Sorority Girls from HELL!!

My new favorite thing ever (thanks, Jason!):


The fish without a bicycle, Part 1

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

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. 



Check it out, kids! I'm back with a new(-ish) look for Stupid & Contagious and some kickass new posts, which I will put up this week!  

Thanks for not giving up on me. I'm lazy and I suck. I promise it will be worth the wait.


I'm still here

Stupid & Contagious HQ is in the process of being moved to bigger and better media complex, thus I have been out of pocket and will be for another week or so. 

But never fear, as I will be back very soon with more bitching about a myriad of topics of interest to maybe two people.

In the meantime, keep it real, bitches.


Rest in peace, Random Hero

Purveyor of the greatest prank and line ("Well, how'd a car toy get...there?") in Jackass history. This is just terribly sad.


The most annoying video of all time

Yes, it involves Paltrow. I'm sorry! But remember when I blogged a couple posts ago about the world's most annoying dinner party, which also involved Gwynnie? And how that story showed those of us outside of Hamptons social circles that Jerry Seinfeld's wife Jessica might be even more haughty, entitled and shitty than Gwyneth? Well, here's video proof. Take a listen and then we'll dissect.

Once you get past the embarrassing fake British accent moments and Gwynnie's mention of a three-way with Jessica and Jerry, there are a few items of note here. One being that Gwyn is the least annoying person in this video. And Jerry looks like he wants to kill himself through the whole thing. 

• Here are some of the words Jessica uses to describe Gwyneth's cookbook and the profound nuggets of wisdom within: "drop dead gorgeous", "precious", "genius" and "incredible" about five times. She also describes roasted tomatoes as "revolutionary." Hey, Jessica, guess what: here in Ohio, we sometimes GROW OUR OWN TOMATOES. Can you believe it?? And we pick them and roast them, too! And you know what else? We have miles and miles of fields just covered with CORN. And we roast that, too, sometimes! I know, it's hard to believe. And get this: one time, my uncle grew PEANUTS. In the ground. And when we dug them up and roasted them, it was better than revolutionary. It was like a miracle had occurred.

• Speaking of making a big deal out of little shit, Jessica won't shut up about how Gwynnie is so "engaged with her kids and her friends" and with her pretentious wine glass while she's cooking and "that's a sign of someone so natural in the kitchen." Well if you're impressed by that, this will blow your mind: I can talk on the phone while I'm guzzling wine and waiting for my Spaghetti-Os to warm up. I'm awesome! Can I have a book deal?

• Jessica has a really pointy, ferret-like face and her haircut makes it look even pointier and more ferret-like. She needs a gay hairdresser immediately. 

• Also, what the fuck is she wearing? It's like someone took some '70s-era burnout's van with a galaxy and wizard airbrushed on the side and turned it into a sweater. (And if that's where the pattern really came from, I kind of want one! Do they come in "Old Indian Chief," "Field of Horses" or "Desert Scene"?)

• While we're on the subject of clothes, Seinfeld makes $87 million a year and he still dresses like he did on the show. He's wearing a sweater here, but underneath, you can see that ever-present button down and I bet if you look under the table, he's wearing stonewashed dad jeans and white sneakers. He should be dressing like Don Magic Juan with that kind of money. At least pick up some gold fronts.

• Jerry points out the photo of Gwynnie and her dad on the back of the cookbook and saya she has a "light coming through" in that picture just like she does now and gestures to the picture on the front of the book. That's called Photoshop, Seinfeld. You could give Kim Jong-Il a "pure, happy face" using Photoshop. It's a miracle product.

• Jessica just talks and talks and talks (or tawks and tawks and tawks) about nothing. Just like her husband's show! She throws in a couple of big words to sound smart, but the woman is dumb as a fucking rock and WILL NOT SHUT UP. God, shut up already! I'd rather hear Paltrow talk, if that tells you anything.

• Now after all that yammering, my favorite part of the video features silence. Check out 3:10. Jess starts squawking about the macrobiotic diet and how the plebes don't know what that is and Jerry comments, "I don't!" You'd think he just told everyone he made out during Schindler's List because we get the world's most awkward beat of silence and this exchange:

Uh-oh! Someone's sleeping in one of the 14 spare bedrooms tonight! What does that look mean?? We can only gleefully speculate. He looks utterly terrified! 

Then there's another moment. At 5:54, Jerry starts paging through the cookbook and muses, "I love food pictures!" Reaction:

Jessica's thinking, "When the camera shuts off, I'm going to slap the shit out of you, you giant meandering boob." Gwynnie, meanwhile, is still thinking about that three-way.

• Later, at 8:27, Gwyneth does the most uncouth maneuver we've ever seen from her anemic ass. She take a big honking, cruncheriffic bite of a piece of volcanic rock or something. What the fuck is that? It was like that old SNL Quarry Cereal fake commercial. I mean, I guess rocks are natural so it probably fits into Gwyn's everything-free diet.

So at the end, Jessica has a Final Thought to share with viewers, and that is to take a moment to pick up a copy of this incredible cookbook because you'll learn a lot about a special, incredible person everyone on earth deserves to know. Take that back, Jess! Only lucky people get to know the likes of you and Gwyneth. Extravagant people. Luxurious people. People who can gnaw on something crunchy like a great dane ripping into a rawhide bone and not be given the side-eye.

I'm sorry I had to cover this today. I hope I didn't ruin your evening!


How do you screw up a documentary called Nazi Pop Twins?

Not as awesome as you
might think.
When I discovered that there existed in the world a documentary about our favorite racist imps Lynx and Lamb Gaede, I nearly wet myself with excitement. 

And when I discovered said documentary was entitled Nazi Pop Twins, I did wet myself and nearly soiled myself, too. Imagine: a full hour of embarrassing caterwauling from the twins' band Prussian Blue and whining about persecution from white power stage mom April.

Well, I finally watched what should have been cinema gold. It was kind of a let-down. Let me recap and you can see for yourself (spoiler alert!).

The movie kicks off with a little introduction to the Gaedes. One of the twins is shown saying, "Blacks have the more tendency [sic] to rape people" and April is filmed reading the ABCs with her (admittedly adorable) youngest child Dresden (yes, really). Of course, with April, A stands for Aryan and B stands for Blood. At least it won't be difficult to find an example word for X in April's alphabet.

Next we have the pleasure of meeting April's dad, Bill, who looks like he might be the black sheep sibling of Santa Claus  and is wearing suspenders over a t-shirt. Bill is shown buying an M-16 military assault rifle, which I'm sure is illegal. He claims Mexicans had sex with his mare (he says he's personally shot six "muds") and marks his cattle with swastika brands. You can practically smell the flop sweat, Copenhagen and wolf piss through the screen.

April holds up one of the infamous Hitler smiley-face baby tees Lynx and Lamb were photographed wearing years ago and says she doesn't understand why people didn't think they were "hysterically funny." April is practically giddy talking about all the media attention the t-shirts and the girls got. She's a gigantic sloppy frump, but she swears she's not living vicariously through her kids.

At the radio interview, the girls look to April for cues on how to answer the DJ's questions before saying things like "illegals act nasty and they don't throw their toilet paper in the toilet." I've got news for you, girls: that's a universal issue. Based on the bathrooms I've been in lately, it seems like hipsters in particular have the same problem.

Soon, we start to see the tiny cracks that are forming in the little white utopia April seems to think she's created for her family. Lynx and Lamb are actually much more normal than I expected, and when they think April is asleep, they share their reservations about their white power lifestyle with the filmmakers. Hmmm, now this is starting to get good!

Actually, now it starts to get really, really ooky. The girls are shown talking on the phone with their pen pal David Lane, a white nationalist leader who is serving a 190-year prison sentence (you read that right) for killing a Jewish radio show host. Just the kind of guy you'd want your teenage daughters befriending, right? It quickly becomes evident that April has managed to score some kind of esteem with David by pimping out the girls to him. Over the phone, David says "I better be careful what I say, but right away I thought of Lynx and Lamb and their blue eyes. They were like daughters, fantasy sweethearts." Oh god, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, yucky, icky, shower, shower, shower! Bleeechhhh! When April hands Dresden the phone to say hi, I vomited on the TV and had to go by a new one to finish watching the movie. Luckily, David Lane is now dead, so the girls are safe from at least one letch for the time being.

Next up, we're treated to a "branding party" at Bill Gaede's ranch and this is where everything really starts to go south. April is policing the filmmakers and making it very clear they shouldn't speak to her mother, Dianne. When they get Dianne alone, it's clear why. She says, "All because if this goddamn nazi shit, it's just fucking ruined my life. It really fucks you up. We've lived here 30 years and I don't have a single friend because he's so hateful. My kids are just torn apart by it. Not April—she loves it." Awesome! I love grannies who cuss!

Tensions are reaching a fever pitch all around. While having lunch at a cafe, April starts yammering about her "vision" for the girls' next music video, but Lynx and Lamb are in no mood to be managed. "A lot of people think we're a bunch of psychos!" one whines. "We want to take a break!" April opines that the new music isn't pushing the nazi agenda. Who does she think she is...Stacey Keach?

Anyway, a bomb is dropped. Bill reveals that April was once attacked and almost raped by a black man. This was back when she had big dreams of becoming a rodeo commentator. The truth comes out! Luckily, Dianne has higher hopes and bigger plans for Lynx and Lamb. She interviews that she and the twins have made a plan that when they turn 18, they'll get a car and all go up the California coast together and look for a place to live. Shit, this is really sad! Dianne says she wouldn't put it past her husband to kill her. Cripes! Let's all band together to save Dianne!

At this point, it's evident that April and Bill are completely nuts and grandma and the girls are living under an iron thumb and they want to crawl out. If the filmmakers would have run with this storyline, the doc would have been a winner. But instead, much like the SVU squad, they start getting too close to the case, as you'll soon see.

Lynx and Lamb are performing their new songs in a bar and they're pretty bad, but they're singing the material that isn't pushing the white power agenda and are pretty warmly received by the crowd. April starts going around the bar passing out Prussian Blue CDs. Then she starts saying things like, "'The Stranger' is about wanting to be around your own people," and the patrons start to see what's going on. With "Paul Revere" thumping in the background, the Gaedes are kicked out of the bar. April screams that people are intolerant and the girls scream at her to shut up. "The media is so biased about white pride, people—even rednecks in a bar—are scared shitless," April foams. "They've castrated the white race." Lynx and Lamb are clearly embarrassed. And I'm suddenly reminded of how RockitPop always yelled, "Meet me in the Sears hardware section at 1 p.m. or I'm coming to find you!" in front of everyone at the mall. It was really embarrassing and sort of like this. Only not racist.

So, say you're a white power stage mom and your two blonde, teenage meal tickets are starting to think you're a big douchey weirdo and are pulling away from you, thus potentially crushing your dreams of being famous like David Duke. What do you do? Why, what anyone in any classic abusive relationship would do, of course: move to Montana!

Six months after the bar debacle, that's exactly what April did. But it wasn't a quiet transition; local news caught wind that the infamous Gaedes were moving to their small town and protesters came out in full force. April bitches that people went door to door warning that nazis were in the neighborhood. The FBI got involved because people were making death threats against the family. 

Of course, instead of just keeping her mouth shut for once, April uses the community backlash as a chance to showcase herself as a martyr again. It's April versus the Big Sky State now! And the more the twins pull away, the more April tries to make Prussian Blue happen. She shows off all the merchandise she's had printed up: Prussian Blue mugs, mousepads with Dresden's picture on them (um, ew!), white pride rubber bracelets. And, like any self-respecting enemy of the people, she starts broadcasting a whiny radio show from her home. 

Meanwhile, Lynx and Lamb are really starting to go sideways. One even says, "I'm not a white nationalist. The whole issue made me smarter and think about stuff more before you say it and do it." The even discuss a Martin Luther King Day project they did at school that made them feel guilty about their home lives.

April forces the girls to autograph Prussian Blue posters and they are vehemently resisting. "Put on a happy face and be nice," April blasts. "Then you can act like as much of a cunt as you want for the rest of the night!" Jeez, testy! And I hate to say it, but I'm actually starting to like the twins!

April starts to blame the documentary crew for putting ideas in the girls' heads and causing them to lash out at her. "You're such a self-hating white person," she yells at the filmmakers. "You suffer from white guilt. You're very manipulative with that fake British accent!" 

This could be the best part of the movie. But instead, it all falls to shit when the director starts sniping back at April. "The more people that hate you, the happier you seem to be," he says in his fake British accent. Now they are all fighting and yelling at each other.Take a time out, Detective Stabler! Too close to the case!! But now, the twins are crying about the Hitler t-shirts, saying they thought it was a joke at the time, but they threw them away and never wore them again. 

Back in California, more chaos is erupting. Bill Gaede confronts Dianne about her interviews and she screams that YES she told them how she felt and, goddamn it, she really enjoyed it! Bill says semi-threateningly to the camera, "I hope you guys don't try to destroy us so you can get a decent little story." Bill and Dianne continue their shouting match in the driveway, and then...


Yep, that's it. April and Bill refuse to let the film crew back for anymore interviews. We come to find out later that April's husband (Dresden's dad and the twins' stepfather) left her during the filming of the documentary. Certainly he didn't want to be part of the project, because he's nowhere to be seen or even mentioned. The twins' father has come out against the racist ideologies April spews, and it appears that the girls, now legal adults, have taken their father's last name and are living apart from April. Filmmakers, can we now get a follow-up, since the girls can make up their own minds about what they want to do? It might make up for the slappy fight that put an end to the original story. 

I found a somewhat recent article that says Lynx and Lamb are now into Buddhism and TM. I'll keep an eye out and see if these two pop up online anywhere, because it might be interesting (and heartening) to see what they're up to now that they don't have to report to psycho April anymore. Maybe they really are living on the coast in a secret location with Grandma Dianne! 

Anyway, maybe I'm being too hard on the documentary. What do you think? Check it out for yourself (for free!) right here, bitches.


Eat the rich

Have you ever wanted to
kick a cartoon's ass?
I really, really, really, really don't want to write about Gwyneth again. But what Gwynnie wants, Gwynnie gets. And she obviously wants me to keep writing about her because she keeps topping herself with stupider and stupider shit.

So with that we have another edition of lifestyles of privileged and assy, starring GP and her famous friends. ld;skfhjkhnmdjfhklwejn...oh, sorry, I just vomited and passed out for a minute on my keyboard. Get ready to do the same.

You may have seen our pretty, pretty princess in the news a lot lately. That's because she's bestowed more of her valuable Secrets to Life upon us vassals in the form of a cookbook entitled My Father's Daughter: Delicious, Easy Recipes Celebrating Family & Togetherness. "In the last 10 years or so, cooking has become my main ancillary passion in life," she gushes in the introduction. Annoying us all by way of GOOP isn't enough for this woman. No, she must come at us from all angles: the television, the movie screen, the computer, Books-A-Million... she won't be satisfied until we see her in our sleep like a specter or incubus cackling manically and quoting Shakespeare. 

The New Yorker's recent profile of GOOPy will give you a little glimpse of what that nightmare might look like (Come to think of it, she should divorce Chris and marry Eustace Tilley, that cartoon prick that serves as The New Yorker's mascot. They could polish their monocles, eat Italian truffles and sniff haughtily about the gauche bourgeoisie.)
It’s tough for some people to accept Gwyneth Paltrow’s transformation from movie star to domestic goddess. Something about the combination of her willowy looks, her glam life style (she is married to Chris Martin, the Coldplay front man), and the unlikely food tips in her e-mail newsletter, Goop—“I was stationed at the deep fat fryer (Delight! Fried zucchini! Fried anchovies!)”—produces cognitive dissonance. 
OK, I already want to begin slowly sawing away at my eyelids with a cheese grater. Being married to Chris Martin, the Coldplay front man, makes her glam? That's like saying soysage is glam. 

Paltrow, who was hosting a dinner party to celebrate her publication, was not yet drinking, but she had a glow.... Dinner guests included people who do know her: Jay-Z, Cameron Diaz, Alex Rodriguez, the Seinfelds, and assorted food-world worthies. Most guests saw nothing unusual about getting cooking advice from a stick-thin actress; in fact, many said that they associated Gwyneth Paltrow with food. Mario Batali, in pink cargo shorts, was talking to Ruth Reichl. “She eats like a truck driver,” he said of Paltrow. He recalled being in Valencia, Spain, and “watching her eat an entire pan of paella as big as a manhole cover.” Michael Stipe added, “Once, a duck she was cooking caught fire, and she threw it in the pool.”
Oh, pa-hahahahahaha! Michael Stipe, do tell us again about the time Gwyneth tossed the flaming duck into the pool! Muffy, Wilhelm, you realllllly must hear this delightful story! I could hear it a thousand times and still laugh and laugh!

Seriously, can you imagine anything worse than being at a party with Mario Batali in pink cargo shorts and Michael Stipe telling some "amusing" anecdote about a Gwyneth Paltrow and a flaming duck? I mean, I want to think of something funny that could be worse, but I can't. That is as bad as it gets. That can't even be called a party; it's Dante's purgatory. 

Oh, wait a minute...it can get worse. God help us.

Christy Turlington looked on. “We are lucky in that we have been the recipients of many meals with Gwyneth Paltrow,” she said, and mentioned a stuffed-lobster dish that Paltrow and Martin had served in Amagansett. “They do everything themselves, including the killing of the lobster,” she said. “It’s not the boiling-in-the-pot-and-screaming lobster thing. It’s a different, faster approach. I could never do it.”
Was there ever a more perfect time for a recreation of Waco? 
A financier at the party said that he associated Paltrow with scungilli: “My family and I were conch-diving down in the Bahamas. They’d cook the conch right there on the beach. And they had a TV in the little hut there, and that’s where I watched the Oscars this year.” 
Readers, I could start railing about how people are starving in the world, how people in Japan are struggling to pull their lives back together, how just 60 cents a day could buy condensed milk for an entire village. But you don't need me to appeal to your sense of compassion to realize these entitled, self-important tallywhackers need to take their conch-diving and little beach huts with TVs and go fuck themselves. God!
At 9 p.m., the guests went out to a pair of long tables on the terrace. Diaz, A-Rod, and Batali sat near Chris Martin, who had arrived looking cranky. (A publicist warned, “He doesn’t want to talk.”) Paltrow sat a few seats away, flanked by Jerry Seinfeld and Jay-Z. (The next day, she and the rapper posted reciprocal interviews on their websites. Paltrow: “I could sing to you every single word of N.W.A’s ‘Fuck tha Police.’ ”) 
This is another portion of the story that intends to make us all think Gwynnie is cool and hip. She's down with N.W.A. and Jay-Z. Are they really fooling anybody here? Cripes, if Jay-Z had any kind of street cred left (hint: he doesn't, but let's pretend), it all went bye-bye when (a.) he dined with Seinfeld at Gwyneth's, and (b.) he interviewed Gwyneth on his website. 

And Chris Martin cranky? I don't believe it! I thought that frosty, ostentatious demeanor was all just part of his big, rich rock star persona and he's really a happy-go-lucky guy.

Just kidding. Chris Martin is a total dick.
Paltrow announced the menu: roasted red peppers with anchovies, escarole salad, pasta with duck ragout. Jessica Seinfeld made a toast: “There is no one who is more comfortable or more capable in the kitchen, naturally, than you,” she said to Paltrow. “I don’t know how you do it.” She turned to the assembled guests. “And you are all so lucky to be part of Gwyneth’s world. Because this is the real deal. And she’s invited all of you good people in here. I would never do that.”
Um, haha? Guests, Jessica Seinfeld just said would never have all you filthy animals dropping your cooties all over her kitchen like Gwyneth does. Is it possible there is someone at this meeting of the minds who is more priggish than the hostess? Ooh, maybe I should start blogging about little Jessi S. 

Despite what Mrs. Seinfeld says, not everyone at the monster's ball felt lucky to be a part of Gwyneth's world.
Wendi Murdoch, sitting nearby, had said that she is a reader of Paltrow’s blog: “Only one thing comes to mind—healthy and organic.” She listed her favorite recipes: “Pumpkin soup, grilled market vegetables. It’s good. I get my chef to cook it.” 
“But you’re directing the chef,” Kelly Behun, a friend of Murdoch’s, interjected. Behun, an interior designer, was the only guest who didn’t have a Paltrow-related food memory. 
“Gwyneth?” she said. “When I see her, I don’t think of food.”
OK, I don't throw around the C-word too much, but it really is the only appropriate description here. This party has officially made the Guiness Book for having the largest gathering of cunts per capita in the world. Congratulations! Ug, what a bunch of vapid snobs! It's like the rich kids in an John Hughes movie, but real. They may as well be carrying opera glasses and discussing junk bonds. 

What would have made this story better is if the duck caught on fire again, except this time Gwynnie throws it on Michael Stipe. Because of all the acrylic hair, the fire spreads quickly. And then the sprinkler system comes on, but it malfunctions and showers everyone with electricity. And then Eazy E's ghost drives by in an Impala and sprays the whole group with AK-47 bullets and they all die screaming in a pile of linen, summer-weight cashmere and burnt anchovies.

God, I'm so annoyed by this article. I think I'm having an aneurysm. sdf;lkj;eklrmn,n;glkad;m


Pretty hate machine

Due to a recurring midlife crisis, posting around here has been scant. Did anyone even notice? If you did, please indicate this in the comments. I need validation.

Anyhoo, in between watching SVU episodes I've seen 50 times already (but no Michael Pitt episode! Why don't they ever rerun that one?), drinking and brooding, I've spent a lot of my valuable free time surfing the web. This activity has opened up a whole new world of feeling inadequate. I hate it when other bloggers think of funny things to write about before I do. We all know that hasn't kept me from stealing ideas before, but I have this ongoing dream of being a blog topic pioneer. Let's be realistic: nothing is original anymore. So I say fuck it.

I'm going to steal today's subject from the blog I'm the most jealous of this week: You Just Made My List. Wanna know what I did last weekend? Read this website. Every single post. And alternated laughing my head off and turning Hulk green with insane jealousy. Why haven't I thought to write about my abject hatred for comedy troupe photos? Every week, the C-bus free papers run ads for the city's most prolific "performance troupe." I was under the impression that this group only did screwball comedy routines, because every ad and billboard features ak-toors in goofy costumes hanging all over each other and making wacky faces. I guess these ads are supposed to make me laugh or want to come and see their performance, but really just make me want to swallow battery acid. It's like those obnoxious theater kids in high school who were always "on," only they stayed that way into adulthood. And they're still far less funny than they think they are.

So anyway, I thought I'd list a few things I hate, in honor of You Just Made My List.

The teaser links on Yahoo! homepage stories
The following appeared on Yahoo! today:

Big-name actor cast as John Gotti 
An Italian-American star is set to
play the Dapper Don in a film about his
family's troubles > Gotti Jr. approves

I can't explain it, but that three-word teaser text line at the very end completely enrages me. There are only three lines of description text here. Why not just add three more words into the text and make the headline the only link? Oh wait, I know why: because people are stupid and they might not realize the headline is the link! Plus, the lowest common denominator can only digest sentences of 15 words or less before their heads explode. (In case you're wondering, Travolta is playing Gotti, which is totally hilarious.)

Here's another example from this week:
Chatty twin babies become Web sensations
These two brothers carry on an excited
conversation—but only they know what it's
about. > Watch their hand gestures

First of all, I made it through about five seconds of that video before wanting to rip my toenails out. The "excited conversation" consists of the babies looking at each other and babbling incoherently. Babies talk to mirrors. And the "hand gestures" Yahoo! is trying to lure us in with consists of a kid holding a hand out and sometimes flapping it. Not cute, not funny, NOT WORTH WASTING THREE-QUARTERS OF A LINE OF TEXT FOR.

What's even worse is when the teaser link text lures me into the story. How can I not click when they taunt me with "See her bad hair" or "Cat duet?" Fuckers.

People who use astrology to explain shitty behavior
"Scorpios are feisty and tell it like it is!" Translation: I insult everyone I come in contact with under the guise of "keeping it real." Get it? They're scorpions! Geminis are moody—they have two sides, like Jekyll and Hyde! Capricorns are controlling—because goats are assholes! Leos have self-control issues! So it's not really their fault when they murder your whole family and made wind chimes out of their bones!

Using "ask" as a noun
Fellow corporate whores, back me up on this. Ask is not a fucking noun. Ask is a verb. You don't have an "ask," you have a question. And when you say you have an ask, I have a sudden urge to broadside you with Merriam-Webster's 11th edition (it's heavier than the 10th).

The Real Housewives' children's names
There's no question that everyone who has ever appeared on any incarnation of this show is about as stable an escaped mental patient. So it's really not surprising that people who think they're better than everyone else would name their kids things like Capri, London, Kairo, François, Kennedy, Mason (girl), Brielle, Ryley (boy) and Colton. But who am I to talk? My kids are named Constantinople Djibouti, Millard Fillmore and Lynyrd Madysyn Skynyrd. And they're all girls.

Cigar Aficionado
Why, hello there! I was just polishing my dinosaur egg and didn't see you come in! Pleased to meet you. I'm the editor of an obscure little digest I like to call Cigar Aficionado. Ha ha, just kidding—it's not obscure. Everyone knows CigAf! Every two months, our cover features an A-list celeb (and Jim Belushi for some reason) with a just-barely-lit cigar poised lovingly between the first and middle finger, Photoshopped smoke curling around the smarmiest expression they can possibly muster. Inside, you'll find titillating prose on such topics as truffle hunting in Piedmont, cashmere socks and silver humidors. If you'd like a subscription, we ask that you make it on your black card so we know you're worthy of reading our journal of sophistication. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go count my Astin Martins. Ta-ta! (Actually, I have no idea if this magazine is really as pretentious as it looks. All I know is the sight of it makes me want to push the magazine racks at Barnes & Noble until they fall like so many dominoes.)

Nerdy teens asking for dates via video
There's an onslaught of these lately and I blame Glee. Has this happened on Glee? I've never seen it. Anyway, why does everyone fawn all over these things? They're creepy! Hi, I'm going to sing an original song I wrote for you to ask you to prom—and I'm videotaping it in the hopes it will go viral and I can go on Good Morning America. You can come, too, and sit next to me looking really uncomfortable. You couldn't say no unless you want to be harassed by bloodthirsty strangers online! Strongarming at its best. People, stop rewarding this behavior, unless you really, really want to see a rise in school shootings.

Blogger's new web editor
Wondering why the layout of this post looks particularly shitty today? It's because I had to redo it about 10 times because of Blogger's stupid fucking new, "improved" web editor. WYSIWYG, my ass. What I see is NOT what I get! There are huge gaps between each paragraph. I wanted the text to be white, not HIGHLIGHTED! The Cigar Aficionado header kept disappearing. When I looked in the HTML, there were about 900 spaces randomly showing up. I hope you like that picture—it took about two fucking hours to place it. I hate you, new Blogger. I hate you and your ass face!


Not recommended for a drunken rampage

Funniest Amazon review ever.
JL421 Badonkadonk Land Cruiser/Tank
If I had it to do over again, I'd leave my insurance settlement money under my matress a while longer instead of spendin it on one of these things. A Badonkadonk ... more like a Badonkajunk.

I bought one of these Donks 'cause I thought the cops wouldn't hastle me in it. Since it aint road legal I figured it wouldn't matter that I don't got a driver's license anymore (It's that kinda "outa the box" thinkin that's got me where I am in life). I figured when the cops said "Billy, you know you aint supposed to be drivin a car anymore" I could say "I aint drivin a car, I'm drivin a Donk" and then crank up "Freebird" on my 400 Watt stereo as I lay down a thick patch of rubber with the 6hp fire-breathin power plant and maybe let out a rebel yell as I go up on 2 wheels and squeeze between the 2 squad cars they had set up as a road block. Then when they pulled out their guns and tried to stop me the bullets would just rikoshay off my trusty Donk as I glance matter-of-factly into the rear view mirror and flick the ash off my Marlboro in symbolic contempt of the agressors what I had just thwarted.

Nothin was further from the truth though: I had just stayed late over at my sister trailer and was fixin to head back across the court to my trailer. I will admit that I had been drinkin, but her trailer was just a few loops over from mine and it was after 3AM so I figured I weren't gonna hurt nobody, especially in the old "Donk". As chance would have it, I just happened to be wearing various article of my sister's clothing and started to recognize the familiar smell of MacDonnald french fries. As I turned the corner into my own loop, the smell was unmistakable ... as was the conclusion that I deducticated in my mind ... my sister had been gettin cozy with that retard Lucas Tubbs who works the MacDonnald's drive through.

Well, I have to tell you I became engorged with rage! I whipped the old Donker around and started headin for MacDonnalds to show ol' Tubbs what I thought of him sneakin around my sis. I only made it as far as the trailer park entrance though, cause I got high-centered on the speed bump there. Folks tell me that I crawled on top of the Donkster and started yellin obsenities at that point, but to be honest I don't recall that part. It must have been true though because the police showed up very quickly. When I saw the squad car, I scurried back into the Donk, locked the hatch, started up the engine, and floored it! It was the right thing to do because, in their vain effort to extracticate me from my vehicular conveyance, the cops jumped on the roof of the Donk tipping the balance just far enough that the wheels grabbed hold and I was able to get off of the speed bump. Hot pursuit was on!

The cops' squad car must have malfunctioned because the officers proceded to pursue me on foot. By the time I got to Main Street I had a comfortable lead on them. I turned South, as that was the proper mode of direction to arrive at the MacDonnalds. At that point my drunken rage peaked and I knew what I had to do to save my families honor: I was gonna crash my tank into the MacDonnalds drive through! I rev'ed up the engine and floored it! As I got closer and closer, I could see ol' 'tardy Tubbs' face paint a life-size portrait of confusion on a tattered canvas of fear and surprise. I thought to myself "All will be made right again" as I flew by the intercom, scraping sparks of anger and bitterness as I careened past. I was overjoyed to see that, even though he had plenty of time to see me coming and move out of the way, ol' 'tardy Tubbs was still in my direct line-of-flight. I braced for impact as the Donk hit the order window plexiglass, bounced off, and rolled over on its side. I must have hit my head on the pivoting control stick because I blacked out momentarily. I awoke to the sound of my tiny wheels spinning madly at 40 miles per hour. With my battle tank inoperable, my hopes of even slightly inconveniencing Lucas Tubbs dashed, and my sister's fine clothes soiled with sweat and blood, I had no choice left but to piss myself and start flailing my arms and legs madly.

The police that had been pursuing me arrived moments later. I do not agree with their assessment that I was a danger to myself and others, but I don't recall that part of the evenning very well so I can't say for sure. Either way, I don't think the use of the Tazer was justified. However, I now have lawsuits outstanding against MacDonnalds for faulty drive through design, the manufacturer of the Tazer, and the local police. One of these suits needs to pay out to replace the money from the insurance settlement and pay the court mandated restitution to MacDonnalds and the local police. 

In the end, I blame all my problems on the Donk. I hope they have good insurance. I'm comin for them next. 


Happy Norwegian Black Metal Day!

We're waiting for you at home. 


Love, Immortal


Who has the tougher day: Gwyneth Paltrow or the Dukes?

That pasty, elitist bag-of-wank Paltrow is at it again in her latest STOOP newsletter. This time she's caused a bit of an uproar in the blogosphere for a recent write-up on "finding a good balance between having a career and being a mom." I think you can probably guess where this one goes. Yep, more oblivious rumination on how difficult it is to manage two-hour workouts, an army of assistants, dress fittings and eating lettuce leaves (organic only!)...all with two pretentiously-named kids in the other room with the nanny.

I can just imagine what a day in the life of Chez Paltrow is like. Can't you just see her tooting on a little whistle like the Captain in The Sound of Music and the children (and Chris) tripping down the stairs to line up for "inspection"? She'd primly inspect their school uniforms for wrinkles, check behind their ears and then force a sheepish Apple to spit a covert wad of chewing gum into her hand. After pausing to ratchet up the tension, she'd declare, "All right, off, off with you. Don't be late for the driver to take you to school," then turn to the housekeeper and huff, "Lupe, when I return from chakra balance power pilates, I expect the pantry to be perfectly appointed with all labels facing FRONT. Make that mistake again, and the heat in the servants' quarters will be turned off again." Then, she'd spin on her heel and make her grand exit.

Who does this bitch think she is? It's not like she spends her days dodging cops, greedy bankers and criminals in black sedans. She doesn't have a ridge-runnin' past she needs to live down every day of her life. Not only that, she never has to pause mid-activity for the voice of Waylon Jennings to narrate what kind of trouble she's gotten herself into now. That's right: life in the whimsically chaotic world of Gwyneth Patrow doesn't hold a candle to the day in the rip-roarin', rum-runnin' life of one of those Hazzard County Duke boys. Let's just take a sneak peek for a little compare-and-contrast. Note: I copied the Gwynnie portions directly from her stupid newsletter, so the atrocious grammar, punctuation errors and sentence fragments are all her (thanks, Spence!).

Gwynnie: Got Apple all fed and dressed in her uniform and ready to go but no sign nor sight of Moses at 8 am and we have to be out of the house by 8:20. I went up to arouse the little man from slumber and he quite happily got up and crawled into my arms. We got downstairs and I made him a quick breakfast of eggs and toast followed by a spoonful of lemon flavored flax oil that I try to remember to give them both every morning.

Bo & Luke: After a breakfast of bacon, eggs, grits, hash, biscuits, pancakes, sausage, gravy and syrup, the boys prepare for a day of driving around in the General Lee. Unfortunately, they're almost immediately caught speeding by Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane. The boys kick up some dust and finally lose Roscoe's tail by jumping over a semi carrying a load of outhouses. (Roscoe also made the jump, but didn't miss the outhouses).

Gwynnie: I dodged off as fast as possible but was still late to the 9 am workout. Did dance aerobics for 45 minutes then all of the butt lifts and the like. Rushed upstairs to have a shower, doing my post workout stretch while the conditioner was doing its magic on my hair to combine activities/save time.

Bo & Luke: It's hotter than a red-assed bee in Hazzard, and that jump got the ol' General Lee overheated. The boys pull off to Hazzard Pond to get some water to cool the engine. Luke takes a cool drink from the pond, completely oblivious to the fact that scientific researchers just accidentally dropped a genetic serum that makes good genes go bad into the pond. Bo is confused when Luke suddenly starts acting like an asshole.

Gwynnie: On a less manic day, this would be my couple of hours in the office to work on GOOP, come up with ideas, write/edit and go over scheduling, travel, whatever else I have going but I have no time so I just pop the old cabeza in to see if there are any deadlines or fires that need putting out. When I am given the all clear I rush out the door, headed to rehearse with a band to prepare for the Country Music Awards which are just a week away. 

Bo & Luke: The boys meet Daisy, Enos and the Petticord sisters (Maybelle and Ruby) at the Boars Nest for the annual Hazzard Hayride. The gang loads up on the wagon and prepares for some fun. Suddenly, Boss Hogg drives up in his convertible with bullhorns on the hood and blows his horn, which spooks the horses who take off runnin'. Bo and Luke spring into action! Bo climbs into the wagon's driver seat and Luke jumps on the back of a one of the horses. The boys manage to stop the wild stallions seconds before they—and the wagon—careen over Hazzard Cliff.

Gwynnie: Had to do my vocal exercises/warmups in the car, sooo not a good look. Fellow drivers looked on a bit bewildered. Rehearsed with the band from 11:30 to 12:30 and then scooted back out to the car and had kind of a big interview on the phone while trying to subtly check/reply to well-overdue email. 

Bo & Luke: The gang returns to the Boars Nest just in time to rescue Loretta Lynn, who was taking a detour through Hazzard and was kidnapped and held for ransom by a jealous jug band. Meanwhile, two con artists smuggle fake gold bars into Hazzard and store them in Boss Hogg's bank and cook up a scheme to frame Bo and Luke. Also, Daisy gets stuck in quicksand in her high heels. 

Gwynnie: Got home and had a fitting with super stylist Elizabeth Saltzman for the upcoming Nashville trip (what to wear, what to wear?) from 1-2. This is my 4th out of 5 fittings for this trip. We tried on a myriad of dresses and outfits, and I had b.o. by the end of it from wrestling with all of those dresses. I have six looks I need to choose for the trip; there’s the radio press conference upon arrival, the red carpet for the Country Strong premier, press interviews, a Sony Music VIP dinner, the red carpet for the CMA’s and the outfit for my performance! We manage to finalize all of the looks for the (very nerve wracking) trip.

Bo & Luke: Boss Hogg announces he's foreclosing on Uncle Jesse's farm, so the boys race home to organize a charity demolition derby and just happen to run into The Oak Ridge Boys on the way. The band plays a quick set in Hazzard Square and raises enough money to save the farm. But Boss Hogg and Roscoe catch up with the Duke boys at the show, arrest them for passing counterfeit gold and throw them in the Hazzard County Jail.

Gwynnie: At 2 pm I head into my office with a nice cup of tea for two hours of phone interviews. I am doing lots of these this week, but today’s session is only two hours. I call country radio station after country radio station speaking to some of the nicest and friendliest DJ’s on the planet. 

Bo & Luke: While Boss Hogg is out enjoying a giant plate of corn dogs at the Boars Nest, the con artists kidnap Hazzard's beloved mechanic Cooter at gunpoint and steal the armored car he's repairing, which also happens to contain the serum that can reverse the effects of the bad gene mixture Luke drank. In the meantime, Bo & Luke make a rope out of their shirts and use it to pull the keys to the jail cell off the wall (carelessly left by Roscoe) and make their escape.

Gwynnie: Thursday is the one day of the week that I do not pick my kids up after school. They go straight to an activity and I am able to really maximize work stuff. I always feel a bit guilty (obviously) about it, but it means I can focus fully on them when they get home instead of trying to do two things at once. At 4pm, my weekly owners' and managers' call takes place for the Tracy Anderson Method with our brilliant CEO Stephanie Stahl taking the lead. I basically listen and try to learn. 

Bo & Luke: Daisy, who saw Cooter's kidnapping, races through the backroads of Hazzard in her Jeep to head off the armored car. She poses by the side of the road in a bikini to distract the con artists just long enough for Cooter to wrestle the gun away from them. Back in Hazzard, Bo & Luke slide over the hood and jump through the window of the General Lee and race out of town to hide out. But suddenly, Daisy breaks in over the CB: "Breaker, breaker, Lost Sheep, this is Bo Peep! I've got the cure for Luke's anger management problems!" Meanwhile, Uncle Jesse hits his head and gets amnesia.

Gwynnie: Kiddies burst through the door and play in my office while I finish up, just drawing and hanging out and of course playing Plants vs Zombies on the iPad, their obsession that I have to limit like crazy! What up, gamers. Then downstairs to make cupcakes for tomorrow’s bake sale. It is ‘Bonfire night’ in the UK tomorrow and the bake sale is to celebrate and to raise money for charity. We decide on vanilla cupcakes with pink icing and green icing (from Tate’s Bakeshopcookbook with the icing from American Desserts cookbook).

Bo & Luke: As the boys race to Daisy, Roscoe pulls out from behind a tree and the chase is on again! "I'll g-g-g-get them Duke boys!" he blazes, as his dog Flash looks on with disinterest. Only Roscoe knows there's a bridge out ahead! But that won't stop the Dukes. Bo blasts right through the blockades, sending construction workers diving out of the way, then jumps the General Lee over the river and lands safely on the other side. Roscoe pulls up the rear and crashes into a pile of hay bales. Don't worry, he's OK! Luckily, Cletus and Enos took a detour to Daisy and Cooter and take the con artists into custody. Meanwhile, Uncle Jesse hits his head again, which cures his amnesia.

Gwynnie: At 6:30 pm we all get in the bath and it’s hair washing night for the kids (every other night—never popular). Then back downstairs to check on cupcakes and have a visit from an auntie and uncle. The kids indulge in a super sugary cupcake before bed but I don’t feel too bad because they had a brown rice stir fry for dinner with baked sweet potato on the side. It’s all about balance! My night to lay with Mosey so I tuck Apple in, say a prayer and go into Mosey's room for a story, foot massage and quiet time. As soon as all was quiet, I rushed downstairs to grab a blazer and some blush and flung myself in the car for girls night. Lovely dinner and great conversation. 11:29 pm now, exhausted and ready to do it all again tomorrow!

Bo & Luke: Luke drinks the nice gene serum and is back to normal within seconds and Cooter announces he's running for Congress. Then the whole gang joins up with their other cousins Coy and Vance and heads over to the Boars Nest to crack open some frosty ones and enjoy an impromptu concert from Tammy Wynnette, who just happened to be passing through town. Everyone's exhausted and ready to do it all again tomorrow! 

So, dear readers, I believe the moral of this blog post is: yahoos from Hazzard County are busier than pompous Hollywood blowhards. Also, you'd be a hell of a lot cooler if you had the voice of Waylon Jennings narrating your every move.