear – psh. Don’t get me started. Also, holy shit. Maxim has a brother. Impressed! I didn’t think Communists were allowed to have more than one kid? Or if they did they had to put them in a garbage bag in a field? Hate to tell you this Senator McCartney, I’m totally backing the red tide’s invasion – well not backing it, literally, but more, you know. 

Good night (for now), friend.

All New!

Well, hello you. Yes, typical Blowout greeting – although – this is not a typical Blowout week. And last week wasn’t a typical Blowout week, either. We’ll get more on that (and specifically my boy, Obama) a bit later – trust that there will be several paragraphs dedicated specifically to the saunter of our Commander in Chief.

 

But – duh. It’s the start of a new season of gloriousness – television-wise. Yeah girl, yeah. Now listen. I am not some television whore – but Mama knows what’s good. Mostly though, I just have that magical box that brings Raven into my living room (more than) once a day on for background noise while I’m blowing out, getting a mani, teaching Neville and Lucy their letters, and so on. (Seriously, y’all have no idea what goes on in my days – its almost ungodly.) 

 As with every new season, there’s some things we can say with a fair amount of certainty. Really, really, really great shit is on during the day – intermixed with those personal injury attorney commercials, and past Jeopardy at 7 p.m. (Eastern Standard Time, of course – is there any other time zone worth mentioning?) it all goes straight to hell. I’m not excited about the new “Two and a Half Men” – Ashton Kutcher lately – well, have you peeped that? Yikes!  My how the mighty have fallen. You have no idea what I’d give to see a bitch-ass Justin Timberlake crying to Mama if only to see Ashton lookin’ fly – and also looking like he understands the concept of a shave and a haircut (two bits, if you get me).  Shit – I’ll even allow a Leif Garrett haircut – if only to see those abnormally well-structured cheek bones. I understand making preparations for the upcoming winter hibernation. But Canada isn’t that cold – and also, he lives in L.A. Right? 

 

People who frown upon daytime television need to set that glass of haterade down – on a coaster preferably. You’re calling the “Steve Wilkos Show” crazy? Um, hello – has anyone observed the rampant drug use and poor choice in women of Charlie Sheen over the past year? And tell me you don’t want to ask your own parents to take a DNA test after sitting through one episode of “Teen Mom” – and Gary! (“Teen Mom” is, and always will remain, in my opinion, the best form of birth control out there. In terms of price . . . can anyone help with comparing the cost of basic cable with the social and germ cost of visiting yo’ local clinic?)

 This is not to say that all nighttime television is shit. There’s the obv delight seen everytime one watches Jon Stewart and those kooky correspondents on “The Daily Show.” God Bless ‘em – they’ve almost helped to wean my roommate[mother] off of Rush Limbaugh on her five-minute drive to work.

Payback, at $.19 a gallon.

Oh – hey y’all hey. I hope you are well – and totes not laboring on this end-of-summer holiday. I do hope you’re wearing white, though, since I’ll be judging you if you dare put it on after midnight tonight. I know what they say – that the whole “you can’t wear white after Labor Day” fashion rule is out-dated and no longer relevant – but those people are the ones still trying to squeeze into their (by now) off-white skinny jeans and looking like fools. You know I’m only looking out for you, little ones.

 

So we have a lot to catch up on – as usual. Do you recall – probably about a week or so ago . . . when crazy-ass Michele Bachmann was talking about bringing $2.00 a gallon gas to America? Try to sort it out from all the other ridiculous statements she’s made – I’ll give you a minute.

 

Okay, back together now. Whew. I was worried I’d lost you – there is a shit-ton to sort through. Anyway – I didn’t like listen to her speech longer than to hear that sentence – mainly because I was giggling with delight. Her statement immediately took me back to a time when gas was $2.00 a gallon – or very near it, and it involves me sticking it to the man.  A real “f-you” to the establishment . . . and/or the crazy Asian bitch that ran the BP station at the corner of 34th Street and Lamar in Austin. Yeah, y’all know who I’m talking about. That bitch is single-handedly responsible for me continuing my cocaine diet for more than the prescribed six weeks. I swear to God – if that bitch asked me if I was pregnant while trying to buy a box of Franzia one more fucking time . . . I guess her hatred of America kept her from noticing bulimia when it walked in to fill up.

 

So – let me take you on a short trip on memory lane. Let’s set the scene. A hotter-than-normal Austin night. Summer of 2006, I would guess. My dumbass-former roommate had somehow rear-ended the shit out of my car – thus I was driving an Impala. Yes, perfect for riding slow and banging screw. You know this, man. Anyway – that damn car used up a hell of a lot of gas – and unbeknownst to my new-to-the-car-rental-game self thought that fuel should definitely be paid for by the un-surance company. My protests went ignored. So – I’m cruising around in the Impala – doing some rickyboxing, as I would be at that point in time, and the little light that signified I was about to be broke-the-fuck-down came on – and I was forced to look for a Filling Station. As much as I hated pulling in to the BP station at the corner of 34th and Lamar – I had to – I didn’t want to risk running out of gas outside of West Campus (like a date of mine did one time – he went to fill up a gas can – I took my flats off and ran the fuck home – maybe we’ll visit that story later) . . .

 

I pull in – gas was a very steep $1.91 (I know! And it was Regular Unleaded! Fucking American dependence on foreign oil!) – I pulled into place, flipped open the door to the gas tank and inserted my credit card. I began fueling up and something strange started to happen. I mean the gas was definitely flowing – but the “Total Cost” meter was advancing in incredibly small increments. I stopped, did a quick double take and proceeded to fill up for approximately $4.80. I was in heaven, because, naturally, this meant I had just enough from the $20 bill I grabbed out of my afore-mentioned roommate's purse for a cool, crisp, refrigerated box of Summer Blush Franzia – the finest in boxed spirits. 

 

I went in, picked up my Franzia, knocked over several shelf items, just for the hell of it (and because I was probably stoned . . . it was college! and only my second Junior year – so sue me!), paid and went back to Pump Number 7. I began to very slyly inspect this pump, while I opened my newly-purchased box of heaven. Then I noticed it. Right there – in front of my eyes the whole time!

 

When homegirl went to jack her fuel prices up at least 10 cents more than every other station in the area, she totes erred and misplaced that mother-fucking decimal point. Yes. You got me.

 

At that moment, gas was selling for $.19 a gallon. Sucker!

 

I debated going in to let her know – or at least pressing the handi-crap “Help” button to make her walk her pony-tailed ass outside to assist me (and by doing so, assist herself) – and after that half a second of debate I picked up my cellie (yes, let’s keep the phrasing ghetto here) and called every. single. person. I. know.

 

You’re welcome. I proceeded to lap the station and fill back up – just to relish in the fact that – in terms of gas prices (and potentially whether I was knocked up or not) – I could have very well been a member of the Pink Ladies – Rizzo, obvi.

 

Everyone I called went on to call everyone they knew and the station was soon packed. I even invited a select few to join me in a celebratory glass of Franzia – which, I think, cost more per ounce than Regular Unleaded – or even Premium did. This, of course, only lasted about an hour – the mistake was realized and immediately fixed. A tirade followed . . . something was screamed – I don’t really remember what – mainly because I was drunk by that point – but I think she was telling us to head to Iraq if we wanted gas that cheap.

 

(On a side note – is that true? Do my new vacay plans need to include the Middle East? Do you know if they sell Louis Vuittons for cheaper, too? Yes, the real ones! Let me know.)

 

I wonder if Michele Bachmann is planning on that kind of cheap gas. If so, I’d like to recommend myself to her for a cabinet position; or something official. Mainly because I’m adorable, have great hair and can teach her how to focus her eyes and look at the camera.