I'm so sick of hearing people's lame excuses for being... well, basically losers. Please excuse me for being insensitive but puhleez, your heart will be as equally hardened as you read the following examples:
Teenage girl: I cut myself because my father ignored me growing up and left me with a crazy stepmother.
Me: Oh so you mutilate yourself basically because your father worked himself to the bone to support you and your siblings and also went as far as remarrying so that you'd have a strong albeit crazy female role model at home.
The teenage girl, expecting apathy, will then proceed to spit in my face and walk away. Thank god for that too because her load of bullcrap was blocking my view.
Another example:
Grown ass man: Yea I do drugs because my stepfather abandoned me when I was 13.
Me: So the stepfather you hated as a child just decided to leave one day and to celebrate you tried your first 8-ball, eventually becoming addicted.
This man was a little more gentle and abstained from spitting on me. I believe that he was subdued by the drugs though. He just shrugged and got off the bus. I'm equally thankful for this too because boy, he stank.
So now, I sometimes contemplate who I can blame for all my numerous failures. I decided on blaming my baby brother for being absent throughout most of my life, particularly the first two years when he was not even born yet (that jerk!). It did not even stop there, either. He was not coherent enough to remember any of my birthdays for at least 5 years after that. And then for another 5 years after, he just cared enough to eat the cake, play a few party games, and take a nap. Talk about lazy. Jeez. On top of all that, guess what he did for my 25th birthday this year? He went to somebody else's surprise birthday party. That one really hurt.
Anyways, unlike those people including "teenage girl" and "grown ass man" that maintain a fatalistic view on life, I decided to turn my own life around by extending an olive branch to my brother. Yes, that's right. The other night, I went out and bought him a donut. I surprised him with it the next morning. I remember it clearly. How I tiptoed into his room while he was still sleeping and nuzzled the bag full of deep-fried goodness against his nose. He was suddenly awakened by the smell of maple and flour, looked up at me with those sleepy eyes, and said.... "Thank you." My heart swelled up with love.
But wait, that's not it. He pointed at his dresser. I was intrigued. Then he said "I got you something too. It's over there." My heart swelled up even more. I could see the faint glimmer of the present under the dawning sunlight. It was almost magical how much it glowed, almost like precious metal. Then I realized that it was just a Ferrero Rocher. He had eaten that other 2 that came in the packet and saved one for me. Wow, he actually thought about me when he ate those chocolates! Progress!
I was so flattered that I cupped that chocolate in both of my hands and went downstairs to announce to my parents that me and my brother had finally taken a stop forward towards being a little closer. Both their faces lit up. I wanted to call a halt to everyone's activities for the day so that we could go out and buy a guitar/banjo/whatever to sing "Kumbaya" around a campfire. It was that major of a milestone for everyone in the family. Unfortunately, when we took a vote, I was the only one that wanted my dad to call in sick for work that day. Plus, no one knew the words to "Kumbaya," including myself, so we passed on it. Great idea, though!
So see, "teenage girl" and "grown ass man"! You can turn things around. You just don't want to and prefer to wallow in self-pity so that strangers will feel sorry for you. Well, no offense, I can't commiserate because my family is PERFECT. My brother buys me chocolates. So there!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
If Hip Hop Music Were Real Life
I always wondered where the inspiration for hip hop lyrics actually came from. Salvador Dali's surrealist art was influenced by the Renaissance masters that reigned that art world centuries before. Nabakov's Lolita was inspired by his multilingual background and emigration from Russia. Enlightenment spurred the writing of Beethoven's greatest masterpieces. Then there is Akon, whose source of inspiration continues to remain a mystery to me. His latest song, appropriately named "Sexy Bitch" has topped the music charts, resulting in radio stations near and far playing the song incessantly throughout the day.
While listening to the song, I wonder how things would actually work out if the lyrics were played out in the real world. I'd be dancing in the middle of some dark club. He approaches. I'd see that he's not bad looking and allow him to approach me.
Akon: Oh you're a diva.
Me: (gracious) Thank you.
Akon: You're the baddest thing around town.
Me: Oh you heard the rumor about me too. Don't worry, it's not true. ::wink::
Akon: You're nothing I can compare to your neighborhood hoe.
Me: (awkard) Well, I guess I can take that as a compliment.
Akon: I'm trying to find the words to tell you without being disrespectful.
Me: Uhm. You should leave. Now.
Crushed, Akon will reformulate this conversation into a song and make millions of dollars. I should've bought the rights to that conversation. I could've been a millionaire!
While listening to the song, I wonder how things would actually work out if the lyrics were played out in the real world. I'd be dancing in the middle of some dark club. He approaches. I'd see that he's not bad looking and allow him to approach me.
Akon: Oh you're a diva.
Me: (gracious) Thank you.
Akon: You're the baddest thing around town.
Me: Oh you heard the rumor about me too. Don't worry, it's not true. ::wink::
Akon: You're nothing I can compare to your neighborhood hoe.
Me: (awkard) Well, I guess I can take that as a compliment.
Akon: I'm trying to find the words to tell you without being disrespectful.
Me: Uhm. You should leave. Now.
Crushed, Akon will reformulate this conversation into a song and make millions of dollars. I should've bought the rights to that conversation. I could've been a millionaire!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
UPDATE: Secret Lovers
I woke up today with a different perspective after the silent rejection I experienced last night. I think that maybe it was the fact that my McDonald's milkshake remained only half digested in my stomach, as does all of McDonald's products. Basically I felt gross, which made me hate men even more. After all, as one of my bulimic friends once told me, "A moment on the lips goes straight to the hips." Today, I resolved to not letting some soccer player that I'm too good for make me fat by inducing cravings for high fructose corn syrup because he kept his paws off me last night. It's just not going to happen.
So I went for a run to burn off those sympathy carbs that I chugged down like cough syrup last night. I'm running and running and running. Then walking to catch my breath. Then it happened. *HONK HONK* and a loud "YEAAAAAAAA" from the road. My spirits were lifted, my posture suddenly improved. It was as if I were Popeye and someone had just thrown me a can of spinach. I turned my head to see. "Lexus? Mercedes?! BMW?!?!" No. Toyota Pickup... with gardening tools crammed into the flatbed. Poo.
My posture was slumped over once again. I walked the rest of the way, dreaming for a moment where I'd be running this same trail and for once be demoralized by a professional man driving a luxury vehicle. The sun was about to set as I made it back to the car, and I looked out into its faint glimmer. I made a tight fist and shook it in front of me. Tomorrow is a brand new day, I told myself. Tomorrow is the day that I'll be honked at by a suit in a $60,000 car.
So I went for a run to burn off those sympathy carbs that I chugged down like cough syrup last night. I'm running and running and running. Then walking to catch my breath. Then it happened. *HONK HONK* and a loud "YEAAAAAAAA" from the road. My spirits were lifted, my posture suddenly improved. It was as if I were Popeye and someone had just thrown me a can of spinach. I turned my head to see. "Lexus? Mercedes?! BMW?!?!" No. Toyota Pickup... with gardening tools crammed into the flatbed. Poo.
My posture was slumped over once again. I walked the rest of the way, dreaming for a moment where I'd be running this same trail and for once be demoralized by a professional man driving a luxury vehicle. The sun was about to set as I made it back to the car, and I looked out into its faint glimmer. I made a tight fist and shook it in front of me. Tomorrow is a brand new day, I told myself. Tomorrow is the day that I'll be honked at by a suit in a $60,000 car.
Secret Lovers
I've had it with guys. I mean it this time. No, for real.
Nothing gets my rubber burning more than mixed signals from a member of the opposite sex. Is it not enough that we sent dumb text messages incessantly back and forth for the last six months?
Him: I miss you cutey.
Me: I normally don't like being called cutey, but for some reason i like it when it comes out your beautiful mouth.
Him: My day wasn't complete without you.
Me: It was as if there was no sunshine today without you by my side. My day was bleak, empty like the leftover egg shells from my omelet this morning.
Him: I wish you were here.
Me: I wish I was there too. In fact, I wish I were anywhere that was above 50 degrees F about now. It's f-ing freezing out here! How's the weather there?
Seriously? I mean I totally just laid myself out on a silver platter. I returned every mildly flirtatious text with a more overt invitation for a relationship, no? So I thought I had laid the groundwork. It was established that we liked each other. I have written proof of this.
Then tonight it went down. The phone call. The voicemail, "Hey it's me. Just wanted to see if you wanted to kick it." Despite the fact that I cringed when he said the words "kick it," I decided to overlook that slight error of judgment and go hang out for a bit. I wear my awesome cream colored space cowboy boots, with a nice coral colored blouse, and dark jeans. I got "man approved" by a friend, specifically Nabila :-). I sucked it in. No, literally. I sucked my stomach in for a slimmer silhouette when I rang his doorbell.
He was looking great. I was looking great. It was perfect. We sit on the couch for a bit, chatting. He doesn't call me cutey. I'm disappointed. I cross my legs to show off my toned legs. He gets up and gets a glass of water instead. We then watch some TV together. He doesn't look at me once, keeping his eyes glued to the newest episode of some god-forsaken cartoon or whatever. I follow suit. (Hell, what was I supposed to do at that point anyways?).
But here was my chance. He LEANS OVER ME to grab the remote that was next to me. I feel the muscular sinews of his chest graze my knees. I shudder in excitement, but maintain my calm exterior. As he's grabbing the remote, I kind of jerk my knees ever so slightly, sending him the signal. Instead, he's like "woa watch it. i don't want the wind knocked out of me." i pseudo-laugh, eyes still glued to the cartoon watching a cartoon soft drink yelling at a round cartoon hairball.
It was over. I was willing to overlook the penchant for cartoons. I was willing to overlook the occasional use of unattractive slang words like "kick it." I was even willing to look over the fact that he had a slight unibrow. But if ur not going to catch the drift, you might as well not be sailing, buddy.
I then told him I was tired, got up, and left. I deleted his phone number in the car, and drove off into the night while slurping on a McDonalds milkshake because I felt like punishing myself for the rest of the day. I have now concluded that it is, indeed, true. No guy will ever be good enough for me and no guy is worth having to force yourself to eat McDonald's, either. Lesson learned. Moving on.
Nothing gets my rubber burning more than mixed signals from a member of the opposite sex. Is it not enough that we sent dumb text messages incessantly back and forth for the last six months?
Him: I miss you cutey.
Me: I normally don't like being called cutey, but for some reason i like it when it comes out your beautiful mouth.
Him: My day wasn't complete without you.
Me: It was as if there was no sunshine today without you by my side. My day was bleak, empty like the leftover egg shells from my omelet this morning.
Him: I wish you were here.
Me: I wish I was there too. In fact, I wish I were anywhere that was above 50 degrees F about now. It's f-ing freezing out here! How's the weather there?
Seriously? I mean I totally just laid myself out on a silver platter. I returned every mildly flirtatious text with a more overt invitation for a relationship, no? So I thought I had laid the groundwork. It was established that we liked each other. I have written proof of this.
Then tonight it went down. The phone call. The voicemail, "Hey it's me. Just wanted to see if you wanted to kick it." Despite the fact that I cringed when he said the words "kick it," I decided to overlook that slight error of judgment and go hang out for a bit. I wear my awesome cream colored space cowboy boots, with a nice coral colored blouse, and dark jeans. I got "man approved" by a friend, specifically Nabila :-). I sucked it in. No, literally. I sucked my stomach in for a slimmer silhouette when I rang his doorbell.
He was looking great. I was looking great. It was perfect. We sit on the couch for a bit, chatting. He doesn't call me cutey. I'm disappointed. I cross my legs to show off my toned legs. He gets up and gets a glass of water instead. We then watch some TV together. He doesn't look at me once, keeping his eyes glued to the newest episode of some god-forsaken cartoon or whatever. I follow suit. (Hell, what was I supposed to do at that point anyways?).
But here was my chance. He LEANS OVER ME to grab the remote that was next to me. I feel the muscular sinews of his chest graze my knees. I shudder in excitement, but maintain my calm exterior. As he's grabbing the remote, I kind of jerk my knees ever so slightly, sending him the signal. Instead, he's like "woa watch it. i don't want the wind knocked out of me." i pseudo-laugh, eyes still glued to the cartoon watching a cartoon soft drink yelling at a round cartoon hairball.
It was over. I was willing to overlook the penchant for cartoons. I was willing to overlook the occasional use of unattractive slang words like "kick it." I was even willing to look over the fact that he had a slight unibrow. But if ur not going to catch the drift, you might as well not be sailing, buddy.
I then told him I was tired, got up, and left. I deleted his phone number in the car, and drove off into the night while slurping on a McDonalds milkshake because I felt like punishing myself for the rest of the day. I have now concluded that it is, indeed, true. No guy will ever be good enough for me and no guy is worth having to force yourself to eat McDonald's, either. Lesson learned. Moving on.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Clothing With Scandal Factor
Lately, I've felt like unleashing my wild side, and I am lucky to have this sudden urge coincide with the reemergence of animal print in pop fashion culture. I did not realize this coincidence until I saw a friend of mine rockin' a pair of zebra print tights and I found myself thinking: "Man I want that... sooo bad." Hence, I went out and bought a pair of tights, in cheetah print though, because I did not want to look like I was ripping off her fashion ideas even though I practically was either way.
I wanted to break these tights in the other day. You know, basically see how they felt and to stretch them out a bit before I took them out on their maiden voyage. So I thought, why not wear them to my eyebrow appointment in Artesia? I matched them up with a sweater dress and my fake Uggs. Man I thought I was looking awesome... until I took a stroll down Pioneer Blvd in Artesia, CA, a "Little India" of sorts. Judging from the stares, I'm guessing that all those Desis out there were thinking I was on a different type of stroll altogether.
To tell you the truth, I kind of liked the attention. I was going to break out in squats in the middle of an intersection to cause an even bigger ruckus. I backed out last minute. That's the sort of thing to do if you have family members present and subsequently give the ones you don't like minor strokes. Now that is some ammo you can't buy in any store.
I have now concluded that if I were to ever see how my new outfits rate on the scandal meter, I will don them and take a walk down Little India. Each general stare earns 1 point while a discreet look from a lascivious Desi uncle earns 5 points. Those discreet ones are tricky though. Make sure you don't inadvertently look back with an expression that can be misinterpreted as an invitation. (I'm warning you now so don't come crying to me later.)
That day, I scored a whopping 50 points. It was a personal record, which means that I'm totally going to wear this outfit when I go pick up my 85-year-old grandmother from the airport on Tuesday and consequently spend the rest of my winter break hearing her lecture my parents about letting their daughter around "half-naked" in Los Angeles and its surrounding areas. It'll be my little token of appreciation to them for giving me a life in which I can dress in faux animal and can bring shame to our family name by wearing said faux animal.
I wanted to break these tights in the other day. You know, basically see how they felt and to stretch them out a bit before I took them out on their maiden voyage. So I thought, why not wear them to my eyebrow appointment in Artesia? I matched them up with a sweater dress and my fake Uggs. Man I thought I was looking awesome... until I took a stroll down Pioneer Blvd in Artesia, CA, a "Little India" of sorts. Judging from the stares, I'm guessing that all those Desis out there were thinking I was on a different type of stroll altogether.
To tell you the truth, I kind of liked the attention. I was going to break out in squats in the middle of an intersection to cause an even bigger ruckus. I backed out last minute. That's the sort of thing to do if you have family members present and subsequently give the ones you don't like minor strokes. Now that is some ammo you can't buy in any store.
I have now concluded that if I were to ever see how my new outfits rate on the scandal meter, I will don them and take a walk down Little India. Each general stare earns 1 point while a discreet look from a lascivious Desi uncle earns 5 points. Those discreet ones are tricky though. Make sure you don't inadvertently look back with an expression that can be misinterpreted as an invitation. (I'm warning you now so don't come crying to me later.)
That day, I scored a whopping 50 points. It was a personal record, which means that I'm totally going to wear this outfit when I go pick up my 85-year-old grandmother from the airport on Tuesday and consequently spend the rest of my winter break hearing her lecture my parents about letting their daughter around "half-naked" in Los Angeles and its surrounding areas. It'll be my little token of appreciation to them for giving me a life in which I can dress in faux animal and can bring shame to our family name by wearing said faux animal.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
24 Hour Businesses DO Attract Crime!
Walnut, CA has to be the crappiest city in this country. I remember moving here when I was 7 years old, dreaming from my bedroom window as I looked upon miles after miles of barren wasteland that one day there would be a mall the size of castle smack dab in the middle of it for me to frolic in during my upcoming materialistic teenage years. My dreams were crushed when I matured and realized that Walnut is generally characterized as a city full of hardworking immigrants that would rather spend their cash elsewhere, namely Brea and West Covina (and if they were feeling cheap, La Puente) instead of allowing Walnut to economically flourish.
Then there was this light, albeit quite faint, at the end of the economic tunnel. There was talks of actually building a Target. I restructured my dreams, replacing the image of myself shopping in high-end stores like Bebe to rummaging through piles of Mossimo clothes on clearance aisles, battling it out with some fat woman that is vying for the same deals. I was still satisfied, particularly by the thought of saving a penny or two in my shopping needs while also letting out some of my aggression against out budget shoppers. But then that dream was crushed too and I was back at square one all over again. All the arguments from the majority of the residents was that businesses would attract crime, and that is a reasonable assumption considering the crowds of homeless punks that hang outside of such stores, either panhandling or smoking cigarettes. Oh wait, my bad, that's Walmart.
Anyways, unfortunately Walnut decided to lift its ban against, well any, commercial building when I decided to leave for college. But by that time I matured some more and became anti-corporation, amongst my list of reasons why include the fact that they treat their employees like crap (and I say that from personal experience), their crap clothes are usually produced in sweat shops with poor ventilation, and I can't stand the elevator music most of them play. As my hatred towards such companies deepened, the stores went up one-by-one. Walnut now boasts a Kohls, Famous Footwear, and Bed Bath and Beyond. Man, I sure do wish I was a teenager at such booming time.
What I do like is the new 24 Hour Fitness. As you don't know already, I've become a fitness fanatic, and the thought of varying up my long boring nights during my visits home with an occasional workout piqued my interests. This basically means that I'm there all the time. However, I'm surprised that Walnut would even allow a 24 hour business, besides the Donut Tree which is granted the 24 hour privilege for obvious reasons (damn pigs!), since its residents are so "crime conscience."
Look at tonight for example. The clock struck 1:30 am and after watching Oprah's new interview with Whitney Houston, I found myself bored. So I threw on my workout clothes and went on over to the gym. I parked in a spot moderately close to the gym entrance, even though the lot was a paltry 5% full, and went in for my work out. I exited the gym at 2:30 am and as I was walking to my car, I saw that this red truck was parked right next to it. I then saw shadows moving inside the truck.
I am one of the lucky few that has attended a Women's Self Defense class. (All you that laughed at me before, look who's laughing now!) I used the clever technique of lodging my keys in between my knuckles so if I were to get approached, one quick jab could blind the assailant for life. I was looking forward to it. I was already pumped from my workout.
But once I reached my side of the vehicle, I smelled the sweet and evil smell of marijuana emanating from the car and heard the accompanying coughing. I looked at the punks inside the red truck and stared for a second. What idiots. They stared back. The paranoia had set in at the right time. I kept staring as I reached for the phone, pretending to call someone. I started the car and pulled back, and made myself look like I was reading off their license plate number.
Man, the minute I drove off, the punks got the hell out of there like bats out of... well, hell. They almost popped a wheelie as they were turning out of the parking lot! That was awesome. No one smokes the reefer on my turf! Only cigarettes please. I hope that will teach them to think twice if they ever attempt to sully the reputation of 24 Hour Fitness ever again by smoking marijuana in its parking lot. And maybe next time, I'll also think twice before I freak a paranoid stoner out enough to have them hit the road under the influence of a controlled substance. See, Walnut residents, 24 hour businesses effect everyone. But please don't close down the 24 Hour Fitness.
Then there was this light, albeit quite faint, at the end of the economic tunnel. There was talks of actually building a Target. I restructured my dreams, replacing the image of myself shopping in high-end stores like Bebe to rummaging through piles of Mossimo clothes on clearance aisles, battling it out with some fat woman that is vying for the same deals. I was still satisfied, particularly by the thought of saving a penny or two in my shopping needs while also letting out some of my aggression against out budget shoppers. But then that dream was crushed too and I was back at square one all over again. All the arguments from the majority of the residents was that businesses would attract crime, and that is a reasonable assumption considering the crowds of homeless punks that hang outside of such stores, either panhandling or smoking cigarettes. Oh wait, my bad, that's Walmart.
Anyways, unfortunately Walnut decided to lift its ban against, well any, commercial building when I decided to leave for college. But by that time I matured some more and became anti-corporation, amongst my list of reasons why include the fact that they treat their employees like crap (and I say that from personal experience), their crap clothes are usually produced in sweat shops with poor ventilation, and I can't stand the elevator music most of them play. As my hatred towards such companies deepened, the stores went up one-by-one. Walnut now boasts a Kohls, Famous Footwear, and Bed Bath and Beyond. Man, I sure do wish I was a teenager at such booming time.
What I do like is the new 24 Hour Fitness. As you don't know already, I've become a fitness fanatic, and the thought of varying up my long boring nights during my visits home with an occasional workout piqued my interests. This basically means that I'm there all the time. However, I'm surprised that Walnut would even allow a 24 hour business, besides the Donut Tree which is granted the 24 hour privilege for obvious reasons (damn pigs!), since its residents are so "crime conscience."
Look at tonight for example. The clock struck 1:30 am and after watching Oprah's new interview with Whitney Houston, I found myself bored. So I threw on my workout clothes and went on over to the gym. I parked in a spot moderately close to the gym entrance, even though the lot was a paltry 5% full, and went in for my work out. I exited the gym at 2:30 am and as I was walking to my car, I saw that this red truck was parked right next to it. I then saw shadows moving inside the truck.
I am one of the lucky few that has attended a Women's Self Defense class. (All you that laughed at me before, look who's laughing now!) I used the clever technique of lodging my keys in between my knuckles so if I were to get approached, one quick jab could blind the assailant for life. I was looking forward to it. I was already pumped from my workout.
But once I reached my side of the vehicle, I smelled the sweet and evil smell of marijuana emanating from the car and heard the accompanying coughing. I looked at the punks inside the red truck and stared for a second. What idiots. They stared back. The paranoia had set in at the right time. I kept staring as I reached for the phone, pretending to call someone. I started the car and pulled back, and made myself look like I was reading off their license plate number.
Man, the minute I drove off, the punks got the hell out of there like bats out of... well, hell. They almost popped a wheelie as they were turning out of the parking lot! That was awesome. No one smokes the reefer on my turf! Only cigarettes please. I hope that will teach them to think twice if they ever attempt to sully the reputation of 24 Hour Fitness ever again by smoking marijuana in its parking lot. And maybe next time, I'll also think twice before I freak a paranoid stoner out enough to have them hit the road under the influence of a controlled substance. See, Walnut residents, 24 hour businesses effect everyone. But please don't close down the 24 Hour Fitness.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
My Panty Drawer
Speaking of Victoria's Secret, & outside my supreme aspiration to one day to be a VS Angel (yea baby!), I was reminded of my extensive panty collection. Ladies and gentlemen, I am the proud owner of a panty drawer that would even make Carmen Electra squeal. Ok maybe not really, but at least make a middle-aged yuppie slightly jealous.
Now, I am the last person on God's green earth that would shell out more than a buck for a pair of cheekies. The thought of spending even a measly $2.50 on 10 cents worth of fabric makes me hyperventilate, if not fall into the floor in convulsions. (This explains why I always wear a helmet to the Victoria's Secret store.)
So, then, how did I manage to have over 20, yes 20, pairs of authentic VS lingerie under my belt, you ask? Easy, just sign up for their paper mailings. At first I regretted it and every time that annoying catalogue came in the mail, my extremely male roommate would rescue it from the recycling pile and stash it away in his bathroom. Let me just point out to all you men, you can't fool me. Don't try.
But then, I'd get something thicker in the mail, almost akin to cardboard. Curiosity would kill the cat, and I'd open up the envelope and voila, a $10 off coupon aka a "get out of jail for free card" if this were a game of monopoly. The first time I came across this phenomenon, my jaw dropped to the floor. Could this be? Can this be? I then proceeded to read the fine print in the back. There just has to be a minimum purchase of at least $150 or some kind of gimmick. But no! No gimmick! I see it as basically a $10 bill that is crumpled up into a card with girly patterns printed on it.
At this point, the easy part is over. It only involves checking the mail and gently opening an envelope with the dexterity of a cougar (not the cat). The second part, the actual retrieval of the panties, takes a little practice and more importantly, willfulness. I confess, the first time I did this, I stood before the thong-clad mannequins in the store front, rehearsing in my newest Bell brand bicycle helmet. Hand over the panty to the cashier, give her the card as if it were real cash, and walk away, I kept saying to myself.
I then marched in there, picked out a panty priced as close to the $10 mark as I could get it, and walked up to the cashier with my chest out and my back straight. I handed her the panty. She scanned the panty. It was $9.50. I gave her the $10 off card. She paused, looked straight into my eyes and said "Uhm... are you sure you don't want anything else?" Awkwaaaarrd. I took a deep breath. "No, just the FREE panty. Thanks." I was so proud of myself. I stood my ground. But then I pushed it. "Oh and also, are you going to give me 50 cents back being that that was a TEN DOLLAR card?". Her glare burned through my retinas. I heard the customers standing behind me give out a huge sigh. I took the walk of shame out of the store with my free panty.
Needless to say, I do not go to that particular store anymore. But I still continue to push poor Victoria's buttons by taking advantage of her free offers, all the while not spending a dime on her products. One thing is for sure, though. Her panties are sure a whole hell of a lot better than the Walmart brand I used to wear, which is strange because both are probably produced in the same South Korean sweatshop.
Now, I am the last person on God's green earth that would shell out more than a buck for a pair of cheekies. The thought of spending even a measly $2.50 on 10 cents worth of fabric makes me hyperventilate, if not fall into the floor in convulsions. (This explains why I always wear a helmet to the Victoria's Secret store.)
So, then, how did I manage to have over 20, yes 20, pairs of authentic VS lingerie under my belt, you ask? Easy, just sign up for their paper mailings. At first I regretted it and every time that annoying catalogue came in the mail, my extremely male roommate would rescue it from the recycling pile and stash it away in his bathroom. Let me just point out to all you men, you can't fool me. Don't try.
But then, I'd get something thicker in the mail, almost akin to cardboard. Curiosity would kill the cat, and I'd open up the envelope and voila, a $10 off coupon aka a "get out of jail for free card" if this were a game of monopoly. The first time I came across this phenomenon, my jaw dropped to the floor. Could this be? Can this be? I then proceeded to read the fine print in the back. There just has to be a minimum purchase of at least $150 or some kind of gimmick. But no! No gimmick! I see it as basically a $10 bill that is crumpled up into a card with girly patterns printed on it.
At this point, the easy part is over. It only involves checking the mail and gently opening an envelope with the dexterity of a cougar (not the cat). The second part, the actual retrieval of the panties, takes a little practice and more importantly, willfulness. I confess, the first time I did this, I stood before the thong-clad mannequins in the store front, rehearsing in my newest Bell brand bicycle helmet. Hand over the panty to the cashier, give her the card as if it were real cash, and walk away, I kept saying to myself.
I then marched in there, picked out a panty priced as close to the $10 mark as I could get it, and walked up to the cashier with my chest out and my back straight. I handed her the panty. She scanned the panty. It was $9.50. I gave her the $10 off card. She paused, looked straight into my eyes and said "Uhm... are you sure you don't want anything else?" Awkwaaaarrd. I took a deep breath. "No, just the FREE panty. Thanks." I was so proud of myself. I stood my ground. But then I pushed it. "Oh and also, are you going to give me 50 cents back being that that was a TEN DOLLAR card?". Her glare burned through my retinas. I heard the customers standing behind me give out a huge sigh. I took the walk of shame out of the store with my free panty.
Needless to say, I do not go to that particular store anymore. But I still continue to push poor Victoria's buttons by taking advantage of her free offers, all the while not spending a dime on her products. One thing is for sure, though. Her panties are sure a whole hell of a lot better than the Walmart brand I used to wear, which is strange because both are probably produced in the same South Korean sweatshop.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Genetic Recombination
I always strongly believed that beautiful people, coupled with other beautiful people, begot only ugly children. It's all part of that skipping a generation phenomenon. I mean check out the monstrosity that is Rumer Willis, the hybrid created by the union of sexy Bruce Willis and even sexier Demi Moore, as a case in point. Hopefully Rumer's children will take after their grandparents.
But then there are the exceptions that defy this rule. There is Suri Cruise, though I feel her perfection is in part due to the baby formula that gets dropped down from space and sold at $1000 an ounce at the Church of Scientology. Or Brad and Angelina's baby (can't seem to remember their names), though 80% of their brood of children are not genetically their own.
As an avid biologist, I like to keep tabs on beautiful people and their children. I especially like to run pools on pregnant celebrities, not on the due date, but on how ugly their children be on a scale of 1-10 (1 being the ugliest and 10 being not ugly at all). The most recent being Nicole Richie's child, which scored a 3, and was eerily accurate:
To rub even more salt into the wounds, the woman named her child "Harlow". What the hell is this, the 1930s?
Then I came across a "match made in heaven"punnett square: Alessandra Ambrosio and her beau Jamie Mazur.
Dayyyyammnn. I'm jealous. I wish I were named after a delicious salad.
But wait. This is what was hurled out of the loins of the Victoria's Secret Angel:
My, what a stark contrast. Not only does her daughter look nothing like the original, but lacks the fashion sense to boot. Don't give up yet, Ms. Ambrosia. Give it a few years, lose the bow, and you may just may have the chance to work some desk job in the back corner of some office somewhere.
But then there are the exceptions that defy this rule. There is Suri Cruise, though I feel her perfection is in part due to the baby formula that gets dropped down from space and sold at $1000 an ounce at the Church of Scientology. Or Brad and Angelina's baby (can't seem to remember their names), though 80% of their brood of children are not genetically their own.
As an avid biologist, I like to keep tabs on beautiful people and their children. I especially like to run pools on pregnant celebrities, not on the due date, but on how ugly their children be on a scale of 1-10 (1 being the ugliest and 10 being not ugly at all). The most recent being Nicole Richie's child, which scored a 3, and was eerily accurate:
To rub even more salt into the wounds, the woman named her child "Harlow". What the hell is this, the 1930s?
Then I came across a "match made in heaven"punnett square: Alessandra Ambrosio and her beau Jamie Mazur.
Dayyyyammnn. I'm jealous. I wish I were named after a delicious salad.
But wait. This is what was hurled out of the loins of the Victoria's Secret Angel:
My, what a stark contrast. Not only does her daughter look nothing like the original, but lacks the fashion sense to boot. Don't give up yet, Ms. Ambrosia. Give it a few years, lose the bow, and you may just may have the chance to work some desk job in the back corner of some office somewhere.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Using YouTube For Educational Purposes
As my best friend Fatima (aka "Fats") told me recently, my life is basically a thread that weaves through various extremes. Past extremes have included obsessions with knitting, baking, and "gourmet" cooking. Looking back, I think I was just subconsciously training myself to be an all-American housewife. You know except for the brown-haired, brown-eyed thing. Some would say black hair, but they can just go to hell.
So I can bake, I can cook, and dammit, I can even darn my future husband's socks if need be. But appropriately way down on my list, a goal that I hadn't even taken a stab at in all these years, was being able to bend into 50 different positions (because who doesn't want to "wow" their future husbands in bed?).
I am now in my inaugural year of being a fitness nut. To the surprise of many many many people, I not only walk but run and lift weights albeit in an undisciplined haphazard manner. Like stealing big screen TVs out of people's homes and then later running from the cops with it. (Hey, I said I am a fitness nut, not a saint.)
Then Fats presented me with an awesome idea. Why not participate in the 2010 Los Angeles marathon? I negotiated down to a half-marathon. (Ok fine, her brother-in-law did, but who gives a shit about the finer details.) To me, doing a 13 mile run is somewhat doable. I did a 15 mile drunken walk from Mexico to San Diego once because I blew all my cash on the strippers in Tijuana, but that was nearly 10 years ago. I'm not as limber as I was back then. Not even close.
Being the cheap ass that I am, I chose to utilize YouTube videos in lieu of a pricey personal trainer, using the wireless internet I'm stealing from my neighbor. I began searching for videos that would build strength and endurance, and a video entitled "Fitness - Fast Death Workout" with a byline that states "This workout will brutalize you and kick your ass in just 15 minutes" caught my eye, but then I have always had a folly for informercial-like sales pitches. I consider it my achilles heel.
What the hell? Sorry Olga, but that has got to be the sloppiest exercise video I have ever seen. And this is coming from a person that used to watch Tae Bo like a hawk. This debacle made me wonder how she got that hard body complete with the chiseled abs of a goddess. I mean if Gretel over here can look like that with the coordination of a 5 year old with an ear infection, then why can't I?
I began to suspect that it may all just be one of those hoaxes that Baywatch pulled on us for years. They have to, just have to be some sort of make up. A little shading there, a little shading here and you can even make Hasselhoff look like the Statue of David. The man is still gross though. Who the hell eats cheeseburgers off a carpet? But I digress.
So I zoomed in on her little video to see if I saw any makeup smudges or "flaws" in her alleged abs up close:
Damn you, pixelation! No clear conclusion can be drawn. But who really cares. Bottom line is that she sucks. Maybe it's time for her to go back to the same gingerbread house she came from.
Ok fine, maybe I'm just jealous that she can probably do all 50 positions I aspire to be able to do when I can still barely touch my toes. On the bright side, I did manage to bounce a quarter off my ass today. Now that's progress.
So I can bake, I can cook, and dammit, I can even darn my future husband's socks if need be. But appropriately way down on my list, a goal that I hadn't even taken a stab at in all these years, was being able to bend into 50 different positions (because who doesn't want to "wow" their future husbands in bed?).
I am now in my inaugural year of being a fitness nut. To the surprise of many many many people, I not only walk but run and lift weights albeit in an undisciplined haphazard manner. Like stealing big screen TVs out of people's homes and then later running from the cops with it. (Hey, I said I am a fitness nut, not a saint.)
Then Fats presented me with an awesome idea. Why not participate in the 2010 Los Angeles marathon? I negotiated down to a half-marathon. (Ok fine, her brother-in-law did, but who gives a shit about the finer details.) To me, doing a 13 mile run is somewhat doable. I did a 15 mile drunken walk from Mexico to San Diego once because I blew all my cash on the strippers in Tijuana, but that was nearly 10 years ago. I'm not as limber as I was back then. Not even close.
Being the cheap ass that I am, I chose to utilize YouTube videos in lieu of a pricey personal trainer, using the wireless internet I'm stealing from my neighbor. I began searching for videos that would build strength and endurance, and a video entitled "Fitness - Fast Death Workout" with a byline that states "This workout will brutalize you and kick your ass in just 15 minutes" caught my eye, but then I have always had a folly for informercial-like sales pitches. I consider it my achilles heel.
What the hell? Sorry Olga, but that has got to be the sloppiest exercise video I have ever seen. And this is coming from a person that used to watch Tae Bo like a hawk. This debacle made me wonder how she got that hard body complete with the chiseled abs of a goddess. I mean if Gretel over here can look like that with the coordination of a 5 year old with an ear infection, then why can't I?
I began to suspect that it may all just be one of those hoaxes that Baywatch pulled on us for years. They have to, just have to be some sort of make up. A little shading there, a little shading here and you can even make Hasselhoff look like the Statue of David. The man is still gross though. Who the hell eats cheeseburgers off a carpet? But I digress.
So I zoomed in on her little video to see if I saw any makeup smudges or "flaws" in her alleged abs up close:
Damn you, pixelation! No clear conclusion can be drawn. But who really cares. Bottom line is that she sucks. Maybe it's time for her to go back to the same gingerbread house she came from.
Ok fine, maybe I'm just jealous that she can probably do all 50 positions I aspire to be able to do when I can still barely touch my toes. On the bright side, I did manage to bounce a quarter off my ass today. Now that's progress.
25F Looking for Celebrity Chef for Marriage
I openly admit it. I have a Shaadi.com profile (which my dear friend Nabila reminded me of). Partially out of choice... the choice of wanting to spare my parents a few tear-stained pillows as they sit up at night in fear that I will never marry. I don't blame them for being at least a little worried. I'm crude, I chew with my mouth open, and refuse to wear deodorant - a specimen that would indefinitely repel that courtship of men of the gentile, educated sort.
So I put up a profile. My "About Me" section is as follows: "I am typing this sentence to meet the character limit required to post this profile in order to bring my parents some relief from either my inevitable doom of being single for the rest of my life, or ending up a lesbian. Whichever comes first." I was worried that my description would not meet the stringent quality standards upheld by the Shaadi.com team and yet, within a few hours time I was given notice that my profile was approved and then viewable by 1000s of potential suitors out there.
Then the phone rang. It was from an area code I didn't recognize. I picked up, and the conversation went like this:
Mystery Man: Hello. May I speak to profile ID #74825?
Me: Uhm... is this India calling or something?
Mystery Man: No. I am calling from Virginia. Why do you ask?
Me: ...Because of your thick Indian accent and you calling me by a random string of numbers as if I'm about to be the victim of identity fraud or something.
Mystery Man: [silence]
Me: Yeaah... I'm going to go. Please don't call me anymore.
Those assholes at Shaadi.com failed to inform me that contact numbers that were supplied to verify identities are also posted on the profile for the "sake of expedient communication" (their exact words from the complaint department). Suddenly, I was bombarded by countless phone calls from areas all over the country and Canada. I could hear it in their voices every time. No, not just the accent. But their horniness, and not necessarily for me, but for the crowned jewel of all jewels - US citizenship. I resorted to screening phone calls, which was not hard because no one ever calls me, and forgot about the whole incident.
While all this was happening, I developed my first celebrity crush on Vikas Khanna, a superstar Indian chef based in NYC, who ironically also holds the title of being a FOB. However, I look at him as a special kind of FOB. Unlike the majority, he does not have facial hair growing in strange places, does not lack any sort of personality outside of his tremendous amount of wealth, and judging by his impeccable grooming skills, probably does not smell of ghee (even though he is a chef) or at least covers it up with some high-end cologne:
I began fantasizing about the kind of life I'd have if I managed to "accidentally" run into him on the streets of Manhattan. I'd be waiting as he locked up his restaurant for the evening, and quickly come around the corner with my own homemade chicken tikka masala as he'd be walking towards me. I'd pretend I didn't see him. I'd run into him and have the chicken tikka masala splatter all over my dress. He would then, being the gentleman he is, wipe me down (particularly on the chest) with a handkerchief, taking the blame for the whole incident. "I should've watched where I was going," he would say. "No problem, would rather have that curry on my dress than in my mouth. Could never figure that darn spice ratio in chicken tikka masala," I would say. After having felt the heft of my breasts, he would not be able to resist and say, "Well, I'm a chef. I can show you how to make chicken tikka masala."
The rest would be history. We'd start vacaying in southern Italy, wintering in northern France. It would all culminate to a proposal involving an engagement ring with a curry leaf-shaped diamond and a wedding on the soft sandy shores of Mexico. Our married life would be in the spotlight though generally quiet. I would then have my dream come true of being the centerfold of Bon Appetit magazine (lets face it, Maxim and Playboy were never an option), where I talk about living a fairy tale life with a handsome husband on my arm, gourmet food always in my belly, and a wallet full of stacks of 100 dollar bills.
Now, I think of this dream every time I get one of those Shaadi.com perverts calling me. A typical conversation goes like this:
Pervert: Hello, I am interested in becoming your life partner.
Me: Well, are you a chef?
Pervert: No.
Me: Are you a celebrity of any sort?
Pervert: No.
Me: Is your name Vikas?
Pervert: No.
Me: Sorry, you are not anything close to what I'm looking for. Bye bye.
And the dream carries on.
So I put up a profile. My "About Me" section is as follows: "I am typing this sentence to meet the character limit required to post this profile in order to bring my parents some relief from either my inevitable doom of being single for the rest of my life, or ending up a lesbian. Whichever comes first." I was worried that my description would not meet the stringent quality standards upheld by the Shaadi.com team and yet, within a few hours time I was given notice that my profile was approved and then viewable by 1000s of potential suitors out there.
Then the phone rang. It was from an area code I didn't recognize. I picked up, and the conversation went like this:
Mystery Man: Hello. May I speak to profile ID #74825?
Me: Uhm... is this India calling or something?
Mystery Man: No. I am calling from Virginia. Why do you ask?
Me: ...Because of your thick Indian accent and you calling me by a random string of numbers as if I'm about to be the victim of identity fraud or something.
Mystery Man: [silence]
Me: Yeaah... I'm going to go. Please don't call me anymore.
Those assholes at Shaadi.com failed to inform me that contact numbers that were supplied to verify identities are also posted on the profile for the "sake of expedient communication" (their exact words from the complaint department). Suddenly, I was bombarded by countless phone calls from areas all over the country and Canada. I could hear it in their voices every time. No, not just the accent. But their horniness, and not necessarily for me, but for the crowned jewel of all jewels - US citizenship. I resorted to screening phone calls, which was not hard because no one ever calls me, and forgot about the whole incident.
While all this was happening, I developed my first celebrity crush on Vikas Khanna, a superstar Indian chef based in NYC, who ironically also holds the title of being a FOB. However, I look at him as a special kind of FOB. Unlike the majority, he does not have facial hair growing in strange places, does not lack any sort of personality outside of his tremendous amount of wealth, and judging by his impeccable grooming skills, probably does not smell of ghee (even though he is a chef) or at least covers it up with some high-end cologne:
I began fantasizing about the kind of life I'd have if I managed to "accidentally" run into him on the streets of Manhattan. I'd be waiting as he locked up his restaurant for the evening, and quickly come around the corner with my own homemade chicken tikka masala as he'd be walking towards me. I'd pretend I didn't see him. I'd run into him and have the chicken tikka masala splatter all over my dress. He would then, being the gentleman he is, wipe me down (particularly on the chest) with a handkerchief, taking the blame for the whole incident. "I should've watched where I was going," he would say. "No problem, would rather have that curry on my dress than in my mouth. Could never figure that darn spice ratio in chicken tikka masala," I would say. After having felt the heft of my breasts, he would not be able to resist and say, "Well, I'm a chef. I can show you how to make chicken tikka masala."
The rest would be history. We'd start vacaying in southern Italy, wintering in northern France. It would all culminate to a proposal involving an engagement ring with a curry leaf-shaped diamond and a wedding on the soft sandy shores of Mexico. Our married life would be in the spotlight though generally quiet. I would then have my dream come true of being the centerfold of Bon Appetit magazine (lets face it, Maxim and Playboy were never an option), where I talk about living a fairy tale life with a handsome husband on my arm, gourmet food always in my belly, and a wallet full of stacks of 100 dollar bills.
Now, I think of this dream every time I get one of those Shaadi.com perverts calling me. A typical conversation goes like this:
Pervert: Hello, I am interested in becoming your life partner.
Me: Well, are you a chef?
Pervert: No.
Me: Are you a celebrity of any sort?
Pervert: No.
Me: Is your name Vikas?
Pervert: No.
Me: Sorry, you are not anything close to what I'm looking for. Bye bye.
And the dream carries on.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Secrets of Weight Loss
As everyone probably already knows, there is no simple secret to weight loss. It is even surprising to myself that I lost weight recently, simply because comments in high school such as "Don't piss her off or else she'll sit on you" or the constant nagging of my family members, whom were quite concerned that my triple digit weight would relegate me to spinsterhood for the rest of my life, did not quite set me over the edge to starve myself or to turn to illegal narcotics as they had hoped.
But then it happened. I lost weight. Not like I reached double digits, as my family members were praying for, which would require some sort of Auschwitz-type imprisonment, but I lost it nonetheless. And here, I will share with you my secrets. However, I must warn you, though I am in no way an advocate of the use of illegal drugs, they may in fact be a healthier alternative to what I am about to reveal to you. Just a warning so here it goes.
1. Go extremely broke and give up your car to counteract the effects of living below the poverty line. Now you must be wondering, how would this have anything to do with losing weight? Easy. First of all, you end up walking or bicycling to your destination. That is a no brainer. But another weight-loss inducing repercussion that is not so obvious is the fact that getting hit on by the biggest losers known to man at bus stops will make you lose your appetite, if not make you vomit out a high-calorie breakfast. And there you have it, exercise and a low-calorie diet is almost seamlessly incorporated into your daily regimen.
2. Travel to a foreign country and force yourself to eat street food. This should not be that hard. Just pick a country whose cuisine mildly tantalizes your taste buds, buy a ticket to fly there, and indulge in the fabulous roadside dining, preferably meals consisting of unheated foods. My eyes are set out on Thailand the next time I travel because I believe the cuisine's profuse use of spices may mask the taste of rancid meats and vegetables that serves as the foundation of their roadside fare. Allow the traveler's diarrhea to take hold and refrain from use of medications such as Immodium as it will only set you back from achieving your weight loss goals.
3. Contract swine flu. Timing is everything here as well as location. Unfortunately, the virus is quite contained in the United States so this will have to be done in a foreign country as well. What I'd do is check with the CDC to figure where the latest swine flu hotspots are in the world, travel to that particular location and surround myself with sick people. Ideal locations to do this would be either the airport itself or the hospital. This should be done immediately after or at the tail end of recovering from the traveler's diarrhea. After you experience the excruciating muscle aches and 105 degree fever, make sure you weasel a box of Tamiflu from the local hospital. It should be free. The side effects of this anti-flu medication are... drum roll please... vomiting and diarrhea. After a 10 day period, in which the dark undereye circles from malnutrition will subside, you may return to the United States completely transformed.
The side effects of this method of weight loss will include the inability to eat milk products and large cuts of meat for the rest of your life as they will come out looking just like how they looked when they were taken in. Just a warning, but well worth the pain and misery of never eating delicious foods ever again. Hell, vegans do it all the time.
Happy weight losing!
But then it happened. I lost weight. Not like I reached double digits, as my family members were praying for, which would require some sort of Auschwitz-type imprisonment, but I lost it nonetheless. And here, I will share with you my secrets. However, I must warn you, though I am in no way an advocate of the use of illegal drugs, they may in fact be a healthier alternative to what I am about to reveal to you. Just a warning so here it goes.
1. Go extremely broke and give up your car to counteract the effects of living below the poverty line. Now you must be wondering, how would this have anything to do with losing weight? Easy. First of all, you end up walking or bicycling to your destination. That is a no brainer. But another weight-loss inducing repercussion that is not so obvious is the fact that getting hit on by the biggest losers known to man at bus stops will make you lose your appetite, if not make you vomit out a high-calorie breakfast. And there you have it, exercise and a low-calorie diet is almost seamlessly incorporated into your daily regimen.
2. Travel to a foreign country and force yourself to eat street food. This should not be that hard. Just pick a country whose cuisine mildly tantalizes your taste buds, buy a ticket to fly there, and indulge in the fabulous roadside dining, preferably meals consisting of unheated foods. My eyes are set out on Thailand the next time I travel because I believe the cuisine's profuse use of spices may mask the taste of rancid meats and vegetables that serves as the foundation of their roadside fare. Allow the traveler's diarrhea to take hold and refrain from use of medications such as Immodium as it will only set you back from achieving your weight loss goals.
3. Contract swine flu. Timing is everything here as well as location. Unfortunately, the virus is quite contained in the United States so this will have to be done in a foreign country as well. What I'd do is check with the CDC to figure where the latest swine flu hotspots are in the world, travel to that particular location and surround myself with sick people. Ideal locations to do this would be either the airport itself or the hospital. This should be done immediately after or at the tail end of recovering from the traveler's diarrhea. After you experience the excruciating muscle aches and 105 degree fever, make sure you weasel a box of Tamiflu from the local hospital. It should be free. The side effects of this anti-flu medication are... drum roll please... vomiting and diarrhea. After a 10 day period, in which the dark undereye circles from malnutrition will subside, you may return to the United States completely transformed.
The side effects of this method of weight loss will include the inability to eat milk products and large cuts of meat for the rest of your life as they will come out looking just like how they looked when they were taken in. Just a warning, but well worth the pain and misery of never eating delicious foods ever again. Hell, vegans do it all the time.
Happy weight losing!
Internet Advertising
Today, I was browsing cookie recipes to make for my annual holiday gift baskets. Amongst the long list of ingredients before me were, butter, eggs, flour, chocolate chips, blah, blah, blah and then boom, an ass. Yes, I said ass. I had just clicked a recipe for a cookie that seemed quite promising this year, Anise Cookies with Lemon Glaze, when on the right hand margin there was this ad gaping back at me:
American Apparel, you finally did it. Not like your signature ads showcasing pre-teen-like girls in compromised positions and enclosed in trailer-park trash type environments was enough. Now you had to go out and demoralize the most unsexy clothing item known to man- the sock. And on a recipe site on top of that. I could still taste the bile in my throat from having to see that next to the words the mean the dearest to my heart: butter and chocolate.
Looking at this ad, I still wonder what AA's angle was supposed to be. First of all, I have never met a person in my 25 years that even wears leotards. (Though to give AA a little credit, I don't know any dancers or strippers.) Excluding sluts, who the hell buys that crap? And if AA is targeting sluts, the last thing that that particular market would want to do is cover up their legs with knee-high socks.
Second of all, who the hell sits like that... in a leotard nonetheless? Man, the only time I'm ever in that position is when I'm scrubbing my shower floor, and it doesn't sound pleasant to do that in a body suit. Nor would I do that with knee-high socks on.
Lastly, how the hell is this ad not censured? Back in the day, seeing even a little cleavage on TV gave said shows a big fat "rated M for mature" disclosure as well as late evening time slots. Nowadays, I can be surfing the web at 7 am, potentially looking for cookies with my 5-year-old son in my lap, and BAM, booty. God help our future generations.
Just to prove to AA that sock advertisements need not be sexually charged, I took a snap of a sock that I knitted myself:
My my my, aren't they a BEAUT! And guess what, no booty required for these bad boys to be admired and for my feet to be the object of envy for all other feet everywhere. And this is being said about a hearty size 10 foot. Imagine how many of these I'd be able to sell if I found some size 0 hottie foot that could really show off my masterpiece? Now that would be sexy.
American Apparel, you finally did it. Not like your signature ads showcasing pre-teen-like girls in compromised positions and enclosed in trailer-park trash type environments was enough. Now you had to go out and demoralize the most unsexy clothing item known to man- the sock. And on a recipe site on top of that. I could still taste the bile in my throat from having to see that next to the words the mean the dearest to my heart: butter and chocolate.
Looking at this ad, I still wonder what AA's angle was supposed to be. First of all, I have never met a person in my 25 years that even wears leotards. (Though to give AA a little credit, I don't know any dancers or strippers.) Excluding sluts, who the hell buys that crap? And if AA is targeting sluts, the last thing that that particular market would want to do is cover up their legs with knee-high socks.
Second of all, who the hell sits like that... in a leotard nonetheless? Man, the only time I'm ever in that position is when I'm scrubbing my shower floor, and it doesn't sound pleasant to do that in a body suit. Nor would I do that with knee-high socks on.
Lastly, how the hell is this ad not censured? Back in the day, seeing even a little cleavage on TV gave said shows a big fat "rated M for mature" disclosure as well as late evening time slots. Nowadays, I can be surfing the web at 7 am, potentially looking for cookies with my 5-year-old son in my lap, and BAM, booty. God help our future generations.
Just to prove to AA that sock advertisements need not be sexually charged, I took a snap of a sock that I knitted myself:
My my my, aren't they a BEAUT! And guess what, no booty required for these bad boys to be admired and for my feet to be the object of envy for all other feet everywhere. And this is being said about a hearty size 10 foot. Imagine how many of these I'd be able to sell if I found some size 0 hottie foot that could really show off my masterpiece? Now that would be sexy.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Wheels On The Bus
For some reason, I get hit on a lot out here and it all started when I began riding the bus on a regular basis. The oddest part about it is that I do not get hit on by a target demographic. Whether it be a crippled 60 year old homeless man or a pubescent pimply volcano, a coconut bragging about his education at state school or a redneck that can't even spell the words "high school," I have to stay as vigilant as I can as I'm standing out in the freezing cold this time of year. (Which reminds me, I need to start packing heat.)
The most recent incident involved very minimal verbal exchange. The man looked very similar to that tall stupid-looking oaf in the Princess Bride. Here's a pic for a good visual:
When I first got a glimpse of his blank face framed by fatty rosy cheeks, I remember thinking "awww what a cute old man," and by "cute" I didn't mean sexually attractive by any means. (Doubt that I'll ever be that desperate though I have been close.) Anyways it turned out that we got off at the same bus stop and were heading towards opposite directions at an intersection. As we were waiting for our respective pedestrian lights to beckon us across, the cutey giant man let out a huge sneeze, sending his fatty belly flopping side to side as he keeled over to contain himself. "Bless you!" I yelled, feeling like that would be my good deed of the day.
Well it wasn't. He turned to me and gave me a huge stupid grin, his cheeks ablaze as if he were Santa Claus. "Oh my, what did I just do," I thought to myself. It was as if I had awoken a sleeping lion. He proceeded to follow me. First at a moderate pace a few feet behind me. Then from the corner of my eye I saw that he was gaining on me and I picked up the pace. The gaining-speeding up cycle continued for a few blocks until I was practically jogging. By this time my heart was pounding, not from the first form of moderate exercise I had had for days, but from the fear that I would be tackled and raped by this oaf because I just said two simple, caring words.
I ran inside a hippie-coop for cover, hid behind a shelf of tasteless hippie foods and peeked in between the vegan mac-and-cheese boxes to make sure he was gone. Then I realized that I was wearing a pair of leather boots and a fur coat that day and once the coast was clear, I was met with the stares of a mob of angry dreadlocked hemp-clad white people. To this day, I couldn't tell you what was scarier: the prospect of being raped by a fat stupid man or being stoned in public by a bunch of tree-hugging whites. Though in the latter case, I probably would've made national news that was both racially-charged and controversial, and thus become immortalized in the pages of history. But then again, in terms of potential lawsuits, I wouldn't win any significant amount of money, considering that hippies have none.
So what was my lesson of the day?
1. If someone looks to have the intelligence equivalent to a house pet, they probably really are that dumb and it is probably better to not arouse them in any shape or form.
2. Hippies are bunch of self-righteous assholes that probably wear and eat animal products shamefully in private because, lets face it, leather and meat are awesome.
The most recent incident involved very minimal verbal exchange. The man looked very similar to that tall stupid-looking oaf in the Princess Bride. Here's a pic for a good visual:
When I first got a glimpse of his blank face framed by fatty rosy cheeks, I remember thinking "awww what a cute old man," and by "cute" I didn't mean sexually attractive by any means. (Doubt that I'll ever be that desperate though I have been close.) Anyways it turned out that we got off at the same bus stop and were heading towards opposite directions at an intersection. As we were waiting for our respective pedestrian lights to beckon us across, the cutey giant man let out a huge sneeze, sending his fatty belly flopping side to side as he keeled over to contain himself. "Bless you!" I yelled, feeling like that would be my good deed of the day.
Well it wasn't. He turned to me and gave me a huge stupid grin, his cheeks ablaze as if he were Santa Claus. "Oh my, what did I just do," I thought to myself. It was as if I had awoken a sleeping lion. He proceeded to follow me. First at a moderate pace a few feet behind me. Then from the corner of my eye I saw that he was gaining on me and I picked up the pace. The gaining-speeding up cycle continued for a few blocks until I was practically jogging. By this time my heart was pounding, not from the first form of moderate exercise I had had for days, but from the fear that I would be tackled and raped by this oaf because I just said two simple, caring words.
I ran inside a hippie-coop for cover, hid behind a shelf of tasteless hippie foods and peeked in between the vegan mac-and-cheese boxes to make sure he was gone. Then I realized that I was wearing a pair of leather boots and a fur coat that day and once the coast was clear, I was met with the stares of a mob of angry dreadlocked hemp-clad white people. To this day, I couldn't tell you what was scarier: the prospect of being raped by a fat stupid man or being stoned in public by a bunch of tree-hugging whites. Though in the latter case, I probably would've made national news that was both racially-charged and controversial, and thus become immortalized in the pages of history. But then again, in terms of potential lawsuits, I wouldn't win any significant amount of money, considering that hippies have none.
So what was my lesson of the day?
1. If someone looks to have the intelligence equivalent to a house pet, they probably really are that dumb and it is probably better to not arouse them in any shape or form.
2. Hippies are bunch of self-righteous assholes that probably wear and eat animal products shamefully in private because, lets face it, leather and meat are awesome.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Ding Heard Around The World
So Tiger Woods ran into a tree in his car at 2am. Big Whoop! I backed into a telephone pole once at 3am, and drove off without as much as an afterthought. And yet I got no love from the local and national media outlets as well as the paparazzi. I guess that is one of the perks of being an everyday, normal, boring person.
I'm just really confused as to why this is such a big deal. The car looked like this:
I'm just really confused as to why this is such a big deal. The car looked like this:
I've seen worst accidents playing bumper cars at the county fair. At least you risk getting whiplash from bumper cars.
So I guess the rumor is that Tiger Woods was beaten up by his Swedish wife and this is all a cover up. Let me tell you, if I found out that my weenie boy of a husband cheated on me, a hot Swedish woman with legs to die for that is way too good for her scrawny husband, I'd probably beat the crap out of him too. And better yet, I'd beat the crap out of him in a way that would hurt him the most... with his own damn golf clubs.
Anyways, I am hoping that GM will drop good ol' TW as their spokesperson. After all, this is all just really bad advertising for the Cadillac Escalade. I mean, I would've totally gone out tomorrow to buy this SUV due to its awesome fuel economy and spacey interior for my family of 10. And yet, the sight of this car crash makes me wonder if all its drivers end up crashing into trees and get caught cheating. I really don't like being caught cheating on my spouse.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Who the hell is this guy fooling?
Found this one on craigslist:
Hello,
I am Venkat from India. I live near Tanasbourne Mall, Hillsboro. I am 29 years old. I am a Mechanical Engineer by Profession. I work in Portland Downtown next to PSU. I have a BS in Mechanical Engineering as well as Masters in Mechanical Engineering. I am tall, fair and good looking. I work for a very well reputed company and earn well.
My hobbies include cooking, workout, listening to good music, watching movies and hiking. I love travelling to the coast.
I have memberships at LA fitness and 24 hours. I like working out. I am a good cook and love to prepare and try different types of cuisines.
I am looking forward to meet a girl - go out for a coffee/lunch/dnner (I leave that to her) and hang out with her. I am not into LTR...But If I happen to find a girl who matches my wavelength, then I can think of moving onto a good and healthy relationship.
For the time being, I would like to spend time with her and know about each other and see how it progresses further.
I am real and genuine. I don't have time for people under false identity and trying to play pranks in craigslist. Only genuine and interested persons, contact me.
Best,
Venkat.
-----
Woa woa woa V-kat, red flags went up the moment you wrote "I am looking forward to meet a girl - go out for a coffee/lunch/dnner (I leave that to her)." Smooth. Man, if you're looking for a little afternoon delight then come right out and say it. What is up with this parenthetical coyness??? And wow, I have never met anyone that has TWO gym memberships. That is definitely something to keep on the resume. At least it shows that you enjoy wasting money.
Anyways, I see this type of thing too often. After many sleepless nights, I decided to do something. So I wrote him, and this is what I said:
Dear V-kat (Can I call you V-kat?),
I am not interested in having sex with you, but did see your ad and thought I'd give you a few pointers. Ok, more of a complete overhaul.
You did start off strong, with a nice concise summary of who you are in the first couple of paragraphs, though I find your membership at not one but TWO gyms a little overzealous. That is the type of thing that you'd probably want to mention on the first date (or according to you coffee/lunch/dnner) instead of in your ad. The key here is that you do not reveal too much in your ad so that there is some left over to talk about at coffee/lunch/dnner, and believe me, having TWO gym memberships is a great conversation starter!
Then your ad went 90 degrees downhill when you said "I am not into LTR...But If I happen to find a girl who matches my wavelength, then I can think of moving onto a good and healthy relationship." Who do you really think you're fooling? Seriously, V-kat. You are copping out even BEFORE you reel in the poor thing on that decrepit fishing line of yours! This is the type of thing you say AFTER the fact. You know, after you find that the sex was horrible.
Finally, people that outright say that they are "real and genuine" usually aren't. So cut the crap.
I repeat, I am not interested in any sexual activity with you. However, I am willing to work for you as your online dating consultant. I am offering you my services at $150/hr. and believe me, I WILL get a woman to sleep with you even if it means that I'd have to wrestle those panties off myself. This offer expires in 24 hrs.
Toodles,
Wing Woman
P.S. I write Facebook profiles too. Want to be a piano player? An all-star cricketer? A rocket scientist? You can be whoever and whatever you want to be after I'm finished filling out your Facebook info for you! Same rate applies.
Hello,
I am Venkat from India. I live near Tanasbourne Mall, Hillsboro. I am 29 years old. I am a Mechanical Engineer by Profession. I work in Portland Downtown next to PSU. I have a BS in Mechanical Engineering as well as Masters in Mechanical Engineering. I am tall, fair and good looking. I work for a very well reputed company and earn well.
My hobbies include cooking, workout, listening to good music, watching movies and hiking. I love travelling to the coast.
I have memberships at LA fitness and 24 hours. I like working out. I am a good cook and love to prepare and try different types of cuisines.
I am looking forward to meet a girl - go out for a coffee/lunch/dnner (I leave that to her) and hang out with her. I am not into LTR...But If I happen to find a girl who matches my wavelength, then I can think of moving onto a good and healthy relationship.
For the time being, I would like to spend time with her and know about each other and see how it progresses further.
I am real and genuine. I don't have time for people under false identity and trying to play pranks in craigslist. Only genuine and interested persons, contact me.
Best,
Venkat.
-----
Woa woa woa V-kat, red flags went up the moment you wrote "I am looking forward to meet a girl - go out for a coffee/lunch/dnner (I leave that to her)." Smooth. Man, if you're looking for a little afternoon delight then come right out and say it. What is up with this parenthetical coyness??? And wow, I have never met anyone that has TWO gym memberships. That is definitely something to keep on the resume. At least it shows that you enjoy wasting money.
Anyways, I see this type of thing too often. After many sleepless nights, I decided to do something. So I wrote him, and this is what I said:
Dear V-kat (Can I call you V-kat?),
I am not interested in having sex with you, but did see your ad and thought I'd give you a few pointers. Ok, more of a complete overhaul.
You did start off strong, with a nice concise summary of who you are in the first couple of paragraphs, though I find your membership at not one but TWO gyms a little overzealous. That is the type of thing that you'd probably want to mention on the first date (or according to you coffee/lunch/dnner) instead of in your ad. The key here is that you do not reveal too much in your ad so that there is some left over to talk about at coffee/lunch/dnner, and believe me, having TWO gym memberships is a great conversation starter!
Then your ad went 90 degrees downhill when you said "I am not into LTR...But If I happen to find a girl who matches my wavelength, then I can think of moving onto a good and healthy relationship." Who do you really think you're fooling? Seriously, V-kat. You are copping out even BEFORE you reel in the poor thing on that decrepit fishing line of yours! This is the type of thing you say AFTER the fact. You know, after you find that the sex was horrible.
Finally, people that outright say that they are "real and genuine" usually aren't. So cut the crap.
I repeat, I am not interested in any sexual activity with you. However, I am willing to work for you as your online dating consultant. I am offering you my services at $150/hr. and believe me, I WILL get a woman to sleep with you even if it means that I'd have to wrestle those panties off myself. This offer expires in 24 hrs.
Toodles,
Wing Woman
P.S. I write Facebook profiles too. Want to be a piano player? An all-star cricketer? A rocket scientist? You can be whoever and whatever you want to be after I'm finished filling out your Facebook info for you! Same rate applies.
Monday, November 30, 2009
For all those cell phone losers out there
For those of you that know me pretty well, I'm sure you have noticed that I enjoy losing anything in my possession that is smaller than my fist. Imagine my immense frustration when dealing with the modernized version of the cell phone. The pre-2000 days when cell phones occupied 3/4ths of purse space were over almost overnight, and I was facing episodes after episodes of lost cell phone incidents that involved anything from animals to washing machines. But at my recent trip to the airport, I discovered a technique that is almost foolproof in recovering a long lost, beloved cell phone (if you are a cell phone loser like me).
It all started when the universe decided to play a joke on me by sticking me behind a seemingly incompetent woman at the security checkpoint. She had to rerun her carry-on through the xray almost 5 times, while I waited impatiently behind her in my bare feet, shivering because I was stripped of my coat for the regular frisking that I enjoy oh so much. When I took a casual peek at the inside of her bag during a routine search, it appeared as if she just decided to stuff it with a bunch of crap lying around on the floor of her bedroom. I was surprised that they didn't find any live animals in there.
Anyways, I was still standing there and as they ran her bag through the xray for the 5th time, she did something that amazed me. She asked the TSA man if he saw her cell phone inside the bag because she hasn't seen it for days! OMG, I thought to myself, this woman, under all those layers of slovenly habits, may actually have something here. The next time I lose my cell phone, why not stuff a bunch of the things that I suspect in harboring my fugitive cell phone into a duffel bag and make the TSA guys do all the heavy lifting!? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Lions, tigers, and terrorists! Oh my!
It was another day at the Portland International Airport. Stepped off the half empty, but conveniently-designed Trimet Max onto an equally convenient escalator to the second floor for the check-in counters. Overall, seemed to be pretty typical and humdrum. But then something stopped me in my tracks. It was a sign. A rather large sign posted in front of the security checkpoint.
Ladies and gentlemen, not like I paid attention before, but we are now at a level ORANGE terrorist alert. Now on the ROYGBIV spectrum, it may not seem as threatening. Orange, after all, is the color of supernovas, of the jumpsuits that super-max prisoners wear, and ironically, oranges. But if we were to convert these colors into a more understandable scale, like lets say grades (for most of us that are in school right now) that means our terrorist protection is at a D- or D at best! (And conversely, these terrorists are scoring a B+/A- in succeeding to terrorize us!) OH MY!
For a moment, I was frozen in my tracks. Should I or shouldn't I continue on this 2 hour journey to Los Angeles? Was I scared enough to cancel my Thanksgiving plans? Then I took a look around me, let out a big sigh of relief, and continued as I was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)