Subway Sandwich Artists: Stop Smashing my Sandwiches

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I'm a sandwich shop lover and I especially enjoy Subway's Philly cheese steak and ham & cheese with added avo sandwiches. I like them so much for lunch that even though their relentless $5 promo song will be looping in my mind for the rest of the afternoon, I cannot resist spell of the Subway sandwich artist.

On several afternoons during the work week, I can be found waiting patiently in a moderate line at one of two Subways near my office. I look forward to my loafy lo-cal friend on Subway lunch days. I choose my bread carefully, alternating varieties for Philly or ham fixings. I watch the Subway artists keenly as they place the trimmings I request on my sandwich, making sure they don't overlook the extra feta and withhold the salt, but add the pepper.

'Anything else?' they ask. Nothing else. We're home free and I turn my attention to the register as the sandwich wrapping paper crinkles. Out the door, back to the office, behind my desk with my precious freshious at last!

I unwrap the goods and DAMMIT! Again. The fat, fluffy number I last saw before the wrapping process is smashed down to a mere sliver of its former self. Its innards squishing out on all sides, flattened avocado goo sticking to the paper and rogue onions refusing to go down with the ship poking out all willy nilly. Enough. I will Not Stand For It any longer.

I will go back to Subway. This situation is most certainly manageable. I will not stray from my sandwich until it's safely cocooned in its plastic tube bag and we're both on our way, far from the devil hands of the flattening sandwich wrapping Subway artist. You've been warned. Watch your subs.

Kanye West's Fugly Singing on SNL Called Out!

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Kanye West's Inflated Ego

Radio, TV and now print media buzz about Kanye West's horrible "singing" performance of Heartless last week on Saturday Night Live. Dare I hope? Is the media finally prying its lips off of his onion?

Ever since Kanye and his formidible ego arrived on scene, I've been equal parts of amazed and aggitated at the praise and reverence lavished upon him by music critics and other media talking heads. If his perpetual "na na na na, na-na-na-na, naa naaaaa" cadence is within earshot, I bring the hate.

Yes, he writes good hooks, beats and occasionally entertaining lyrics. Yes, he raps alright (and may I remind you I am an expert in urban musicality). But singer he is not. And that's what he mascaraded as on SNL, only everyone but Kanye noticed it.

Shawn Amos of the Yahoo music blog Get Back published an article today exposing Kanye's misguided confidence by making this sensible observation -
Kanye broke the cardinal rule of bad singing. He stepped outside of his preapproved vocal zone.
Oh happy day! Finally someone who has a voice inside proves not everyone is high on Kanye West. Amos goes on to say singers who know they can't sing are always forgiven. True. Consider one of my personal favorites, Mr. Johnny Cash, who said on countless occasions he talked a song more than sang it. But his showmanship and humility hit the bullseye as an entertainer.

Mr. West, on the other hand, thinks he is a most excellent singer and has told us all so on music award shows whether he's at the winners' podium or not. In all fairness, I may take my Kanye criticism more seriously than most. Afterall, he is banned from my blog as you can see over there ---->>. But not without good reason.

Amos' article is a good read. You can browse Yahoo's top list of singers who can't sing and all 11,000+ comments. They take some good shots at Madonna and her carnival arms. I only take issue with Celine Dion's mention. Sure, she's drama and I disliked her odd chest thumping stage, but she can most definitely sing, sang and sung.

Humor Happy Hour Specials for 12/26/08

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All that holiday frenzy has driven me to drink and I invite you to join me. Introducing a little experiment here at the Swizzle Stick Lounge every Friday called Humor Happy Hour. Throw back Sip your favorite cocktail and check out my menu of the funniest, cleverist, or snarkiest blog posts I've read this week.

Feeling judgmental? Rate posts in the sidebar poll by dropping olives in their glass. If someone gets a pile of olives, I'll ask them to guest bar tend here. The poll's open until next Friday. Invite your readers over to drop you an olive, perhaps?

So, without further a do, here be the Specials. Open all night. Throw peanut shells on the floor. Tips appreciated.

Did you read a funny post worthy of your eyeballs this week? Comment me the links for consideration on next week's Triple H menu. Don't forget to leave your olive in the sidebar! (One vote per reader.)

I'd Like a Little House on the Prairie Christmas Right About Now

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As I sit here at my computer at 3 a.m. with burned up monitor eyes, comparing last minute holiday deals on mp3 players and cell phones for family members who will just die without them, I hear Pa Ingalls enraptured with his new flannel shirt sewn for him by little Half Pint.

I like to watch the TVLand channel at this sour hour of the morning instead of "Buy Houses for $300!", or "Get the Barrack Obama Limited Coin Set!". Little House on the Prairie comes on three episodes in a row tonight and each one is a Christmas show.

In the last episode, baby sister Carrie has saved her allowance for an entire year to buy a tin star tree topper from Mr. Olesen's store so baby Jesus will have a present, too. Let's remember chores on the Prairie would likely collapse kids today, so spending your allowance on Jesus back then is nothing short of angelic. Ma Ingalls is giddy with a new bolt of material for a dress. Laura Ingalls has secretly traded her treasured new pony to nemesis Nellie Olesen in exchange for a new wood stove for her mother. Gulp.

After watching the third episode of people going absolutely nuclear with joy over handmade gifts and thoughtful gestures, I have emptied my entire online cart of overpriced nonsense and am going to bed. I've got a lot of sewing, carving and baking to do tomorrow.

Want to Get More Blog Comments? Check the Junk Drawer.

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I love blogs that make me laugh. I'm the kind of girl that's jaded enough to roll my eyes at The Simpsons but quirky to the point of laughing into choking fits watching The Office, vintage SNL and Sarah Silverman. Enter The Junk Drawer blog. I love The Drawer for a couple of reasons. First, the junk drawer in my house is sacred. More times than I can count, I've found the essential lost item in my junk drawer--the spare car key, the Victoria's Secret gift certificate from last Christmas, the lone AAA battery (don't ask).

Second, the Drawer's owner Kathy Frederick is a real hoot. Don't believe me? Consider this: where else can you read about loving banana clips, runaway boobs and an ass table? Nowhere but The Junk Drawer. Read Kathy's near daily accounts of life and you'll laugh out loud, or at least snort suppressing it.

But you'll also notice something quite extraordinary. Kathy's readers comment, A LOT. Her posts consistently get upwards of 70 - 80 individual comments, bringing her collective comments to over 10,000 for a blog only 1.5 years old. And they're funny, insightful, clever comments that people who have obviously read the whole post take time to share. It's a blogger's dream.

How did Kathy become the most successful comment breeder this side of Dooce? That's just what I asked her and she was kind enough to respond. I sat down with one of my favorite snacks, a glass of wine and bag of Flamin' Cheetos, and wrote down my questions for Kathy. Here's what she had to say.

How do your readers' comments make you feel?
Like a million bucks! Reader comments are the life blood of my blog, my fuel. I cannot tell you how rewarding it is for me to get instant feedback for my writing. It’s a gift every time someone comments.

Did you get that many in the beginning or did they evolve along with your blog?
Glad you asked. Many people think I got a lot of comments right from the start because they see high numbers now. But if you dug back into my stats, you’d see that comments grew very gradually. Like all bloggers, I had single-digit comments for the first few months. There’s no way around that unless you’re Oprah.

Why do you think so many people enjoy responding to you?
I think it’s because I’m an open book. Some may think I reveal too much about myself and my life, but it may be the key to making readers feel comfortable sharing a bit of themselves with me. Also, a good friend once said I had self-deprecation down to a science. He might be right. Admitting my idiocy seems to generate a lot of comments. I still haven’t figured out if people are laughing at me or with me. Hmmm.

How much time do you spend replying each day?
About an hour, more if comments are heavy. A typical post sees 20-30 comments per day. I like to respond to them in chunks of 10 or 20 to keep it manageable.

Do you comment on other blogs?
Absolutely. I follow and comment on about 30 blogs regularly. If you’re looking for examples of commenting done right, check out a few of my favorites:

  • JD at I Do Things So You Don’t Have To: JD writes the best comment responses, bar none. When I read her gut-busting replies, I feel like I’m getting a bonus post. It’s like dessert after a good meal.

  • Jeff at View from the Cloud: Jeff has a razor-sharp wit and he makes humor writing look effortless. Trust me, it’s not. As is the case with JD, Jeff’s responses are as funny as the posts he writes. It’s not always easy to write humorous responses, but Jeff masters it.

  • Cardiogirl: “CG” writes passionately about a number of personal and thorny issues. By her responses, you can tell that she’s thought long and hard about what her readers say and appreciates every visitor. Commenting for her is serious business.

In all three of these cases, the bloggers are essentially saying “Welcome to my home. I’m really glad you’re here.” There is no better way to build a community and retain visitors than to engage those who took time to leave a comment.

What type of posts get the biggest reaction from readers and why do you think that is?
There are two types: 1) where I admit my stupidity or vulnerability, and 2) where I ask readers for their opinion about something. In the first case, readers react because they’ve either been there themselves, or they are flabbergasted by what I’ll admit to in the blog. In the second case, I’ve basically opened up the floor for comments. People love to talk about themselves or an issue near and dear to them.

Can you think of a particularly funny comment, or one where the reader was offended with your humor?
A funny comment? Oh, yeah. There were many, many hilarious comments left on my post about my grade school memories. Some comments were sad, too. A mixture of laughter and pain, that post and its comments had it all.

Anyone offended? Unfortunately, yes. It happened on a sarcastic post gone wrong. I felt bad I offended some readers and vowed to never to do it again. That crummy feeling stays with me to this day.

Do you moderate your comments?
No, and it’s not really necessary. I’m frequently in touch with my blog and watch comments roll in throughout the day. If someone leaves an offensive comment, I can delete it almost immediately. Luckily, I’ve only had to do that a few times. If anyone wants to leave an inappropriate comment, do it between 9PM-5AM EST, when I’m usually unconscious.

Do ‘real life’ friends comment or only virtual readers?
Many of my friends, work associates and family comment regularly, especially my two sisters and my niece. My Dad also reads my blog, but doesn’t comment. Not online, anyway. He’ll call instead to tell me how much he liked a certain post, which is sweet. Thanks, Dad!

Commenting really enriches a blog's sense of community. What advice do you have for bloggers trying to cultivate more comments and/or readers?
Make it a point to respond to comments. People want to feel heard. Show them you’re listening and that you’re glad they stopped by. You’re glad, right?

Ask a question! If you’ve covered some topic and you want feedback, ask away. It doesn’t get any simpler than that.

Comment on blogs you enjoy. Their owners and their readers may navigate back to your blog and comment, too. Over time, you’ll start seeing repeat visitors. Get to know them. You’ll make connections and the rest is magic.

As for gaining new readers, consider joining networks like Entrecard, and if you’re a humor writer, Humor-Blogs. You may want to try out Blogerella, a new directory run by the same person who runs Humor-Blogs. Bloggers in any niche can sign up there. Some services and networks may prove more useful than others. My advice is to simply try them out and see which ones bring you the most new readers. Happy commenting!


Thanks for your insights, Kathy. I hereby dub you Countess of Comments. I can't offer you your own kingdom, but I do wish you continued success with your spectacular blog.

This blog, Diva Cosmos, rarely receives comments. Why is that, I wonder? My friend said I sound too mean and people might hesitate to comment. To that, I said shut your mouth awww, c'mon now. I'm all bark and no bite. Well, I bite sometimes but I never draw blood. So please, share. I can only hope to learn from Kathy's success. I refuse to give up. I shall continue to court the elusive comment.

Back to The Junk Drawer. If you haven't opened it yet, I suggest you click over. You'll be entertained, and likely leave a bloody comment.

I Told a Stranger She Wore Too Much Perfume

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Have you experienced a perfume fugue before? I have many times--often lingering in elevators or dressing rooms, but not usually in confined quarters. Tonight was different. We were settled into prime seats at the movie theater waiting for "Slum Dog Millionaire" to start. Ten minutes before show time, it was already getting crowded. I heard the show was drawing big at the box office, so we left early so I could enjoy watching people scramble for seats. Good fun!

A couple sat down in front of us in two of the few remaining adjacent seats. My nasal cavity was assaulted with gardenia scent immediately. At first I was amused by the offending aroma; it's funny when someone smell weird. At first.

By the time the movie started, I was nauseous. The gardenia plume was not lifting in the least. I tried breathing out of my mouth but I tasted gardenia. My popcorn lost its seductive butter smell. My hair smelled like gardenia. I couldn't smell by boyfriend's musk (yes, I know musk is outdated, but he wears it for me because it makes me jiggy) even though my face was buried in his armpit. Only gardenia. And I've never liked gardenia.

The theater was too crowded to find new seats. I really wanted to see this movie, so we stayed. It was a fantastic show, by the way, and I highly recommend it.

Back to the gardenia. After the movie, during the credits, I leaned forward and said, "Excuse me, this may sound rude, but I'm fairly certain you're unaware that you're wearing too much perfume. Waaay too much." She turned to her male companion and asked if that was true. He said, "Well, now that you ask. Uh, yeah. It's a little heavy."

Granted the girl looked like she was going to cry, but here it is hours later and my pores are still oozing gardenia. She can't go around having that effect on people! How many opportunities has she missed by gassing people with gardenia? I was just trying to help. Honest.

Miley Cyrus Has a Mouthful of Marbles

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Miley Cyrus sounds like she has marbles in her mouth when she speaks. I heard her on TV tonight and it was especially noticeable. If this is true, mystery solved. If not, who cares. I'm just saying.

--->Don't get the cartoon?

"Whatever You Like" by Rapper T.I. Reminds Us Sugga Daddies Are Great

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Ladies, is the economy cramping your style some? Listen carefully to rapper T. I. explain why you might consider getting a sugar daddy, at least until the Dow Jones volatility stabilizes a little. His lyrics describe the good life that could be yours if "you da hottest love the way you drop it. Brain so good swore you went to college." Sound like you? I'm sure it's okay if you really did go to college. I think the most important thing is the 'way you drop it' part.

Still not convinced? I applaud you for being cautious, but T. I. sounds like he's livin' pretty large. Think of all the other successful bidness men out there looking for a shawty to lavish their successful lifestyle on (for those not as familiar with rap as I am, you don't actually have to be short for consideration. Shorty is just a term of endearment.) Check it:

From T. I.'s "Whatever You Like"

Ya need to never ever gotta go to yo wallet
Long as I got rubber band banks in my pocket
Five six, rides with rims and a pocket kit
Ya ain't gotta downgrade you can get what I get
My chick could have what she want
And go in any store for any bag she want

Alllllright! I have an obsession with bags. My eyes are bigger than my check book. This sounds like an excellent solution, and then some. T. I. sums it up nicely with this, "... You want it I got it, go get it, I buy it...". And all he asks in return are a few requests that are a bit too direct to post, even here. He does water it down towards the end of the chorus, saying, "...he want my body, need my body, long as I got him I won't need nobody".

Fair enough. Listen gals, with Christmas coming up sugga daddies are in high demand right now. You'll need to make yourself stand out from the competition. Do some research. Watch T. I.'s video below, beyotch. (Just practicing)

Lyrics | T.I. lyrics - Whatever You Like lyrics

I'm a Real Cliff Dweller - Bacon Rice Krispies Treats

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Believe me, I love bacon. If I were to someday go chalupas in the mind and find myself on death row for an unspeakable crime, I would request nothing but extra crispy bacon for my last meal. Last summer, one of my favorite blogs for kicks and giggs posted a recipe for bacon vodka. Sadly, my high expectations were flushed away, literally.

'Scuse me while I fetch a drink of water. You won't get that unless you click the flushed away link.

Well, what a wicked web our addictions weave because I tried another blasphemous bacon recipe from the same blog responsible for one of the most violent hurls unleashed in my bathroom to date. This time, a bacon-Rice Krispies treat mash-up.

Aaaaand, I'm still licking the pan! Hallelujers, it was divine. Picture this, all the gooey goodness of marshmellows and the sexy smokey flavor of bacon all wrapped up in the crunchy weightlessness of Rice Krispies. Hello, lover.

If you're licking your chops right now, embrace your penchant for everything bacon . You might even become an abstract food artist if you just let go and let bacon. I suggest you let it do what it do and be ye not afraid to make some of these beautiful bacon bars. I had them for breakfast this morning and they're so undense that I went down the street for a bacon cheese omelette afterwards. Life is good.

Walmart Shoppers are Murderers, Kill Walmart Employee in Stampede.

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I wonder how many Walmart shoppers in Long Island, New York, are enjoying Thanksgiving leftovers today after trampling a 34-year-old employee to death early this morning. Get a grip, America. Sheyit. We've now reduced the value of human life down to rolled back prices on plasma TVs and video games?

Crazed crowds took entry doors off the hinges during the 5:00 a.m. stampede for black Friday deals. The male employee was trying to manage the unruly shoppers when he was pushed down and trampled by hundreds of big fat feet attached to bodies whose heads must surely be empty from ear to ear. A 28-year-old pregnant shopper was also pancaked and taken to the hospital.

All I want for Christmas is for police to identify the jackasses who killed this man during the Walmart whackness caught on video tape. Smile, you're on murder camera.

My Home Owners Association Sucks Donkey Balls

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Yes, you read right, my HOA sucks donkey balls. I'm sorry if you have virgin ears (eyes?), but there's really no other way to describe it. Granted, it's quite common among my condo-owning friends to hear HOA complaints. I'm not delusional about HOAs, thinking they really are the caring, responsible property management companies they claim to be. Oh hells no. But my particular HOA is in a class all its own.

Where to start. The dues are astronomical. My one-bedroom 900 sq. ft. condo owes $411 monthly. Hot damn! (I've been waiting for a chance to say that.) I live in Southern California where everything is overpriced, but that is pushing it. I am trapped here because I would take a loss selling right now and the HOA has wisely imposed yet another 20% increase for us beginning January 1st. That's the maximum increase allowed each year and they've made full use of it for three years in a row. Hot DAMN! In a time when people cannot even afford to buy extra underwear, it's so appreciated to choke off another $100 to the fascist HOA.

Anyhoos, my main gripe is the insidious ways they go about making extra money. We have a cornucopia of rules with new violations announced in every monthly newsletter. This month? The speed trap. That's right folks, the HOA security staff has radar guns. Radar guns. The speed limit in our complex and underground garage is 15 mph. Have you ever driven 15 mph? It's.......very..................slow.

I can't think of a worse combination than civilian security guards and radar guns. These guys are extreme wanna be police officers and now they're armed with radar guns. It wasn't enough to install speed bumps high as ant hills at angles so that your car axles jar four times instead of two. No. Now we have radar soldiers who I am sure are fully engaged in ticketing contests. It's as close to arrests as they'll ever get, well at least on the giving side.

So, when I get my radar gun speed ticket I'm going to tell him he sucks donkey balls. I've put a lot of thought into this and I think that's the most insulting thing I can say without threatening his life or using my potty mouth.

Those of you not yet in the vise grips of an HOA, save yourselves. Rent, buy a house or just live in your car. Nothing's worse than the wrath of an HOA scorned.

People Going Postal on Parking Wars TV Show are Funny

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A & E's television show "Parking Wars" really rings my bell. I watch it every chance I get. If you think you've had a bad day at work, you should watch these parking officers get insulted, attacked and cursed every second of their shifts. The show follows the Philadelphia Parking Authority staff as they perform their ticketing, booting, towing and impounding duties.

Parking Wars is the best reality TV show ever. People come unhinged when they get parking tickets in Philly. The city has one thousand parking laws and aggressively enforces them with expensive citations. I'm not saying I wouldn't react the same way, I just really enjoy watching it happen to others.

The best segments are the booting and impound staff. Once your car is booted, you have 48 hours to pay the huge fines in unpaid tickets you've racked up or they'll come tow your car. Your car can't be booted if you're sitting in it. You've never seen people fly out the house so fast wearing all kinds of interesting outfits just to jump in their cars before the boot's in place. Good times! My favorite booter is Steve. He's the calmest man on earth, even in altercations where I would have removed my earrings and settled it in the middle of the street.

The impound staff happily receives the car owners when they arrive to retrieve their cars. They must provide proof of insurance, which most of them don't have. The stories they come up with are really creative! The staff just smiles and keeps repeating the same line, "I'm sorry mam, without proof of insurance you cannot claim your vehicle. Impound charges incur daily". It's a good thing the employees sit behind plexy glass. My favorite on the impound lot is Barb. She smiles too much and it pisses the people off even more.

The best ticketer of all is Danielle. She's kind of like a Jersey girl, friendly but ready to snap your head off with her fingernails. All the guys try to charm Danielle out of their tickets. She lets them think they're closing the deal and then says, "It's a good ticket. Call the number at the bottom to dispute." Doh!

I wish we had these parking officers in my city. It would make parking tickets almost worth the trouble. The show airs Wednesdays on A & E at 10/9 central. You better watch it.

D.L. Hughley When Breaking the News on CNN Remove Your Pimp Jewelry

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CNN is brilliant for hiring D.L. Hughley to break the news; he's brought smart funnies to the network whose best anchors are anything but funny. I respect Larry King's interviewing skills, but lately he's burped odd little leprechaun giggles on more than one inappropriate occasion. I like Anderson Cooper's globe trotting investigations, but his constantly furled brow gives me a tension headache if I watch too long because I'll furl my own subconsciously. And what can I say about Wolf Blitzer? Well, if I can't sleep I turn Wolf on because his monotone lulls me into dreamland.

So, D.L. is a welcome addition indeed. His comedy is original and entertaining and I also like his commentary. Watching him tonight as I've come to do each evening, I caught a glimpse of the timepiece on his wrist. Oh hells no. The damn watch was big as a Frisbee with diamonds prisming aurora borealis lights left and right. And those four-carat diamond studs in both ears? C'mon D.L., lose the P.I.M.P. bling. You don't want those kind of laughs do you, playah?

Rosie O'Donnell's Back : NBC Television is on Crack.

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Rosie O'Donnell's obnoxious pie hole will be barking dim-witted opinions and crude blaps on the NBC airwaves weekly starting November 23rd. Well that's just great. I'd rather pour salt in my eye than see her on TV again.

Rosie O'Donnell is a human migraine headache with ocular disturbances. She's professed some of the dumbest opinions I've ever heard from an adult. Remember her 9/11 conspiracy theory based on her belief that the building collapses were the first time that steel has ever melted? Hilarious. I still wonder how she thinks steel is made. DUMB ASS.

All this foulness wrapped in a messy slobadelic package gets you another TV show? NBC is on crack. The same kind of tired controversy can only make love to ratings so many times. She says her comedy will be like Carol Burnett with Ed Sullivan type variety. Please. That's blasphemous. Carol Burnett is so organically funny and genuinely classy. Rosie is like a fart. It's funny the first few times, but after a short while it's just stinky, loud and disgusting.

I Don't Think Michael Moore is a Full Douche Bag Anymore

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My previous opinion of Michael Moore as an obnoxious America-hating slobtastic douche has been altered by Moore's appearance on Larry King last night. Moore, a Flint, Michigan native and former General Motors employee, made some pretty excellent points about the failing auto industry on the show. He talked about their failing product line and unreliable vehicle performance as the reasons behind the industry's pending collapse. He opposed the blank check bailout requested by the three stooges on capitol hill yesterday because they'll continue making their bad management decisions with our billions of tax dollars. Instead, he said the government should take the reigns of Chrysler, GM and Ford, replace the management team and direct the companies to produce mass transit and hybrid cars, among other things. Check him out.

Barney Frank Needs an Ass Whipping and Speech Therapy, Too

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Barney Frickin Frank is on CNN again tonight talking about all the pwoblems with the U.S. economy and blaming Pwesident Bush for everything that happened while Barney Frank himself was Chairman of the House Financial Services Committee. This congressman is a total cartoon. He needs to go stand in the corner and think about his own role in the financial collapse of America instead of blaming evwyone else for the financial threats his committee should have protected us against.

Man up, Barney. Wait, he probably takes that saying too literally. Ugh.

Jennifer Hudson's Brother in Law William Balfour Looks Like the Boogie Man

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Damn. If I saw this walking toward me, I would cross the street. But how about waking up next to him? Would you scream? That would be pretty hard if he's stepping on your throat. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but this cover suggests a murder mystery's inside. Oh, wait...

Halloween has Been Sluterized but Jesus Costume Offends?

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This Halloween night was one giant ironic experience for me from my friends' young daughters dressed like hoes to the high schooler who was sent home from school for dressing in a Jesus costume. Picture this: we go to my otherwise rational friends' house for some bewitching brew and greatest scary movies of all time. I enter their home and their young teenage daughter bound down the stairs on their way to walk the neighborhood with their friends. Trick or treat? I'd say TRICK.

The girls look like little sluts. They're all of 15 and 16 and wear what they called "naughty wench" costumes, girl pirates with little more than the pimped out gals on the corner downtown have on. Their little boobies are pushed way up under their chins behind white and black lace corsets with red ribbons. Their little girl legs are fishnetted under black skirts that look like tutus and bounce just above their bubbly apple butts over which are just black underwear, one pair is decorated with skulls. One wears thigh high black leather boots and the other sexy black stilettos. Their make-up is heavy - black eyeliner and red lips. The only innocence about them are the pumpkins they carry to hold candy.

Holy shit. Uh, do you want your daughters to be raped tonight? Weird thing is, their parents are on the conservative side politically and socially. It just doesn't make any sense. The girls said goodbye to our group of adults and more than one mouth was gaping as they left out the front door, grinning neighborhood boys in tow.

I didn't muster the courage to ask my friends about their daughters' skanky costumes. And what would I say, anyway? "Are you okay with that?" They obviously are. I sure wouldn't be, no matter how much argument was launched at me. When I have kids, they will have two choices for Halloween until they are 18: ghost or witch made from bed sheet, no boobs, butts or legs showing.

Then on the other end of the insane society spectrum is the young man sent home from high school for wearing a Jesus costume for Halloween. What the fucking hell. The principal said it was inappropriate and would offend some students and distract others. There we go with that minority "some" again. What if he wore an Osama bin Laden costume? How much you wanna bet that would have been "tolerated", or at the very least, if he'd been sent home, radical Muslims all over the country would call for reparations and apologies. And they'd get it, too.

I'm going to bed. I'll probably dream of Jesus dressed as a naughty wench. Then I'll have to go to confession Sunday. Thanks a lot, fucked up society.

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The jackasses living in West Hollywood hung a Sarah Palin mannequin from a noose in front of their home and burn a John McCain likeness in a chimney. Yeah, that's art...Not. It's disrespectful, inappropriate and should be considered a hate crime, according to the definition of hate crimes. What? You don't see any violation against Palin and McCain based on race, religion, sexual orientation or ethnicity? Because they're not black, gay or Jewish? Has it been proven that this display is not based on hate of white heterosexual Christians?

Sheriffs say the whackness is alright because it's part of a Halloween display, which doesn't make it a hate crime. So, am I good if I want to set a cross on fire in a circle of white hooded figures on my lawn around Halloween? How about hanging an Obama figure from noose on my tree tomorrow? It's art. It's Halloween creativity at its best. No problems. That is so totally FUBAR.

Of course I have no desire or intention to do these things. But if I did, how fast would I see Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton postulating in front of my house, followed by their bus loads of protesters and obedient liberal media posse? Probably within the hour.

How would the gay dudes who live at this West Hollywood house like it if their neighbors hung figures dressed in rainbow pride clothes from their roofs? All in the spirit of Halloween, of course.

Why is this insanity tolerated so well by the majority? Does something cross the ethical line only if it offends a minority group? I'm so sick of the anything goes attitude in this country today. We are so twisted in our interpretation of freedom of expression. It's true what they say about the squeaky wheel getting greased. It's time for a different wheel to squeak, America. Stop spooning us bullshit. That is all.

Howie Mandel is a Tool. NO DEAL.

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Situation: I do love the Deal or No Deal show but Howie Mandel's stupid commentary is insufferable.
Do you watch Deal? If so, how to you deal with the host's moronic chirping to the contestants? Let me explain. Nearly every show, the contestant has whittled away at the big dollar amounts on the case board and stands there, wringing hands on national television about to piss it all away, when Howie invariably asks, "Susan, there are three cases left including yours. One contains the million dollars. You need to open one case. How will you feel if you eliminate the million?"

WTF? How do you think she'll feel? She'll feel like a complete clown and want to vomit on her feet as she runs off stage hysterically crying, if she's anything like me. This kind of stating the obvious chitter chatter in the slowest possible manner to "amp the drama" torks me too much to watch the show anymore.

I end up mouthing off at the TV screen like an angry little woman. As you can imagine, this behavior isn't helping anyone, least of all my blood pressure which is already elevated from screaming at the contestants to, "TAKE THE DEAL!". Why do they always push it one case too far? Oh well, who am I to judge?

Wait a minute! This is Diva Cosmos where judgmental commentary is not only preferred, but a fine tuned skill. So along those lines, let's talk about that soul patch. It's not a good look for you to rock, Howie. With the silly fist bumping and somewhat phobic demeanor, 'smooth' just doesn't come to mind with Howie Mandel. And smoothness is a requirement for soul patches.

Anywhoos, I think I've found a good solution for myself. I watched the show with the volume muted and found it much more enjoyable. If I can just resist the urge to read lips, I should be good to go.

Someone Cursed Me With Itchy Red Hives

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A hive spell is the only remaining explanation. Allergy panels are negative. No new products tried during the onset of the devilish hives. No new pets acquired. What else could it be?

It's pretty ingenious, actually. Consider:

  • Humiliation: The hives appear at the most inopportune times. I got free tickets to the grand opening of The Laugh Factory from a friend who works security there. A mere 15 minutes before we arrived, my scalp tingled, my neck flushed hot. Filthy red welts erupted on my face and neck - so attractive. People do tend to shy away from you when you have such things on your face. I think it suggests a degree of contagiousness.

  • Insanity: The itch of these hives could very well drive me mad. They itch so intensely that I harm myself trying to stop the torment. I squeeze the rubbery welts between my fingers to make them go numb. Too bad one was close to my carotid artery and I almost fainted. I stab them with my fingernails to give myself another sensation besides the bloody itching. Lately, during the peak of the itching curve I burst out in hapless giggles, which worries me a little.

  • Expense: I am now a constant Benadryl customer. Not too expensive and well worth the price, but an extra cost just the same.

I am not sure who has done this to me, but I do have a cagey coworker in mind. I recently revoked her refrigeration privileges in the lunch room because she repeatedly harvested colonies of mold on rotting old left-overs. By the way, why is it so hard to just throw your old food away? This, I have never understood.

Anyway, this particular coworker came up behind me a few weeks ago, touched my back and said, "There! You had some hairs on your shirt." So that's how it's done, isn't it? Snatch a few hairs and commence with the hocus pocus?

Well, fine, girlie. I'll have you know that not all is lost. I do get one pleasure out of my hives. When two or more are close together, it's great fun to watch them merge into one gigantic super welt. So there! Take that. And watch your back for stray hairs. Or just buy your own mini fridge.

John Edwards Joins Lying Bastard Brigade with Rielle Hunter Affair

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John Edwards ding dong ditched the rumors and direct questions about an alleged affair with his campaign aid Rielle Hunter from mid 2007 all the way until today when he admitted he did in fact dabble in her honey pot, BUT he didn't love her and his wife's cancer was in remission at the time. Oh good, that really makes all the difference. Those two conditional statements make the reveal even more humiliating for Elizabeth Edwards. How despicable.

Big bad John spoke to ABC news correspondent Bob Woodruff in an interview airing on Nightline tonight about the affair with 44-year-old Hunter that began in 2006. Interesting he chose to disclose the day the Olympics open in China. Hoping for some shelter from the media storm, John? Doesn't seem to be playing out that way.

Now the fun really begins for cynics like me. All the networks are playing sound bites of Edwards saying morally upstanding things that are now painfully ironic. Even the interview Rielle Hunter (formerly Lisa Druck who wanted to sound Hollywood and invented a new name for herself) gave in 2007 to Extra takes on a whole new read between the lines meaning, as does her strange grin throughout the video. The affair had been a year-long diddy at that time. Let me also say her headband looks dumb. In the video with Extra she says her experience "working" with Edwards was life altering. He was so "willing to try new things" and "so open". Yes, well, apparently it was she who was very open. Tramp.

Let's face it, the other woman is just as much to blame as the douche bag man cheater, if not more. Men think with their tools and if the woman says no, that's the end of it. But she said yes, repeatedly it seems.

So now we have mental images of John Edwards cowering in a basement bathroom at the Beverly Hilton Hotel last month, holding the door closed as reporters asked what he was doing there at 2:00 a.m. Presumably kissing Rielle Hunter goodnight, who was a guest of the hotel that night.

The side story on this is of course the lack of coverage from the mainstream media and accusations of how much more publicity the story would have gotten had the adulterer been a republican politician. I'd like to think it was consideration for Mrs. Edwards' health that discouraged media attention. But that's probably naive. Since when is the media concerned with anyone's health and well-being.

Anyway, now that we have a full circle mess, we can expect that Rielle Hunter will get rich from books, movies and interviews. I am guessing we will have to endure a press conference held by Edwards with his wife holding his hand and perhaps saying a few words of forgiveness. Another political wife swallowing shit for her husband and smiling through humiliation.

Look what you did, John Edwards, you lying bastard. So maybe your chances of being invited onto Obama's ticket are over. You'll get some advice from Bill Clinton, the White House gigolo, and be just fine as you leave a wake of ruin behind for your family. Sometimes men suck.

Dame Shirley Bassey Lays it Down and Gets the Party Started

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While searching for more songs to stuff into my iPod last night, I enjoyed about an hour with Dame Shirley Bassey, a voice to be reckoned with. I knew of her and some of her old standards, but this rendition of "Get This Party Started" escaped my grips until now.

Dammit! That's piping out a song right there. I just love her energy and big diva voice. She's 70 years old in this video. Talk about a force. Shirley brings the perfect dash of diva to this song and its 'look at me' lyrics. We could all get a healthy dose of self esteem from some of these words:

"Everybody's waiting for me to arrive. Sendin' out the message to all of my friends. We'll be looking flashy in my Mercedes Benz. I got lot of style, check my gold diamond rings. I can go for miles if you know what I mean."

Enjoy it. You know you want to dance around the house to it. Do it. Quick, find your feather boa!

Mandles Man Candles Reinvent Manly Scents

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How would you like to fill your home with the scent of meat, fear, wet dog or beer? If your man buys a "Mandle" man candle, you'll soon find out. This company makes candles with, as they put it, 99% testosterone and 1% wax. Yeehaw, I say! Anything with 99% testosterone is dangerous, let alone when you light it on fire.

The scents offered are funny and nauseating, yet still I want to smell them. That's the edgy broad in me, I guess. Some of my eye catchers include: Meat, Pigskin, Chuck Norris Sweat (yummy!), Musty Locker Room, Urinal Deodorizer, Peel Out, Duct Tape and Top Gun. Visit the link for the whole line, it's got to be seen to be believed.

I like me some man smell as much as the next girl, trust me on that. But if my man approached me for some sugar smelling like Meaty Urinal Deodorizer, I would burp a little and then likely hurl in my hand. Granted, these aren't cologne scents, but the idea of walking into a room with these curious reeks is overwhelming in theory.

But I won't knock it till I try it. I am Mandle shopping this weekend. I am still not convinced these are real products for sale. The promo video says they're not available in stores, only by mail order for $14.95 plus shipping.

Even so, the Mandle may be filling a very underserved market niche. I guess our men could be pretty tired of Asian Pear, Sea Breeze Dreams, White Linen and Cranberry Crush. I asked my boyfriend if he wants a Mandle. He laughed me off and said, "I don't care about candles", until I showed him the scents on the website.

"Oh yeah!" he said instantly after spotting the "Burrito Fart" candle. I think I may have caused myself a world of hurt. I smell that enough as it is without a candle, if you catch my drift.

Carp Fish Pedicure: Doctor Fish Eat Your Dead Feet Skin

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Tiny carp enjoy a feet skin buffet every time someone wants the fish pedicure in a northern Virginia spa. What? Yes. The latest trend in hilarious spa luxury to hit the U.S. is the fish pedicure, which uses "doctor" fish to remove dead skin from feet. The carp, first used in Turkey, are also popular in Asia where customers relax in shallow communal pools while the fish chomp on their flaking feet skin, or their whole body. U.S. regulations forbid the communal pools and require each customer to have their own water source. I think that's wise. I'd rather not float in pool of strangers' dead skin flakes, no offense.

The doctor fish don't have teeth, so apparently they can't bite your healthy skin off, only the dead flaky stuff. Patrons say the pedicure feels tingly or almost ticklish. I have a serious problem with ticklish feet and rarely get pedicures because of it. I am sure I would be completely hysterical if 100 tiny fish were eating my feet skin in the spa. They would throw me out and I'd lose my $35 for 15 minutes of fish biting.

Still not convinced of this process? Wondering if dead foot skin really tastes good enough for fish to enjoy eating it? Well, it seems it's primarily a result of environmental adaptation. Plants don't survive in the warm waters the fish live in at the spa, so they take whatever food they can get. Thus, dunk your callousy tootsies in and they come rushing over for a bite.

You can probably guess my reaction: Oh hells no. Maybe the fish mouths are better alternatives to sharp skin files, but I think I might throw up if I glanced down at all these fish feeding on my feet. But then, that's just me. I've never tasted my dead skin. Maybe I don't know what I'm missing.

Get Sued for Singing Happy Birthday

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Tonight's newscast informed me I can be sued for singing "Happy Birthday to You" in a restaurant or any other public place. Singing the most sung song in the world in a public place is largely considered a public performance, and as such constitutes copyright infringement against Time Warner, who owns the song.

Isn't that a kick in the head? Now I understand why many restaurants use a remixed version of the song when they bring that free desert out. Restaurants must pay for a commercial use license if they want to sing the original version to guests.

I always thought the song was sort of goofy and joined in renditions just to be a good sport. Turns out the silly little song isn't too shabby at making cheese. It brings in around $2 million a year in royalties.

Let that sink in and let's just think about this. The song's got two lyrics - "happy birthday to you" and "happy birthday dear whomever". There are a lot of other life events that could use a song of this nature.
  • Happy divorce
  • Happy parole
  • Happy boob job
  • Happy yoooooooooo!

If I could rework the music some and float these sign-o-the times tunes enough to catch on in public, I know I could look forward to early retirement. My jingles may not pull as much weight as "Happy Birthday", after all it was the first song to be sung on the moon, but I still think there's a market for them. If I can make enough for gas money, I'm in.

What other variations for "Happy Birthday" do you think might go over well?

Best Life Lessons Learned From Famous Dillweeds

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Life can teach you a spoonful if you let it. I like to keep my eyes and ears open for such lessons. I'll be the first one to learn from someone's mistake, or at least laugh at it. Let's have a look at the first honorable mentions in my "Life Lessons" feature. Each lesson is followed by whom to thank for it.

Burt Reynolds' Love Affair With Burt Reynolds

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I saw a recent photo of Burt Reynolds on TV today that made me choke on my pomegranate juice. And pom juice is expensive, so wasting some down my shirt is not good. If you've seen Burt recently, you know what I mean. The man, once sexy burly, has morphed into a taught-skinned, wide-eyed man barbie with removable black mustache. Pity.

While searching for before and after photos of Burt, I found this vintage shot. It's not often a man photo can simultaneously disgust and arouse me. The ass is not all that, but the attitude behind the ass is the kicker here. I generally like 'tude in a dude. I see a difference between arrogance and confidence. Still, posing for this photo just oozes 'I love me!' and I doubt most men would do it without losing a bet or being extorted by an exgirlfriend.

Didn't anyone suggest an ass wax? Seriously, with all the real life photoshopping Burt Reynolds has done to himself, you'd think he'd scorn at throwing up his hairy berry. I'm just sayin'.

Jesse Jackson is a Blowhard Who Wants Obama's Nuts

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So Barack Obama calls for male blacks to man up and take responsibility for their children beyond conception and the Reverend Jesse Jackson says he wants to cut Obama's nuts off for talking down to black people. Right.

Every time Jesse Jackson opens his mouth I want to shut it. Why is this man so revered in the African American community and courted by the media? Black people, can you explain this? Jesse Jackson has now positioned his well-kissed ass in front of Obama's momentum by once again rehashing his tired cry of "Black people get no respect. Stop talking down to us." The only thing worse than listening to Jesse Jackson rant is having Al Sharpton chime in with him on the same show....which is just around the corner, I'm sure.

I think this is a simple case of president envy. Jackson, having unsuccessfully sought the Democratic nomination twice in the 80s, can't stand watching Obama's moment. Apparently he wants to take both his AND Obama's balls and go home.

Can you imagine if John McCain had said he wants to castrate Obama or Lou Dobbs whispered wanting to slice Hillary Clinton's tits off for something she said? Oh the fodder! Cries of racism, sexism and termination from employment ring through the air!

Mr. Jackson was upfront and center demanding Don Imus' termination when he called black female athletes, "nappy headed hoes". And yes Don Imus is an ass and a really bad dresser, but how come no one's calling for Jackson to disappear? Because he and Obama have the same skin color so asinine statements don't instantly morph into "racism"?

So Jackson's apology tour is coming to a network near you. Oh lord it's only a matter of time before Sharpton and Jackson yap on together about how a deeper meaning rooted in the struggle of black people in this country was really behind Jackson's idiotic statement. White people don't understand.

No Jesse Jackass, you don't understand. Obama is right. Black fathers toss their children by the wayside often enough for them to have their very own nickname. And please don't cry to me about all the Baby Daddy's in prison. They put themselves in there. What's that Rev. Jackson? They're in prison because they lacked positive role models during childhood? Oh, right, because they're dads blew them off, like Obama's saying. Maybe you should cut their nuts off.

How to Lie Soap Opera Style. Your Boss Will Love You For It!

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Do you supervise people? I do. It's the most annoying part of my job. Just today I was thinking about all the boring excuses employees give when they want to misuse some sick time for a day off. Listen up droids, if you're going to lie to your bosses at least make it worth their while. There are many ways to dress up your lies about being sick. So don't be lazy with the usual, "I'm throwing up", "I'm having stomach problems", "I have a fever", and the very altruistic, "I don't want to infect everyone else". Put some muscle into your lies and entertain your boss a little.

If you'd like to infuse your lies with a little more drama (and who doesn't love drama?), I recommend lying soap opera style. If you watch soaps, you're already ahead of the game here. I only watch soaps to make myself feel better about life because, let's face it, no one has as much bad luck as soap opera characters. I like to teach by example, so let's begin. Find your preferred lie and then consider the soap opera version. I think you'll agree that the entertainment value of these pimped out lies far surpasses the plain old lazy lies.

Original: My daughter is sick, I have to stay home with her.
Soap Opera Style (SOS): I got my daughter's paternity test back this morning. Her father is the brother of my twin sister's husband, who is now a transgendered woman and my husband's arch enemy at work. He's a producer on Jerry Springer. I just need a day to straighten this out.

Original: I need to visit my Mom in the nursing home. She's having some issues today.
SOS: My mom was thought to be dead over a year ago. She has just resurfaced on a forgotten island in the South Pacific, suffering from amnesia. I need to take a few days off to 1) see who is really buried in her grave; 2) fly to the South Pacific to cling to her and sob 'Mom! Oh Mom! Don't you remember me?'; and, 3) fall in love with a flame eater 20 years my junior while trying to gather my thoughts on the beach as cheesy music plays. I should return by Monday.

Original: I have food poisoning. I am throwing up.
SOS: Someone has poisoned me by secretly squirting Visine into my food. I suspect it is my new neighbor, who is really my long lost aunt thought to have drowned in a diving accident off the Aruban coast 10 years ago, thereby defaulting a large family inheritance to me, which caused me to buy an astronomical life insurance policy with a beneficiary of "any future blood relatives" since I am a single career woman right now. I can fit my doctor, attorney and private investigator appointments into one Friday off.

Original: I am contagious and don't want to infect anyone else.
SOS: I am in the depths of despair over nothing and am thinking of offing myself. I am going to sit on the edge of a bed in a dark motel room holding a small pistol in my shaking hand, tears streaming down my face and dripping onto a photo of my young son who was kidnapped recently, but who is really just an imaginary child I invented because I am a lonely drunk. It's just a catalog model picture in the frame. Anyway, just before I pull the trigger (in between gasps and sobs), flashes of wonderful childhood memories dance before me and then my cell phone rings. It's my Dad just calling to say he loves me. I think I'll feel better by tomorrow.

Do you see what I mean? Let your boss get caught up in the undeniable suspense of it all with these soap opera style lies. Hell, they might give you an extra day off for thinking outside the box. Get well soon!

Blogging Directly Related to Butt Spread

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This just in - studies confirm that blogging does result in butt spread, the process of your onion spreading out and over the edges of your chair while you're online for hours. If I don't ease up a little soon, I'll startle my cats with my supersized badonk, too. Like the commercial says, "get out and play an hour a day", or risk towing a wide load.

I Speak Seven Languages and You Can, Too!

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It's very important to improve your communication skills. If you can't speak the same language as your audience, they won't understand WTF you're saying. Simple as that. I learned seven new languages online this week. I'm proud to say I now speak Pimp, Skinhead, hAcK3r, Smurf, Ozzie, Cockney Rhyming Slang and Redneck.

I can't believe I am seplingual! Are there any other human beings who speak seven languages out there? I doubt it. Well, let me demo my skills with these translations. After you've read this post and are staring open-mouthed at my language arts, you will be rewarded with the link to the finest free translation service on the Web. Stand by for shock and awe:

"If the people cannot trust their government to do the job for which it exists - to protect them and to promote their common welfare - all else is lost." -BARACK OBAMA

  • Translated into Skinhead: "If der wankers cannot trust theys fookin' government to do der job fer which the fook it exists - to protect 'em 'n to promote theys fookin' common welfare - all else der fook is lost."

“Glory is not a conceit. It is not a decoration for valor. Glory belongs to the act of being constant to something greater than yourself, to a cause, to your principles, to the people on whom you rely and who rely on you in return.” - JOHN McCAIN

  • Translated into Pimp: “Glory be not a conceit, know what I'm sayin'? Dat shit be not a decoration fo valor, man. Glory belongs to da act of bein' constant to somethin' greata than youself, to a cause, to yo' principles, to da muthas on whom yo' ass rely 'n who rely on yo' ass in return.”

"I'm not a sponge exactly, but I find that something I look at is a great opportunity for ideas. I invented 'It's a good thing' before you were even born." -MARTHA STEWART

  • Translated into Ozzie: "I'm not a sponge exactly, but I find that something I squiz at is a bonza opportunity for ideas. I invented 'It's a fair dinkum thing' before you were even born."

"If O.J. had been accused of killing his black wife, you would not have seen the same passion stirred up." -REV. AL SHARPTON

  • Translated into Redneck: "Hot damn! If O.J had been accused uv killin' his'n black wife, y'all would not have seen that thar same dang passion stirred up, Le-roy."

Love him or hate him, Trump is a man who is certain about what he wants and sets out to get it, no holds barred. Women find his power almost as much of a turn-on as his money. -On DONALD TRUMP

  • Translated into Pimp: "Love tha dude's ass or hate him, Trump be a muthafucka who be certain about what he want 'n sets out to git it, naw holds barred, know what I'm sayin'? Hoes find tha dude's powa phat as tha dude's scratch."

"I believe a marriage is between a man and a woman." - GEORGE W. BUSH

  • Translated into Skinhead: "Oi believe a fookin' marriage is between a fookin' wanker 'n a fookin' woman."

"My goal is to goad people into saying something that ruins their life." - DON IMUS

  • Translated into Cockney Rhyming Slang: "My sausage roll is to goad people into sayin' somethin' that ruins their life."

Word of caution: if you're job hunting in these tough economic times, don't demonstrate your translation skills on your resume. If you shizzle the wrong nizzle, you might tank the interview.

How to Give Your Postal Carrier Nightmares

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blue fembot mailbox

If I was your mailgirl, I would walk on by your house rather than put mail in this blue fembot's head. If you tried it, I am sure she would swallow your arm. This is the creepiest mailbox I have ever seen, and I've seen a lot.

I can only say one more thing about this, oh HELLS no. I wonder what their toilet looks like. Shiver...

Top 10 Best and Worst Celebrity Neighbors

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My upstairs neighbor walks like King Kong. He's a nice enough guy. He's not particularly heavy and his feet aren't big ass flippers, so I'm not quite sure why he kerplops around up there. All I know is that the stomping sometimes makes pieces of popcorn fall off my ceiling (yes, I still have cottage cheese on my ceilings. Stop turning your noses up at me.).

Today the stomping dislodged a popcorn from my ceiling that landed on my keyboard. Sometimes the universe really does fuck with me. Anyhow, I started wondering what kind of neighborly issues celebrities have. My imagination decided to do what it do and before long I was deep into the Divasphere's celebrity neighbors' road show. ENJOY.
  • For borrowing some sugar
    • Worst: Amy Winehouse. She'd confuse her crack with it and your children might be on the short bus from then on.
    • Best: Paula Deen. She'd bring the sugar already baked in a cake you'd trade for sex.
  • For babysitting your kids
    • Worst: R. Kelly. 'Nuff said.
    • Best: Angelina Jolie. Your children would enjoy elephant rides, puppet shows by Jack Black and jet back from France in time for breakfast. You may want to look elsewhere though, if you like your children. There is a chance they'll be adopted while you're out.
  • For watching your dog
    • Worst: Michael Vick. Your dog might greet you by tearing your face off.
    • Best: Caesar Millan. Your dog will be setting the table for dinner when you return.
  • For neighborhood gossip
    • Worst: Perez Hilton. Not only would the gossip be pseudo-juicy, homes would have lame smiley faces and squiggles spray painted all over the walls.
    • Best: Joan Rivers, a straight shooter with red carpet observation skills. You'll just have to get used to that scary clown expression. Small price to pay for the low down.
  • For celebrating holiday cheer
    • Worst: Tom Cruise. If you don't construct a shrine to the supreme being, he might just rip all your Christmas lights down with his teeth while Katie beams with pride.
    • Best: Oprah. She would affix a giant red bow to the roof of your house and pay off your mortgage. WOOT.
  • For chatting up hair styles
    • Worst: Victoria Bekham. Unless you want the angry scalene triangle look.
    • Best: Ken Paves. Okay, not really a celebrity but the guy's got skillz.
  • For feuding with
    • Worst: O.J. Simpson. I hear he's got a short fuse.
    • Best: Will Ferrell. How could you stay mad while wetting yourself laughing?
  • For carpooling
    • Worst: Britney Spears. A wild ride to say the least.
    • Best: Donald Trump. That helicopter would cut your commute in half.
  • For block parties
    • Worst: Martha Stewart. She's much better after prison, but still, too much pressure to coordinate.
    • Best: Sharon Osbourne. Roll that crazy train down my street anytime!
  • For medical advice
    • Worst: Howard K. Stearn. You might wake up in the morgue and return home to your neighbors watching his videos of you cracked out of your mind in clown make-up.
    • Best: Dr. Oz. I don't think I'd ever be sick again with him next door to guide me.
Okay, if you've read this far you deserve a bonus #11!
  • For karaoke
    • Worst: Ashlee Simpson. Oh wait. Actually that might work.
    • Best: Bruce Springsteen. Sweet.

Bacon Flavored Vodka Makes Me Hurl

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I love bacon and I love vodka, so the bacon flavored vodka was a logical, albeit trepidatious, experiment. I heard about bacon vodka on TV and was curious. I'm always up for new experiences and if you've read me before, you know I love me some cocktails. So, off to the Net I went to find a tried and true recipe. Bingo:

Makes up one pint -

  • Fry three strips of bacon
  • Add cooked bacon to a clean pint sized mason jar. Trim the ends of the bacon if they are too tall to fit in the jar. Or go hog wild and pile in a bunch of fried bacon scraps.
  • Optional: add crushed black peppercorns.
  • Fill the jar with vodka. Cap and place in a dark cupboard for at least three weeks.(No need to refrigerate.)
  • At the end of the three week resting period, place the bacon vodka in the freezer to solidify the fats. Strain out the fats through a coffee filter to yield a clear filtered pale yellow bacon vodka.
  • Decant into decorative bottles and enjoy.
I followed these directions with wired anticipation. The bacon smelled so good. The vodka poured so smooth. It felt freakishly blasphemous to combine the two delectables, but I pressed on, twisting the jar closed and sequestering it in my closet. The three weeks scraped by and as evidenced by the cryptic bacon sticker on my cubicle calendar, ended yesterday. Yessssss.

So last night I removed the bacon vodka jar from the hallows of my closet and just took a moment with it, alone. As it cured in my freezer, I debated whether I should share the decanting with someone special or indulge privately. I chose the latter, just me and the BV.

My first warning was the slightest brush of nausea when I removed the coffee filter coated with bacon fat. I picked it up by one side. My finger slid down and into the greasy yellow residue. Whatever. No big deal, right? I decanted and put my tumblers into my chiller set.

Finally, bacon vodka meets the Divamouth and its cocktail red carpet, my tongue. I sip and try to swirl a bit. My mind is hiccuping around the blending of vodka and bacon. I can only describe what happened next as a sort of vapor lock of the senses followed by a burning rush from my gut upwards to the back of my throat. Flashes of bacon fat danced in my head and I steadied myself on the bar. I'm sorry to tell you that a small spurt of reconstituted bacon vodka shot through my teeth and fingers and dribbled down my arm.

I am so totally dismayed at my hurling of the bacon vodka. I have read such euphoria experienced by drinkers of the potion that I really don't know what to say. Except that bacon vodka makes me hurl and maybe you, too, should proceed with caution.

Amy Winehouse's Sick Bag of Tricks: Emphysema, Crack, Eyeliner

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No one who knows who singer Amy Winehouse is could possibly be surprised by recent reports that she is sick with emphysema, TB or some other lung condition. Dammit. She is such a talent with her dark lyrics and throaty voice. Her appearance is well, original. I like bits and pieces of it, but all together the effect is disturbing, sort of crackhead slumber party-esque.

But we should never judge a book by its cover, even if the cover looks like its been gnawed on by rabid doggies all night. I like listening to Amy without looking at her. Her songs are genuine, smooth and emotional. My favorite is "You Know I'm No Good". Remember the lyric, "I cry for you on the kitchen floor"? At one point or another, all girls cry for someone on the kitchen floor.

Well, it seems Amy's pushed her envelop past the point of no return at the ripe old age of 24. Her Dad blurted out her respiratory illness and warned drug dealers who continue to supply her with crack "must take responsibility". No, that's not gonna work. Drug dealers don't have a conscience. There won't be any change of heart on that end.

I'm not sure what will help Amy, but I hope someone or something does soon. At least get her to wear longer skirts. Seriously, is that a tampon string hanging out? Poor girl. Her husband is a clown. Her "famous" friends are trainwrecks. Her parents seem like enablers. I've seen live shows where she's clearly cracked out of her mind and they're both there cheering her on by the stage. My Mom would pull me off by my hair and lock me in my bedroom.

Many blog entries about Amy's latest health crisis are pretty harsh. There's even a website asking for predictions on when she will die. Winner gets an iPod Touch. Bleh. Now that's tacky. Another said she's inhaled too much hairspray with that planet on her head. Now that's a thought...Whatever the disease, I do hope Amy recovers. She sure takes the phrase, "pick your poison" to a whole new level.

One Birken Bag or Plumpynut for 9,000 Starving Kids?

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Birken Bags start at $9,000, about the same cost for feeding 9,000 starving children in third world countries with Plumpynut, a vitamin fortified peanut butter backed by Doctors Without Borders in Niger. A daily dose of Plumpynut costs about $1, thus my calculation. I have made quantifying things into shocking realizations a fun hobby.

The World Health Organization says 178 million children suffer from malnutrition across the globe. That's only about 20,000 Birken Bags at the bargain model price of $9k each. I read Posh Beckham owns about $1 million worth of Birkens. That's a LOT of Plumpynut! Well, how can you compete with the thrills of choosing from precious metals of silver palladium, ruthenium, guilloche or 24 karat gold for the hardware on your bag, or waiting on Hermes' purse list for two years?

All Plumpynut has to offer are life-saving nutrients for starving kids. The mixture is simple to prepare and does not need refrigeration. Reports say its sweet taste appeals to children and they eat it willingly. But, the Plumpynut tube is not paveed with diamonds or made of pink ostrich skin, so really that's like bringing a knife to a gunfight.

The Birken Bag's been around for 24 years and took off right away with celebrities recognizing it as essential. Plumpynut was created in 1999 but has only recently received international media attention thanks to CNN's Anderson Cooper and Doctors Without Borders.

Our world's funny that way, idden it? Things are different in the Divasphere. Plumpynut over Birkens, hands down.

Victoria's Secret Thong Lawsuit: Thongs Behaving Badly Part II

1 Snap and Comment

The thong assault lawsuit filed this week puts Victoria's Secret right in front of a whole new level of the creative lawsuit floodgates! I've put some thought into the circumstances of Marcrida Patterson's case and have some predictions beyond my original thong article. It's time for "Thongs Behaving Badly, Part II".

If this suit is settled in favor of the plaintiff, stand by. If the court finds that Victoria's Secret sold underwear with faulty design capable of personal injury, where does this abstract interpretation end? This particular thong is part of their "Sexy Little Thing" line. Some gal buys the thong with hopes of being sexy and gets no sex. What then? Does she sue Victoria's Secret for false advertising? Well, sure, because someone's always to blame for our misfortunes, right? Riiiiiighht.

Another scenario: someone, say a 52-year-old woman, wears her thong in the locker room at the gym. Mean girls laugh, they say things, mean things, like "OMG! I would die if my mom wore a thong," or "I threw up in my mouth a little bit". This hurts and angers the thong wearing woman. Should she file a lawsuit? Of course! Mental stress and psychological suffering incurred from a product marketed without warnings of such risks sounds like a slam dunk to me.

Well, maybe manufacturers should be more responsible with their product design and marketing. Someone might go blind if they used a certain shampoo incorrectly and a little bit ran down their head and into their eye. The shampoo's consistency was probably too thin and the company should be accountable for any burning, redness and whatever mental stress results. "Warning: Keep Away From Eyes" is not the same as "Warning: This Shampoo Might Run Down Your Head and Into Your Eye Even Though You Didn't Purposely Put It Into Your Eyes So Be Very Careful And Hold Your Head Back With Your Eyes Shut Tight!"

I think manufacturers of everything better follow the alcohol industries examples and put warning labels on all products that say misuse or just plain regular use may result in injury or not getting exactly what you want in life. Or maybe we as a society could simplify CYA and have every parent sign a declaration on behalf of their child when they're born that reads, "Shit happens. I will be a reasonable human being. Promise."

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