The fish without a bicycle, Part 1

"Can you tell I'm
wearing a pad?"

'Sup? 


As Stupid & Contagious HQ was in the process of relocating to a bigger and better media complex, a long-forgotten treasure was uncovered from storage. That little piece of awesome is a book entitled Always Ask a Man: Arlene Dahl's Key to Femininity. Yes, Arlene Dahl. I think she was on To Tell the Truth sometimes. But more importantly, she created Lorenzo Lamas.


This book is fucking amazing. Every lady should have one. In fact, girls should get a free copy at the hospital when they're born. Arlene's words of wisdom are that valuable. And in order to really do a deep dive into what it takes to be acceptable in public, I'm going to write about Always Ask a Man in two parts.


The very first page of the book gets right to the brutal point. In a handwritten note with appropriately ladylike handwriting, Arlene says:

I like men and I like men to like me—so I dress for them. This I used to consider the normal attitude and approach, one I shared with all women. Then not long ago a survey showed me that the average woman doesn't dress to please men at all! She dresses to please herself or other women. That fact shocked me into writing this book.

If you've seen Mad Men, you know how scandalous those girls at Sterling Cooper Draper Price can be. And since Always Ask a Man was written in 1965, Arlene was there in person experiencing the horror of a real-life Sterling Cooper Draper Price, where ladies were getting jobs and doing things alone and going on (whispers) The Pill. Hussies... all! Arlene simply did not want to take such carrying-on lying down.

This book is not intended for women who want to be beautiful for beauty's sake. Such beauty serves no purpose...other than self-satisfaction, if that can be considered a purpose. But if you are a woman who loves to be beautiful for and be loved by a man, I believe this book can help you.

Arlene reveals that she has always asked dudes for approval on anything related to beauty and fashion. Dad, for one, always had to offer his stamp of approval. "My father loved the smell of lavender soap, so I always made certain that I used it lavishly before I presented myself to him for a goodnight kiss." Um, ew. Chris Hansen wants Arlene's dad to have a seat right there. 


But then it gets worse. "Two heads are usually better than one... I often ask my young son, Lorenzo, for his reaction. Children are always so candid!" Some of you may recall that Lorenzo then went on to use a laser pointer to be judgy with on the short-lived reality wreck Are You Hot? Good thing laser pointers weren't around in 1965 or Arlene might be in a mental institution.


To drive her point home, Arlene consults some of the legendary male celebrities of the day for their thoughts on chicks. Yul Brynner laughs, "Women are being emancipated out of their femininity in this modern age. The one thing a woman doesn't have to be is logical!" Richard Burton asserts, "They must be completely feminine and faintly giggly." Burt Lancaster opines, "I admire honesty and straightforwardness, combined with true femininity." See a pattern here?  The King of Siam doesn't dig butch. Sorry, ladies.


(Hilariously, she also gets a quote from Tony Perkins, who says, "A girl should act like a girl, and not like the head of a corporation—even if she is." Guess Arlene isn't the authority on perfecting your gaydar to avoid embarrassing situations like this!)


Other pet dislikes from Arlene's showbiz pals include obvious makeup, powder smears on necklines, stray hairs on the shoulders (huh?), table-hopping (huh?) and profanity (oopsie!). Also of vital importance is to never upstage a man. "Never launch loudly into your opinions on a subject...instead, draw out his ideas to which you can gracefully add your footnotes from time to time." Don't try to prove your self-sufficience! Let him order the goddamn wine! (Oopsie again...)


At this point, you're starting to realize what a turn-off you are, at least by old-Hollywood standards, and you're wondering what you can do to clean up this tragic mess of a life you've created. Never fear: here comes Arlene to the rescue!


The first tip is stand naked in front of a mirror and rip yourself to shreds. But find some positive stuff, too! Then get rid of everything else. Personality and charm are great, says Arlene, but they're even better when they come in a pretty package. "Your appearance is a yardstick by which others can measure your self-respect." Uh oh. I'm wearing kitty-cat boxer shorts and Night of the Living Dead t-shirt with a big salsa stain on the front. 


"Is your facial expression pleasant, alert and vital? Or do you look bored, dispirited and disagreeable?" Yikes...strike two.


"Do you appear dainty, feminine and well-groomed?" Well, I took a shower...


Arlene, of course, has plenty of tips on making yourself presentable enough to venture out into society. For one thing, she is a huge advocate of the "slant board," which is apparently a piece of wood that's tipped down at one end. When you lay on it, all the blood rushes to your head. Is that supposed to be good? Arlene says it relieves swollen ankles and gives you a nice flush in the face, but it sounds like a recipe for blood clots and aneurysms to me. But what do I know? 


Another important tip is to be slim. Arlene feels sorry for girls who stuff their faces and "cheat themselves out of health, beauty and romance." She recommends Sophia Loren's diet, which includes about a gallon of black coffee a day, lots of tiny vegetables and "boiled tongue." Excuse me for a minute while I vom. *vom* Ooh, maybe that's the secret to the diet: it's so vile, it turns you bulimic. 


When you have had it up to here with the West Beach Coffee n' Tongue Diet, don't race out and blow it all on beer (like I'm doing right now). Remind yourself that as you get skinnier, you're getting "lovelier and more lovable every day!" You're nobody until somebody loves you! Find activities like shopping and hairstyling to take your mind off of food. 


If you're not already about to lose your mind keeping track of all these rules, make sure also don't turn into a bag of bones! Nervous women may burn off too many calories with their nervous energy, says Arlene. Stop being nervous and letting being perfect fry your nerves! 


Take advice from Cyd Charisse to gain weight: drink a glass of sherry with a beaten raw egg in it every night. Excuse me for a minute while I vom again. *vom* See, it's working!


Next up: exercise! Arlene recommends walking, but make sure you're walking the way a man likes. Dean Martin exclaims, "A beautiful woman is like a race horse—slim, sleek and with a beautiful carriage." Maybe he really means a beautiful woman is like a horse pulling an Amish carriage—tied up and blinded with a bunch of bearded men staring at her ass. 


Even if you're not an outdoor girl, you can still get some exercise with by watching an exercise TV program. "See how much fun it can be to take your instructions from a pleasant male voice against a background of music!" she twitters. Don't forget that these are the days before Billy's Boot Camp and Harvey Walden IV. Try to imagine fluttery little Arlene in her pink leotard, makeup and jazz slippers dropping down to give Harvey 20. Hilarious! And a big no-no because you might work up an unfeminine sweat!


Her "calisthenics" recommendations are even funnier. Swing your arms in circles to reduce your spare tire. Do five wall push-ups to tone legs. Do four sit-ups for your belly (try to work up to 10). "Most women won't exercise because they think of it as something violent," says Arlene's gal pal Rosalind Russell. Roz says she'll never get a big belly because she stands for 20 minutes after every meal and sometimes does stretches. See, ladies, that's all it takes! No need to get all yucky with sweat and make men uncomfortable with kickboxing.


Also of vital importance in Arlene's world: lovely, touchable skin. To drive it home, Errol Flynn foams, "A beautiful skin is instantly admired like a Moroccan binding on a rare book or the grain of the wood in a fine piece of furniture." Um, hi, Buffalo Bill. Are we sure he wasn't keeping a Senator's daughter prisoner in his basement "workshop"? Either way, what a weirdo.


Arlene notes the three enemies of beautiful skin: alcohol (shit), crash diets (shit) and excessive sun (shit) and advocates "exercising" the face by pulling and pushing it into all kinds of ridiculous positions. She's also a big proponent of makeup (but not too much, cuz the menz hatez that). Like Arlene says, "There's no such thing as an ugly woman—just those who haven't reached their full potential!"  Why don't I believe you, Arlene? Why do I think you're secretly sniffing behind my back that I smell like food and I don't have a chin and that I really need to do something about that muffin top? Why, Arlene??? Why don't I believe???


I think this would be a good time to end today. Next time: makeup, clothes and a ridiculously detailed look at what your hair color says about YOU. 

The best sexy Halloween costumes for the day after

Two years ago, I saw a girl at about 8 in the morning the day after Halloween wearing a Sexy Alice in Wonderland costume. She was bending over into some bushes, her bloomered ass exposed to god, retching like no one's business. I mean, the sound of her voms could be heard echoing down the street. I've never seen anything like it, nor will I ever forget it.

I like to think she was doing the walk of shame after hooking up with some frat dink dressed as a pimp. It was the perfect kick-off to All Saints' Day.

The point is, sexy costumes aren't always stupid, but think about where you may end up later in the night and if there's potential to become fodder for an embarrassing story on a blog no one reads. It's an online world, you know.

Sexy Alice in Wonderland is an example of the sexified children's character. Not only are these costumes creepy, you can never hope to look composed on the day after in one of these. Watching someone puke in the bushes wearing a Sexy Elmo outfit is likely to change your life forever. And not in a good way. Other ridiculous examples include Sexy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (hottie in a half shell!), Sexy Rainbow Brite and the just plain fucking stupid Sexy Spongebob.

Only slightly less embarrassing would be for you to be caught passed out in front of a Taco Bell with a "sexy item" costume up around your waist. Imagine waking up at noon on November 1, in a strange yard decorated to look like a slaughterhouse dressed as a Sexy Beer Pong Game or a Sexy Hunter's Trophy Rack. Guaranteed this would be one of the lowest points of your life. It would be better to be in the nude.

You need to plan ahead to do one of three things: scare, confuse or blend in. Try dressing as a slutted-up version of a movie serial killer, like Sexy Freddie Krueger, Sexy Jason and my personal fave, Sexy Leatherface. At least no one will fuck with you.

Another good bet is to confuse people with sexy costumes that don't make sense (like any of these do, but you know what I mean). Try going as aSexy Transformer, preferably Bumblebee, which is the lamest of all the Transformers. And even more inexplicable, Sexy Brian from Family Guy. People's minds will be too busy trying to wrap around your bizarre outfit to notice you look like shit. And that you're face down in your own sick.

The best of all options is to go as someone who is already known for being constantly wrecked. Try Sexy "The Situation" (complete with fake abs) or Sexy Duffman. You'll blend right in with all the empties on the porch in these and your friends, neighbors and anonymous passers-by will be none the wiser to your fuckery.

Have a good one, bitches! You'll find me in the most sincerest of pumpkin patches, waiting patiently for the Great.

What the world needs now is Gunn, Tim Gunn

Time for a big fangirl post!

Tim Gunn recorded a video message for The Trevor Project, a nonprofit suicide prevention organization for LGBTQ youth, in which he tells bullied and lonely teens life will get better. He also drops the bombshell that he, at 17 and feeling desperate, tried to take his own life! Take a look:



Could this man be more awesome? I'm so glad he's become such a surprise breakout star. He embodies class, compassion and dignity. If the world was made up of Tim Gunns, there would be no such thing as terrorism alerts and Rock of Love.

Plus, Tim had the balls to call out Anna Wintor for acting like a psycho diva at a fashion show and refused to retract his statement when she lost her shit and demanded an apology. Love! I so wanna be Tim Gunn's fruit fly.

Holla atcha boy!

Britney's Candie's photoshoot: The donkey is the best part

My last post about Britney Spears was almost exactly two years ago. How far we've come since the days when I monitored and made fun of Britty's every move, ranting obsessively three and sometimes four times a week. Ah, those were the days. I moved on to hating and judging other people I'd never met while Britney quietly dried out in the corner, growing her hair back and spending romantic evenings with that guy that looks like a low-rent Jim Jarmusch.

Then today, I catch wind of this video. It's a little behind-the-scenes crapumentary of Brit Brit's photo shoot for the latest Candie's campaign. First off: Candie's. What the hell is up with this company? All I really know about them is their suggestive and sometimes grody ad campaigns that always feature C-list celebs tarted up in their cheap-ass clothes and shoes. You may remember their most infamous ad which pictured mumps champion Jenny McCarthy sitting on a toilet with her undies around her ankles. (And, yes, that website that I linked to deemed that ad one of the sexiest celebrity ads of all time. Gross.)

Anyhoo, our little Brit Brit is one of Candie's heartiest endorsers. Who better to pitch sequined vests, tiered lace minis and leggings with zippers up the sides? OK, the cast of 90210, circa 1992 would be better, but Candie's went with Britney. Somehow Candie's got the budget to hire three of the world's most expensive photographers to custom-build sets and take pictures of Brit for their latest ad campaign. What happens when you combine three highly overrated artistes with another highly overrated pop princess? Let's take a peek:


I'm going to give you a minute to let that all sink in.

Now, let's pick this apart, piece by piece. We start off with a little welcome from Britney, who informs us that we are about to witness her Spring 2010 photoshoot for Candie's. Uh, Candie's...it's fall. So, fail #1.

Next we see a bunch of poor saps putting together sets, and some Candie's bitch bragging that "we have three genius, genius photographers shooting the biggest pop star in the world." So they dumped Britney and got Lady Gaga? No? Fail #2.

Then they show the photographers talking about the collaboration with Britney, only they don't identify them. Some crazy cat lady pistons her arms around and tells Britney, "I like your dance aspect, too." Who let that homeless woman onto the set? Security! Oh, wait a minute, that's just star photographer Annie Leibovitz. What a weirdo. I've read that she's a screetching psycho nutcase, so hopefully she'll lose her mind and kill everyone on the set. Fingers crossed!

Candie's bitch comes back on and says the photogs have decided "what to do with Britney" on their own, and then we see a Britney with a giant inflatable microphone and...A DONKEY. What the fuck. I've read that donkeys are temperamental, so hopefully the little burro will lose its mind and kick everyone on the set to death.

Next we see about 10 million unnecessary establishing shots of trucks filled with chairs driving around, lackeys opening doors and people pretending to work. The incredibly smug Candie's bitch starts blabbering about "raising the bar" for their seasonal photoshoot and at this rate, they'll be shooting the Winter 2010 campaign about this time next year. They then introduce the genius, genius artistes. Besides Annie, we also have Mark Seliger and, gross grossarooni Terry Richardson. You may have heard Terry's name in the news lately, as he's been accused of sexually assaulting several of his models. But you really only need to look at him to deduce that he's the King of the Creepers. He and Dov Charney should start some kind of douche colony. Anyway, I've read that Terry can be a bit of a loose cannon, so hopefully he'll lose his mind and kill everyone on the set, including himself.

We then get another 50 million ridiculous establishing shots and a guy saying, "I need the deepest pink touch-up paint." We see a cowboy-hatted guy that seems to be the keeper of the donkey, a giant teddy bear, roller skates and a director's chair that says "King Kong" on it. I don't even know what to say. It's just so bizarre. And stupid.

After another gazillion establishing shots, we get to see the epic first-time meeting of Britney and Terry. She gives him a hug and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I want to run in and save her before he tries to touch her with his peepee. Terry is practically foaming at the mouth over working with Britney and calls it one of his "all-time most exciting moments." To make that statement even sadder, the very next scene is of Brit holding that ludicrous inflatable microphone. Terry explains that he likes to work against an "organic, natural" white wall and give his subjects props. He also likes to take pictures of people with animals. Here comes the donkey! And chickens. And a miniature pony. C'mon pony...kill, kill! Terry's segment closes with him saying he got a little help from (points upward). Of course, we didn't end up seeing what happened with the donkey, so we'll never know exactly what kind of help he got.

Next Candie's bitch is back to claim that Britney really likes their crappy clothes. The film cuts to Britney saying, "I really like the dresses...fitting and flattering...blah blah blah." But I don't hear the rest because what in the ever-loving fuck is that pee-colored mop on her head? Is that "hair?" It looks like a $2 Mary Tyler Moore wig made out of blonde Barbie hair. Hopefully it will come alive and kill everyone on the set. I think it's possible.

Next up, we have the Annie Leiboviz segment. Britney asks Annie, "Can we play?" and Annie says yes. The next shot is of Brit sitting primly on a wooden stool against a poop-colored matte dropcloth. How playful. The Candie's bitch says they wanted Annie to do a "classic Annie portrait." Translation: a Josten's senior class portrait. Mercifully, this boring-ass shoot gets the least amount of coverage in the video.

Candie's Bitch starts going on about all the little details they have to think about on a shoot like this. Such as how they need to "candy-ize" Britney's trailer by covering each available surface with cupcakes and sweets in pink wrappers. Just what you need on the set of a fashion shoot: loads of fattening, tooth-rotting candy. They also hired Britney's favorite DJ to "spin" while they "work." Britney breathily informs us that most of the time he plays hip-hop, "which you can really get down with." And that hair...I just can't. I want to shoot it.

Finally, we have the session with Mark Seliger, who has constructed some kind of custom Moulin Rouge-style boudoir for his set. The room looks like it was hosed down within an inch of its life with Pepto Bismol. It's really, really, really pink.

Mark says he wanted to go with a French burlesque feel for his shoot. We then see Britney wearing a pink tank top and jeans. She's arching her back and trying to look sexy. Meanwhile, her hair looks like a giant banana peel sitting on her head. It's just all so embarrassing. Mark says he gave Brit "an environment to play around in" and the video cuts to a shot of him screaming, "That's good! DON'T MOVE, DON'T MOVE, DON'T MOVE!" Whoever edited this video must be a Stupid & Contagious reader. Hi, editor!

Next, Mark has Britney sprawled across a motorcycle that's parked on Astroturf. She's trying to be sexy again and all I can think is that she's a 28-year-old, twice-divorced mother of two. I mean, how much longer is she going to try to do this vampy Lolita thing? At the very end, Brit flips her polysynthetic head topper around and says, "My Candie's shoot (flip, flip) is a wrap." After all these years, she still sounds like a third-grader when she talks. Oh Britney, don't ever change!

American Perv-parel

OK, American Apparel. I've had all I can stand and I can't stands no more. I'm sick of opening up my city's free weeklies and seeing some chick's ass in a houndstooth thong leotard all up in my face. I just want to find out what's going on in Cowtown this weekend. I don't want to see crack and pubes. At least not that early in the morning.

For the record, I've never entered an American Apparel store or spent any of my heard-earned money there. And, yes, this makes me feel morally superior. When AA first appeared in Cowtown several years ago, I admit I was mildly curious. What was this new store in town that sells gold lame hot pants and terrycloth wristbands? And why does their advertising showcase these outfits in a somewhat porny manner? Just who is American Apparel?

Then, I saw a show about AA and I was exposed for the first time to the man behind the lame and terrycloth: Dov Charney.

Now, I've mentioned Dov on this blog before—he was one of the illustrious 13 Biggest Douchebags of 2009 (congrats!), a title that I can tell you now he's going to maintain in 2010. The hammer is starting to come down on this guy, but let me first tell you why that will be so deliciously satisfying.

Dov refers to himself as a "hustler" and seems to fancy himself this visionary sultan of sleaze. He screws his employees. He hires "real people" who are (or look like) 12-year-olds to pose provocatively in neon spandex for ads. He's had about a gazillion sexual harassment suits filed against him. He regularly jacks off in front of his female employees and reporters. He peddles mesh jumpsuits. You get the idea...

Anyway, it's been known for years that AA requires wannabe-employees to submit photos with their applications—a head shot and a full body shot. They regularly turn down people who don't have the "right look" to work at AA. Which translates to: you won't be selling tie-dye lace bodysuits and purple velour rompers because you don't look like (a.) one of The Strokes, or (b.) a picture on a paedo's computer.

Gawker and Jezebel have been regularly reporting on the looksism going on behind the scenes at AA and the shit is really starting to hit the fan. Disgruntled former employees are coming out of the woodwork with internal documents that detail the rigid appearance standards Dov requires of his minions. Don't wear crop tops unless you're the width of a cocktail sword! Don't wear gladiator sandals! Do wear booties! Don't wax your eyebrows! Paint your nails day-glo orange! No nose rings! Etc., ad nauseum. (Based on their advertising, I'm curious about their stance on camel toe. Good or bad? Required??)

Even creepier, Dov requires each store to take a monthly group photo and send it to the higher-ups so they can monitor and judge what everyone looks like and what they're wearing and weed out those who are "off-brand."

The ironic thing about this whole sordid fiasco is that Dov himself is the very definition of "off-brand." He looks like a combination of photographer Terry Richardson (another notable creeper), a '70s-era porn star, Crazy Harry from The Muppet Show and the wad of hair I recently fished out of my bathtub drain. At what brand would this look be on?

I want this guy to go down. Immediately. People, stop buying basic tees at this hellhole. I know you think they're great, but do you really want your hard-earned dollars to support Mr. Hairy Crotchshot? Exploitation! Discrimination! Bad fashion! These are crimes we need to take seriously. For christ sakes, this is a store that includes John McEnroe shorts and fucking sateen Hammer pants as staples! I drove by there the other day and they had high-waist leggings on the mannequins in the windows. HIGH-WAIST LEGGINGS. Who would buy that?? Nobody in their right mind could possibly want to wear half this stuff, even i they were buying it for an early '90s-themed party.

Come on, y'all—please join me in a boycott of Dov and his hot-pink manties with green piping. I won't judge you if you've shopped at AA, but I will judge you if you went there because you just had to have a stretch floral lace mini-dress. If Color Me Badd isn't involved, that is off-brand everywhere.

Rest in peace, Lee

My new life ambition: corporate drone by day, avant garde popstress in Alexander McQueen by night

Finally, someone cares about making music videos again. Lady Gaga, I want to be you when I grow up.



She's so fucking awesome. (Anyone else think she looks like Amy Winehouse meets Gwen Stefani?)

Welcome to the dollhouse

Oh, goody! It's my most favorite time of year! Time for People mag to put out their annual 50 Most Beautiful People issue! With all this depressing talk about job loss and foreclosure and swine flu, we need more images of attractive people to make us feel better. Enough with ugly people like Susan Boyle. (By the way, can you believe someone that looks like that has a talent? It's sort of like when Quasimodo came down from the bell tower to perform in the Festival of Fools...she's the Fools' Pope!)

OK, seriously...this shit is very timely because I'm mystified at all the rage over Susan Boyle. People are acting as if she's the most hideous person to ever walk the face of the earth. It's so ridiculous. I saw an article that said everyone loves Susan because she's proof that dreams can come true. Well, imagine that! It's as if she was deserving of an appearance-based ritual killing, like a Tanzanian albino. But then she sang, and proved to the world that she deserves to live. Hey, kids, dreams DO come true! Just less often for people who don't look like Frieda Pinto.

"It's what's on the inside that counts!" That feel-good message that's been trumpeted through the treetops to brokenhearted youngsters for ages is the biggest lie ever told. Susan Boyle's a great singer and seems like a very nice lady...but everyone's still just talking about how she looks. Kathy Bates is a fantastic Oscar-winning actress. So is Penelope Cruz. And all you hear about are their looks. Hillary Clinton, Sarah Palin, Nancy Pelosi...name any woman in politics and you probably know more about what they look like than the minutiae of their careers. Hillary has cankles—off with her head!

The Most Beautiful issue always sets me off. It makes me feel like Dawn Weiner. It's like People magazine barged in on me in a bathroom stall and I cry, "Why do you hate me, People?" and People responds, "Because you're ugly."

Naturally, we have the requisite breathless "Beauty at any age!" write-up. The People website actually says "Vanessa! Halle! Christie! These gorgeous gals prove that true beauty is timeless!" Why just look at Eva Mendes, age 35. "I'm not at all ashamed or frightened about showing my body," Eva tells People. She's so brave...an elderly gal like her posing nude! And how about Halle Berry, who is 42? "Sexiness is a state of mind—a comfortable state of being," she opines. "It's about loving yourself in your most unlovable moments." Wow, thanks, Halle! I'm sure being deemed one of People's 50 Most Beautiful every single year keeps you from committing suicide whenever you get a zit.

My personal favorite magazine feature is "Stars: They're just like us!" Because even the world's most beautiful have their ugly moments and beauty blunders, if you can believe that! Here's Miley Cyrus: "I had someone waxing my eyebrows and they literally tore a piece of skin off!" OMG! Thank Billy Ray they were able to cover the mess up for Miley's next photo shoot! Saved in the nick of time!

I bet you'll also be shocked to know that blood money socialite Kim Kardashian has bad hair days: "I saw this one [photo] where my hair just looks really awful. It was too flat. I'm really into volume and it was really ugly. I did it on my own, it was my first time trying to put in clip-in extensions. I can't deal with all that." Gee, Kim, my hair looks like that every day and I somehow have the audacity to leave the house and inflict my gnarly look on the general public. I feel better just knowing that Kim has experienced the exact same thing!

I'm not dumb...I get it. They sell mags by putting hot chicks on the cover. But enough with the pandering. These people are successful because of how they look, not in spite of it. Bea Arthur never made the list. Neither did one of my other favorite people in history: Eleanor Roosevelt. Eleanor was one of the most inspiring, accomplished, groundbreaking women ever, and she once said that her only regret in life was that she wasn't pretty.

There's really no point to this post, other than to vent a bit about something that's always gone on and will continue. And to bitch about how much I hate the 50 Most Beautiful People issue. It's like, gee, really? Blake Lively's pretty? Tell me all about it again. Then call me Weiner Dog and tell me my Special People Club is for retards.

How do I feel right at this very moment?

Exactly like supertramp Kate Moss and anorexorcist Allegra Versace Beck in this picture. I've been without internet and cable TV for over a week. That's seven Rockit years. I am completely out of touch and drooling at this point. My power was out for three days. I felt like Abe Lincoln. By that I mean I started reading by candlelight and wearing a top hat at all times. And I think I started growing a beard but it retracted when the power came on.

Anyhoo, things seem to be back to (ab)normal and I'm now once again able to obsess constantly about Blohan and Samro, Project Runway and the Caylee case. That family is a bunch of kooks, aren't they? Major weirdos! But would they make fun of Allegra Versace's eating disorder like I did? Who knows? And who could blame her for having one? I mean, the girl had a feeding tube up her nose for christ sakes and you could pretty much see why. First, she grew up in the always-supportive and accepting world of fashion. Her mom is a vacuumhead who looks like Janice the Muppet during the world's longest Electric Mayhem tour. She's named after an American allergy medication. Where are the "Free Allegra" t-shirts? The girl's only 22 years old and she's palling around with Kate Moss, ex-galpal of Pete Doherty, a.k.a. King Crackus the Seventeenth. She's also worth half a billion fucking dollars (Donatella was left 20% of Gianni's estate; niece Allegra was left 50%).

Allegra, you need better friends. Hang out with ME. I might not have power or internet or cable, but we can have mozarella sticks and cookie dough Blizzards for dinner. We can totally watch Gossip Girl. It'll be FUN!

Criminy, I'm rambling and completely delusional from lack of media stimulation. Please forgive me. I'll be back shortly with my regularly scheduled commentary. But right now I need some tranqs...

I sense conspiracy

Every year I insist on watching the VMAs even though I know it's going to be a geyser of shit.

I do it because I still believe I'm going to miss something big, like somebody falling, a drunken meltdown, or a drug-induced performance fuck-up. Like last year, for example. Remember, if you will, the dazzling spectacle of Britney with her budget weave, lurching around the stage dazed and confused and having either forgotten the lyrics to her own song or forgotten how to lip-sync, her paunchy belly jiggling with each faltering misstep. Now that was some quality television! There's nothing I love more than seeing people humiliating themselves on live national television—unless that person is Britney. Then that is officially the best.

This year, hype indicated that Britty would be attempting her comback *again*, so I was hoping for another glazed, bot-like performance disaster. I waited with baited anticipation for more fabulous Britney embarrassment.

Instead what do we get? We get canned pre-show banter between Brit and Jonah Hill in which Britney is treated as if she is hot again. Come on, people! Have we forgotten already? The weave may have been upgraded just a notch and she got new caps and she may be slightly less bloated than last year, but we all know what's underneath that spackled-on Bobbi Brown Creamy Concealer. We all know the truth!

Next we have the highly-anticipated show opener. But this time, there was no disaster. Instead, Brit simply shuffled out on stage, woodenly repeated some lines off the teleprompter, then turned it over to Rihanna, who launched into a Grace Jones-lite impersonation. Letdown #2!

Then to make matters even worse, the braindead MTV "voters" awarded Britney with three trophies, including Video of the Year for "Piece of Me." OK, letting her have a second chance to embarrass herself less on TV is one thing, but giving her pity trophies is something else all together! Conspiracy! Did you even see that video? It's the shittiest, most phoned-in piece of film of all time. Keep in mind that past winners of Video of the Year include such innovative classics as "Money for Nothing," "Sledgehammer," "Nothing Compares 2 U," "Virtual Insanity" and "Hey Ya." Not to say that other winners of this so-called top award are all sick, as the kids these days say, or even memorable, but "Piece of Me"? Jesus christ...pity awards! Next year, Britney will probably be on trial for chloroforming her kids and they'll give her Video Vanguard.

Ug, my temples are throbbing. It's time to move on from this topic, and discuss the other ongoing theme of the evening that got me in a twist: purity rings.

Yay, hurray for the Jonas Brothers and Jordin Sparks and Hannah Montana for wearing their NoMoHo chastity belt buckles and keeping their no-no holes in their pants until god or Pat Robertson says it's OK. They all probably had a prayer circle backstage and congratulated themselves for winning the lost through pure, innocent song. Kind of makes you want to put in their CDs and fuck someone seven ways to Sunday just for spite. But that's impossible—those songs are real mood-killers.

I especially liked when Jordin stood up for the Purity Police by saying, "It's not bad to wear a promise ring because not everybody—guy or girl—wants to be a slut." What am I, in 5th-grade health class and the school nurse is reminding everyone that it's very important to care about your reputation? Jordin was going to encourage everyone to maintain good posture by walking around the Paramount backlot with a books on their heads, but the orchestra cut her off. Then the Jonas Brothers were supposed to come out and tell us that we're going to get hair in new places on our bodies and Hannah Montana was going to give a lecture on different types of maxi pads. Don't wear a tampons! You won't be a virgin anymore!

I don't know who Russell Brand is, but he's the best for calling that shit out.

Drinking the Top Model Flavor-Aid

Sorry I have been neglecting my blog. I'm sure everyone is dying for some breaking news and important analysis from me. So here it is. And get ready—I'm already annoyed by the holidays, so I'm in full-on balls-out rant mode.

I've been meaning to post on America's Next Top Model for a long time now. I have a love/hate relationship with this claptrap. This season has the fugliest lineup yet. I don't care what Tyra Banks says. No way any of these butterfaces could ever compete with the 15-year-old Ukranians slinking around the Bryant Park tents during Fashion Week. The one that got voted off last week looked like Gary Coleman, for Christ sakes. I hate it and I hate Tyra. And yet I watch it every single week.

Don't you think Tyra looks like Gossamer after Bugs Bunny did his hair with dynamite rollers? I've provided a side-by-side comparison above as a visual. And like Gossamer, Tyra prowls around in giant shoes, procuring innocent dopes for torturous scientific experiments. Tyra Banks is the Jim Jones of the modeling world. She brainwashes, manipulates, preaches, evaluates, cuts down, builds up, controls, persuades, influences, rewards, deprives...a regular cult fuhrer of her very own People's Temple. To prove that things on the Top Model set are far more nefarious than UPN television would ever lead us to believe, here are five common traits of cult leaders. All hail Tyra!

(FYI, this article wasn't my idea; Radar published a story about this a while back. Although my interpretation is much funnier.)

1. Leader claims divine authority.
Tyra fancies herself a sort of Jill of all trades, boasting incessantly about her various career endeavors. She's more than just a model, people. She's also an author! A movie star! A television actress! A photographer! A producer! A talk-show host! A horrifically bad singer! She's one of the world's most influential people! As thus, every word that comes out of her mouth must be immediately absorbed and applied to life for success. To reiterate her dominance, she surrounds herself with a panel of judges and a phalanx of industry professionals who admonish those who don't comply with Tyra's Rulez of Fashion™.
"Tyra told you to stop wearing ponytails because it makes you look like a common high school girl!"
"But I am a common high school girl..."
"OBEY!"
"I'm sorry, Noted Fashion Photographer Nigel Barker*! I promise to try harder next time."
"In fashion, there is no next time!"

2. Followers become dependant on movement/leader for their view of reality.
Tyra is fond of analyzing a modeling shoot by saying, "You did this (makes model face), and you should have done this (makes exact same model face)" and the model in question nods emphatically, eyes wide, starstruck and basking in the almighty council of Tyra Fucking Banks. Everything Tyra says is gospel, even when she's contradicting herself (which is pretty much all the fucking time). Example: "As a model, you have to know your limits!" versus "As a model, you have to step out of your comfort zone!" The girls are often demanded to prove how much they "want this" by groveling, sobbing and performing ridiculous tasks, such as walking a runway with a basket of fruit on their heads.

If Tyra told the girls that only winners drape themselves in Cavalli and then drink cyanide Crystal until they swoon onto their single beds at the model compound with only their Jimmy Choos sticking out, they'd line up at the bar. Then Tyra would cattly evaluate them for not looking fierce† enough in death. Of course, no one ever mentions that the girls are taking modeling advice from the fattest, ugliest Victoria's Secret Angel with the most cellulite and the biggest ass. Take that, Miss Authority! OK, that was catty, but it's nothing compared to some of the things she's said about her little proteges.

3. Isolation.
The wannabe models are all forced to live in a super-phat pad, complete with a runway, confession booth and...gigantic, airbrushed pictures of Tyra everywhere. Reminds me of a little world leader we all know and love called Mr. Kim Jong-Il.

4. Important decisions are made for followers by others.
Each season in what usually ends up being the most popular episode, Tyra gives all the girls makeovers and tells them how they are going to look from now on. Painful bleachings, excruciating extension application and Sampson-style eradication of girls' secondary sex characteristics. For some of the tearful model wannabes, cutting their hair off is the equivalent of a clitorodotomy. What would Noted Black Author Alice Walker say about that, Ty-Ty?

Another prime example happened in "Cycle" (another veiled vag reference?) 6 when the final two girls, Danielle and Joanie, both got painful teeth revamps after Tyra threatened that they wouldn't move on in the competition if they didn't comply.

5. Leader is not open to discussion.
The most infamous instance of this is the Great Tiffany Tell-Off of Cycle 4. In this embarrassing clip, contestant Tiffany is voted off and sob enough for Tyra's liking. Tyra tries to get the last word in about how disappointed she is and, when Tiffany blows it off, she has a full-on head bobbing, finger-waving kiniption fit. She screetches about how her mother yells at her because she loves her and tells Tiffany to shut up about 50 times. Just try to watch it without backing away from your computer. Since that incident, no one ever questions Tyra for fear of unleashing the Five-Headed Demon.

Come to think of it, Tyra's more of a Charlie Manson than a Jim Jones. The incoherant rambling, the nonsensical advice, the questionable inspiration...she even once made the girls pose as dead bodies! Yes, it's all starting to make sense now: Heatherette = Helter Skelter. Squeaky Fromme is an anagram for "Queer for my mask"! Freaky, man.

Manson once said, "Look down at me and you see a fool; look up at me and you see a god; look straight at me and you see yourself.” Take a sip of THAT Flavor Aid, ANTM wannabes.

* What the fuck is he "noted" for anyway? Cat Fancy? Juggs? The Pamida ad from last Sunday's Koupon Klipper?
† Speaking of "fierce", can't we think of another adjective to describe awesome modeling? How about ferocious? Savage?Vehement? Cannibalistic? Next season they should issue each judge a thesaurus.

The big sleep

When Joe Pesci won an Oscar for "Goodfellas" in 1991 his speech went a little something like this: "This is an honor and privilege. Thank you very much." I expect the orchestra stood there for a second, unsure of what to do, and then scrambled to cue up a jazzed-up version of the "Layla" piano exit. That is the coolest speech ever. I think if I ever won an Academy Award (for sound editing, of course) I'd totally do something like that. I'd be all "This rocks...thanks", and try to be off the stage before the band leader even has a chance to pick up his baton. Lead by example, I say. Then maybe the ceremony won't be four excruciating hours long. I've got places to go, people. Chop chop.

The Academy also didn't give out gift baskets this year. This makes me mad. Why would anyone want to be star other than to get the free shit? But don't think the Hollywood elite went without; last week, "swag parties" were held all over town to offer up such must-haves as pink boxing gloves, organic dog treats and free Netflix. What kind of cheap bullshit is this? Where are the getaway packages and the free Bulgari? The stupid pink boxing gloves don't even come with Joe Frazier. Highly disappointing, Hollywood. I know there are all those pesky tax issues with giving this stuff away, but rules and laws don't apply to you, so why start obeying now?

In general, I found the Academy Awards to be much like the ground outside of my house: soggy, mushy and maggotty with dog shit that my neighbors have so kindly left in the middle of the sidewalks. In other words, good times. Of course this would mark the year that Marty Scorsese finally won a well-deserved Oscar. And the year that Jack Nicholson appeared bald and looking more disturbing than ever, and nobody made a Britney joke (or commented on his neckfurters). We heard dated Al Gore jokes, and we were treated to all the usual blatant back-patting for all the "diversity" in this year's nominees. And how much longer do we have to endure J-Lo? And Celine? Like I said, maggotty...

• All I wanted was for Jackie Earle to win. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so. I'm sure Alan Arkin is great and all, and granted, I didn't see "Little Miss Sunshine", but Jackie Earle is all kinds of awesome, just for being Jackie Earle. The only thing that could make up for this is if Scarecrow from "The Wizard of Oz" showed up wearing the scalp of Christie Brinkely and a water-stained circa-1973 prom dress. Oh, wait, sorry Gwenyth...was that you? I didn't recognize you because your fake English accent was "off" last night. Kudos on remembering your bra this year, though.

• On the other hand, Reese, oh dear lord, that dress...I would wear it to the grocery store, go on a hike in it and sleep in it. In other words, I would wear it all the time and never take it off, and I would wash it by wearing it into the shower. Speaking of Reese, I wonder if she and Marky Mark got together to discuss how they wouldn't be where they are today if it weren't for "Fear".

• Second-best dressed: Kate Winslet. I love her and I want to marry her.

• Third-best dressed: the girls who got to wear the badass Marie Antoinette outfits during the Best Costume presentation. However, I'm voting fake Marie herself Kirsten Dunst as worst dressed of the evening. What is wrong with her? She has to present with her ex-boyfriend and she wears Brillo couture? Looking super-awesome is the best revenge, and she totally blew it.

• I hope Nicole Kidman doesn't drive a convertible because if she is ever stuck behind a gravel truck and a rock flies out and hits her face it would shatter like a windshield.

• Tom Cruise was kind of quiet this year. Maybe he had an auditing session yesterday morning in which he was advised to tone it down. Didn't see the wife and kid either, so I'm guessing the Scientology PR crew has racheted up the thetan control.

• Cutest couples: Ellen and Portia, Sascha Baron Cohen and Isla Fisher, Jaden Smith and Abigail Breslin.

• I know the speeches were cut off earlier this year and a "thank-you cam" was provided backstage so they could thank god, mom, voice coach, lawyer, caterer, reiki technician, dolly grip, etc., ad nauseum. Didn't work, dammit.

Honestly, I can't remember much else because I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Scorsese won, so all is right with the world. This is an honor and privilege. Thank you very much. Now where's my gift basket?

Remember yesterday, walking hand in hand

Help me, I can't stop with the end-of-the-year stuff! And I thought it would be rather interesting at this juncture to revisit some of the misfit toys I've written about over the past year and see where they are now. Don't you think that would be fun? I do! So here we go:

Corey Haim, elephantine former child star/pill popper
When we last left the Haimster, he had suffered a drug-induced stroke and was an aimlessly drifting vagabond; recently rumors swirled that he was filming a reality series with '80s pal Corey Feldman that I predicted would be the greatest show to ever appear on anything ever in the history of the whole world. Well, get ready for this: according to IMDb, this alleged reality show is 100 percent real, is currrently in production and is set to air on A&E later this year! Those geniuses over at A&E...they really know what people want. Let's hope they mimic the style of Intervention and refuse to step in and put a stop to the action when stuff starts getting good—the Coreys smoking up and then getting in a naked fight would beat the Zapruder film in historical importance, if you ask me.

David Blaine, guy who does stuff for long periods of time
Remember when I blogged Blaine's live breath-holding stunt as it happened? Two hours of my life wasted, that I will never get back. I'm not sure who is more brain damaged: me or him. Well, OK, he may be edging me out—in November, he embarked on his latest absurd stunt, which was to spin around in a "gyroscope" for 16 hours and then free himself from the aparatus as it was moving. I'm not making this up. Part of me wishes I had more information on this ridiculousness, but another part of me would rather forget I ever mentioned the name "David Blaine" in this blog, so I'm just going to stick with that one and move on.

The Duggars, brood o' zealots
Don't remember the Duggars? I have two words for you: Wholesome Swimwear. Yes, the Duggars were the esteemed winners of the coveted Most Morbidly Fascinating Stupie for 2006 (shared, of course, with the Count). At last count, happy homeschooling parents Jim Bob and Michelle boasted a grand total of 16 rugrats, ranging in age from 17 to five months, and all of whom were featured in three sickly intriguing Discovery Health Channel specials. In one of the specials, they all loaded into the family shuttle bus (that's not sarcasm; their vehicle is a fucking shuttle bus) and set off for a psycho-Christian homeschooling conference, singing songs the whole way. Anyway, since winning the Stupie, the family has finished building their 7,000-square-foot compound BY HAND and moved in, presumably to get started on Duggartown. And, oh yeah, Michelle's pregnant...AGAIN. No joke.

Glen Benton, devil-loving, metalhead lusus naturae
From the godly Duggars we move on to the guy who burned an inverted cross into his forehead. You may recall that Glen was the recipient of the best threat letter ever, which was sent to him by a group of animal activists pissed off about his live-sacrifice posturing. Well, these days it's more of same. As you'll recall, Deicide released an album on 6-6-06 cagily titled "The Stench of Redemption", and they are currently touring off of that album in Europe. I have been unable to find any info on if the Animal Militia has been following Glen around on tour, making his life a living hell (which you would think he would enjoy), but I can only hope they haven't let up on their relentless smear campaign. There's nothing like driving a point home with abject, unrelenting violence; true boyfriends of Satan wouldn't have it any other way.

Jeanne Bice, nutjob "fashion" "designer"
I'm almost ashamed of myself for the amount of vitrol I poured out about this woman and her horrific Quacker Factory QVC clothing line. It doesn't feel good to hate that much, let me tell you. But just take one look at the frumpy tunics and novelty-print stretch pants and I'm sure you'll feel the same intense detestment as I. Unfortunately, Jeanne continues to foist her shitty clothing on the world, and recently hosted a Thanksgiving special from her fabulous Sunshine State home that I'm totally jealous of. And before you ask, yes, she's sadly still wearing stuffed, bejeweled headbands with matching velour muumuus and sturrup pants, which I'm sure are all very comfortable in the Florida heat. There's got to be a good Jeanne-ism in there: "When life gives you an intensely hot, sauna-like day, wear all the bedazzled velvet you want—'cause that's what us wild and crazy Quackers do!"

Lynx & Lamb Gaede, teen folk-singing neo-nazi twins
This write-up was actually one of my most popular posts (I got five emails!) and how could it not be? It's about teen folk-singing neo-nazi twins. Anyhoo, it's pretty much business as usual with these two—they continue to release their tone-deaf, rah-rah Hilter songs under the moniker Prussian Blue, and are even starring in some kind of documentary, which is being filmed now. I'm betting it will be a gritty "American History X" meets "A Mighty Wind" meets "Capturing the Friedmans" sleeper hit in the art theaters that will spur an avalanche of press coverage, incite activists and will lead the twins' creepy stage mom April to brag about how much publicity they are getting, even if it's negative. Interestingly enough, the Gaedes were chased out of California when word got out about Prussian Blue and concerned neighbors decided they didn't want the likes of these kooks in their neck of the woods; they have since relocated to Montana. Are the Freemen still operating up there? Seems like they would all be pretty good pals.

Matt Smith, pious ex-Real Worlder behind NoMoHo.com
Matt can usually be found smugly preaching about purity, pimping his shitty chastity belt buckles and/or trotting out suspicious data on connections between porn and crime. These days he is—wait for it—planning his wedding. Go ahead and barf. I hope the missus-to-be doesn't mind wearing a NoMoHo belt buckle until the big day to remind her to keep her knees pressed firmly together until Matt's pastor says it's OK. Wouldn't it be funny if Matt invited all of his Real World friends and they used the reception as an opportunity to get wasted and have a camera-whore hot tub orgy? Matt would be so shocked by all the action that he'll spend his wedding night facing the corner and trying to find a happy place.

All right, enough with the riff-raff and now for the two who miraculously didn't take out restraining orders on me in the last year. Eric Avery, musician extrordinare, has completed his solo album (YAY!) and has been keeping up with his blog and even responding to fan questions in his comments section! In case you're wondering, I haven't left a comment or question for him. If I do, it better be something good, you know what I'm saying? We'll see...maybe one of these days when I'm feeling like everything I say is cool...

And as for Ville Valo, the loveliest boy in Narnia, I'm pleased to report that his physique is no longer Haim-like in proportion. He's still looking a little scraggly and more than a little lost. Don't worry, Ville, you'll find your way. Fat or thin, you're still hotter than a mofo and I have high hopes you'll get it all together in '07.

I just realized that nearly all of these entries involve religion in one way or another. Is that a character flaw? And which circle of hell will all this relegate me to? I'm guessing I'm lined up for either five for all the wrath I've unleashed or two for making lewd comments. It will be interesting to see how things turn out, and that might be a good post for another time.

Anyway, happy new year and next post I promise won't have anything to do with the past.

A secret brainwashing plot is being administered by the Quacker Factory!

Aww, are you having a bad day? Well, I know just how to cheer you up, little one...just read these charming little pick-me-up axioms from head Quacker Factory nutcase Jeanne Bice and then—like magic—everything will be all better! Ahhhh! So inspiring...

• Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what the heck happened!
• The hardest years in life are those between 10 and 70!
• I refuse to think of them as chin hairs. I think of them as stray eyebrows!
• Every time I close the door on reality it comes in through the windows.
• When I was young, I was put in a school for retarded kids for two years before they realized a I actually had a hearing loss. And they called me slow!

Wait a minute. Um, Jeanne...that's a bit Dark Ages of you. Do you still think that ducking beneath your desk and covering your head will protect you from atomic bomb fallout? Do you think EST will shock all the crazies back into reality? If not, we can just scrape their frontal lobes a bit and get rid of the "bad brain." Retards! Huh huh!

Oh, sorry. Seems as if there's some bad energy around here. Let's just push that stinkin' thinkin' right out of our heads with some more cheerful quips. Jeanne says, "Take a little time to read through these. I think they are wonderful!" Thanks, Jeanne!

• Give people more than they expect and do it cheerfully.
• Don't believe all you hear, spend all you have, or sleep all you want.
• Never laugh at anyone's dreams. People who don't have dreams don't have much.
• Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt, but it's the only way to live life completely.
• Smile when you pick up the phone, the caller will hear it in your voice.
• A gentle reminder—that the most precious things in life cannot be built by hand or bought by man.
• Each day comes bearing its own gifts—untie the ribbons.
• Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things!
• Keep learning. Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever. Never let the brain idle.

While all those have certainly helped to turn my frown upside down, this last one really just says it all: Triumph is just try with a little ooomph!

You go, girl! Jeanne Bice is truly an inspiration to obese, stagnant housefraus everywhere.

Do you see what's happening here? The Quacker Factory is a modern-day equivalent to the tagesparole, making Jeanne Bice the 21st-century incarnation of Goebbels!! I'm calling Bellevue and demanding they surround this woman's home and take her by force. They may need to call out SWAT and have mace guns at the ready because she is a bonafide, grade-A, 100 percent complete and total raving lunatic. I mean, call me crazy, but do people actually find these tired, empty, meaningless expressions uplifting in any way, shape or form? They are beyond fucking ridiculous! What is wrong with you, Jeanne Bice, and your ilk?? Are you so bored with your lobotomized Stepford lives that you seriously find this shit empowering?

I just can't believe it. Why does this woman get any kind of serious publicity? It's a conspiracy, I tell you! A plot! Disney is in on it, as is General Electric. Damn you, Jeanne Bice, damn you and your propadanda to hell! I'm going to dig up some dirt on you and expose you for the phony you are if it's the last thing I do. Mark my words!!

Ug, I need to stop now. I'm getting too angry and, also, I'm past due to take my medication. The penguins won't let me sleep until I take my medication...

Don't fuck with fashion

So last night was the "Project Runway" everyone has been waiting for, the one where some stupid bastard breaks the rules and gets thrown off the show. Turns out Keith, the big huge asshole that everyone hates, is the stupid bastard in question, and is asked to leave for having pattern books, of all things. These professionals must wing it in order to be in. The irrepressible Tim Gunn also alludes that Keith "left the production for several hours and used the internet", also both big no-nos according to the contract the participants sign.

Good lord almighty, why didn't they elaborate on this? If you are a PR junkie, like myself, you must immediately head over to iTunes and subscribe to Tim Gunn's weekly podcast—they are completely addictive and brimming with juicy behind-the-scenes goss. Plus, it's Tim "What Happened To Andre?" Gunn. He's so awesome. The soothing sound of his voice and his sarcastic quips instantly raise my Will To Live Level, if just a little bit.

Anyway, I'll fill you on the best parts of the Keith scoop, 'cause it's pretty funny. Tim explains in today's podcast that while the designers were in the midst of this week's Macy's challenge, they were also given a couple of days "off" in order to film commercials and the show intro. Just before leaving for the studio to film, Keith makes a break for it and disappears for several hours, during which a stand-in was employed during the opening credits sequence. So the next time you catch the intro, check out Keith: his smug little head was Photoshopped onto the body of some production dude! Hilarious! Talk about making it work...

We were also led to believe by the show that bitchy pageant queen Kayne reported to producers that Keith was stashing how-to books under his bed, but apparantly the allegations had occurred much earlier in the process. Of course, Kayne blew it all up into a dramatic, frenzied fiasco alleging that Keith was sneaking into the bathroom in the middle of the night and running the shower for an hour while he poured through his patternmaking books (um, Kayne, something tells me he probably wasn't "reading", but if that's what you want to call it, whatevs). So Tim is forced to visit the Atlas™ apartments to give the Keithster his walking papers. The designers are crushed. And by crushed, I mean thrilled. Says Laura, "Keith, what an asshole. I'm glad to see him gone."

So now I can concentrate on hating Jeffrey and that horrible tattoo on his neck and Angela and her obsession with those fucking rosettes. So stupid! She's from Ohio and I hate it. This is who we have to represent us Buckeyes in reality land: Angela, Beth S., the Miz, Jen Schefft and this annoying, pointy-face.

My favorites are Michael Knight from Hotlanta—he rocks! And he's hot! And his name is Michael Knight! And I think he might be straight. Wow, a straight man who can make a really cool dress out of coffee filters? It's like seeing a unicorn. I also like Alison Kelly, the little blonde girl. I think she definitely has the potential to win the whole thing, but she's too much like last season's winner, Chloe. And I have an Official RockitQueen Embarrassing Crush™ on Bradley, the scruffy little squid without an ocean. What is wrong with me?? I want to pet his scruffy little head, force-feed him a home-cooked meal and tuck him in—and then "make it work", as it were. I think he might be straight, too, or maybe that's just wishful thinking. Whatever. I'm just a perv, and we all know this.

Next week: Kors is finally back (thank god, because Vera Wang looks exactly like that ghost from "The Grudge" and it's scaring me), Diane von Furstenburg sits in on the panel and hopefully delivers some good, bitchy comments, and Nina Garcia resumes her role as der kommissar of the Fashion Police. Lighten up, Nina, it's fashion!

Hell gets bedazzled

Nobody has ever accused me of being nice, and this is no doubt the meanest, most unprovoked post I've written to date. But I don't care. People need the facts in order to stop the modern-day black plague that is shitty fashion. You know what I'm talking about. The applique sweaters, the cropped leggings, the boxy jackets, the shapeless jumpers, grown adults wearing bib overalls—in fact, you may even think it is the norm, since about 75 percent of people I see on a daily basis are wearing shit like this. Not that it is necessarily their fault. If they are not guided properly, how can they make good fashion decisions? If shit is presented to them, then they will choose shit. Thus, I will not always blame the fashion victims. Most of the time it's the fashion perpetrators.

Now, applying that logic, get ready to meet the overlord of shitty fashion. Yes, that's her above and, yes, she's wearing a stuffed headband and a sweater emblazoned with bees. Her name is Jeanne Bice and she is the creator and "Head Quack" of the Quacker Factory clothing line. If you've never heard of this particular brand, you should feel good about that because it's probably because you don't park yourself in front of QVC for hours on end; that's where her line is exclusively sold. She may have a pretty sweet racket going on, but I think it's safe to say we won't be seeing Jeanne on the next cycle of "Project Runway", if you know what I'm saying. I'm saying she would definitely be out.

There is so much to make fun of about this company that I hardly know where to begin. How about at the beginning? Jeanne was just a regular housewife and kountry krafter until her hubby (Hubby Rick, by any chance?) encouraged her to start selling her wares. The result was a store disturbingly called "The Silent Women" and eventually spawned the demon child that is Quacker Factory. Jeanne's deal with QVC was, of course, an act of divine intervention. She says on her terrifying website, "I put a sign on the wall that said- "QVC - YES" and sat back and waited for god to do his job." Hmmm, maybe I should put a sign on my wall that says, "Quacker Factory - NO", but I honestly don't think god has the time to waste on petty miracles such as this...believe me, I've tried with the Ville requests. Apparantly, Jeanne Bice does not feel the same way.

But let's not waste our time on company history, when the shitastic clothes should be the real focal point here. First off, I must say that I have never understood the epidemic of grown, adult women who insist on wearing large versions of childrens' clothing. Pink jumpers, Pooh Bear sweatshirts, Precious Moments anything—it seems like the older some of these women get, the more juvenile their wardrobes become. I am holding Jeanne Bice personally responsible for encouraging this horrifying trend, as Quacker Factory clothing breaks all the such rules of age-appropriate clothing, as well as any other fashion don'ts that you can possibly think up.

One of my pet peeves are "novelty" tops and sweaters emblazoned with theme images, like pumpkins and leaves for fall/Halloween, doggies/kitties, and sometimes even full scenes, like kids having a snowball fight all across a sweater. Of course, this is a staple design element in Quacker Factory clothing. There are sweaters and sweatshirts featuring bunnies, lighthouses, laundry on a clothesline, smiling clowns with rainbows coming out of their asses. OK, I made that last one up, but you get the idea; if it's adorable and precious, it's going on the shirt! The motif is sometimes even carried through on matching pants and cardigans—little carrots all over for the bunnies, little anchors for the lighthouses, little socks for the clothesline—and then embellished within an inch of its' life with sequins, beads and glitter. Maybe a Michael's craft store exploded near the Quacker Factory or something, because I can't possibly imagine man or machine applying all that shit, but either way, the cutesy factor is bordering on terminal.

This company is also a big advocate of the granddaddy of all fashion faux pas (at least in my book): large tunic tops over leggings. I don't know where the idea was born that this hellish combo was a good idea for ANYONE, let alone heavy people, but this seems to be one horrid fashion "trend" that won't mercifully die. Why don't we bring back big shoulder pads while we're at it to complete that sexy Spongebob Squarepants sillohuette? Oh, wait! Quacker Factory already has! And they are presented on thin, young-ish models, which is totally false advertising. Get Jeanne on there to model it, for god sakes, not Gisele.

A friend made the brilliant observation that these clothes are not only heinously unstylish, but they are also de-sexualizing. Go ahead—visit the Quacker Factory website and see for yourself. You'll come away a whole new person after reading Jeanne's inspiring proverbs. Here are just a few under the header "How to Stay Young":

• Remember, there is no way you can look as bad as that person on your drivers license!
• Humpty Dumpty was pushed!
• Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay them.
• Don't take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, to the next county, to a foreign country, but not to where the guilt is.

Wow, thanks Jeanne! I was sitting here with a gun in my mouth until I read that! Anyway, I'll spare you any more of the "inspiration" found on the site. Just know that it mainly consists of empty declarations to "Believe!" and "Sparkle!", eternally un-funny quotes about womanhood that probably came from the yellowing Cathy comic strips Jeanne has posted on her fridge and sexist encouragement to stay cheerful and do everything in life with a big Stepford smile on your face. Yes, put all your energy into believing in bon bons and leave all that stuff about cholesterol to the doctors.

If that's not bad enough, Jeanne has added "author" to her resume, with the publication of...get ready for it..."Pull Yourself Up By Your Bra Straps and Other Quacker Wisdom". I expect that this is basically just a collection of the above whimsical sayings for frumpy housewives to get their minds off their bratty kids and lazy husbands. God, how irritating—this woman is making a living distributing shitty fashion. And not just any shitty fashion...really, really bad, unstylish, unflattering, garish stuff that is making the world an uglier place. Jeanne Bice must be stopped! Where is Tim Gunn when we need him the most? Get this woman out immediately!

'Tis the season for best, worst, whatever

I was all psyched up when I heard Mr. Blackwell released his yearly best and worst dressed list...not so much. He's stupid, but I really WAS psyched that my nemisis Princess Britney was named the number one worst dressed celeb in '05. Not that I'm anti-white trash (being white and a little bit trashy myself), but I don't have money pouring out of my butt with which I could buy pretty much any outfit I see in a store window. And I'm not considered a hot piece of ass by half of America (or maybe I am, who knows).

Anyway, the point is, if you have that much money and that kind of reputation you can at least give a little teeny, tiny semblance that, yes, you may be failing miserably, but you ARE trying. Even if you don't know Dolce & Gabbana from Deb, you've got money—hire a stylist to help you. At least have a little respect for the pre-teens with no parental guidance and the middle-aged paedos that use you for jack-off fodder. They spend money to see you as a sexpot. Don't just throw your ratty, falling-out extensions up into a sloppy top-of-the-head pony, a tie-front blouse, tie-dye peasant skirt and your favorite Uggs from '03 and just waltz on out to the Starbucks with your equally badly-dressed and sleazy husband slouching behind you calling everyone "dog." Oh, and that time that you went out with some kind of zit cream on your face that looked like you just starred in K-Fed's first bukkake film? Yeah, that was REALLY bad.

Because it's Britney, I actually like it. I hate her. HATE HER. Keep dressing like a blind prostitute, Brit-Brit. Everytime you get kicked down a notch an angel gets its' wings.

Also on the list was J-Simp, who I also hate. "Tee hee, it's funny to be stupid!" Yes, honey, keep "acting." In the meantime, hunky Nick can find himself a nice Ohio girl, like he should have in the first place.

Rounding out the top 10:
• Mary-Kate Olsen. OK, yeah, she always looks like a bag lady, but she's so little and tiny and frail and you can just put her and her little ragged dresses into your pocket and carry her around with you. And then you can pet her and feed her and love your little pet named Mary-Kate, the poor little moppet.

• Anna Nicole Smith. I call shenannigans...did Blackwell even see her this year? 'Cause no one else did.

• Eva Longoria. I don't really get this one, plus I actually like her. I think she is completely adorable, albeit completely overexposed. I think he just chose her because it's easy and he picked Nicolette Sheridan last year.

• Paris. Again, too easy.

• Lohan. I don't even know what kind of clothes she wears, because her hair is always completely perfect, but something else about her came out today that completely bugs me and it doesn't have anything to do with fashion. She's now claiming that Vanity Fair misconstrued comments she made about drug use and eating disorders in the article they did on her this month. Get over yourself, Lohan. Like anyone would believe either one of those things weren't true. And like any self-respecting professional journalist (especially for a reputable mag like VF) would inverview a star without recording it. Even Michael Jackson couldn't sue Vanity Fair about the article they did on him. Quit blaming journalists and live up to your mistakes, bitch.

• Renee Zellweger. I don't really get this, either. I don't really have an opinion on her, and I certainly don't have an opinion on her fashion choices. All I know about her from this year is that she married that country guy for a few weeks. And that she needs to eat a few sandwiches.

• Mariah. Give the girl a break. She's crazy.

• Shakira. I don't know much about her outifts, but I DO know is that I wish I had that bod.

Um, yeah, and Blackwell? WHERE ARE THE MEN?? Any one of these people could have easily been replaced by Federline.