BREAKING (kind of): I'm quoted in The Telegraph!!!!

Check this out, guys: The Telegraph's music critic Neil McCormick has quoted me in one of his columns! And he called my commentary on the use of The Smiths' "How Soon Is Now?" in a Nissan Maxima commercial "rather amusing!!!" How cool is that??

While I'm bummed that I just now discovered this (the column ran in 2011), that is not going to stop me from putting on my Burger King crown with "I'm #1" written on it and parading around my apartment because I am now KING SHIT ("Queen Shit" just doesn't sound epic enough for what I am).

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!

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. 

Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest

Killed by the eastern syndicate.

Awww, looks like someone got rocks in their stocking!


It should come as a surprise to no one that this little dose of holiday fuckery comes to us courtesy of Deadspin. They're not exactly known for spreading cheer, but this evil, evil rant against A Charlie Brown Christmas, aka The Greatest Holiday Tradition Known to Modern Man, is just too much.


Here's what contributor Drew Magary has to say about the Peanuts gang (with, of course, my commentary throughout):

Fuck You, Charlie Brown

I showed my kid the Charlie Brown Christmas special the other day and she was depressed for the rest of the week. Why are we still subjecting kids to this awful shit? 

I blame myself for forcing Charlie Brown on my offspring. I should know better. I've never liked Peanuts. Ever. The only reason I watched any Peanuts holiday special as a child was because they were the only goddamn holiday cartoons that aired. I watched even though I didn't like it, because watching shit was better than watching nothing at all. Charlie Brown ruled by default. But that's not the case anymore. There are thousands of other holiday entertainment options for your children out there now, and very few of them are the animated manifestations of some asshole's clinical depression.

#1: How old are you that A Charlie Brown Christmas was the only holiday cartoon on TV? Assuming that you're somewhere between ages 22 and 40 that means that you were born somewhere after 1970. And if you were old enough to remember watching the special as a kid, we'll say the time frame was around at least 1975. Rudolph, Frosty, Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, the Grinch and the one with the Heat Miser...how could you have possibly have missed the countless other specials? And, if you're at the younger end of the spectrum, there's A Garfield Christmas, A Chipmunk Christmas and the classic Star Wars holiday special. The only explanation is that Drew grew up in a Unibomber-esque woodland cabin with a TV that fuzzed in for one half hour during the holiday season.

#2: If a cartoon depressed your kid for an entire week, your kid has some serious fucking mental issues.

I watched A Charlie Brown Christmas with my kid, and now I openly loathe it. Who thought this was a good idea to show to young children? Charlie Brown is depressed. Lucy is a bossy cunt. Linus is a head case. Peppermint Patty is like a cocktail party guest who corners you and talks to you until you want to slit your throat from ear to ear. Whenever Snoopy talks, he sounds like a cat being raped. No one smiles. Everyone's complaining or arguing. Horrible slow jazz plays in the background. There isn't a semblance of joy in any of these specials, and anyone who tells you they're classics has been fucking BRAINWASHED, just like I was.

This man is cooler than you.

#3: Peppermint Patty wasn't in A Charlie Brown Christmas, moron. God, get your pop culture right.

#4: Using the word "cunt" and mentioning cat rape in a review of a children's show could explain why your child was depressed for a whole week following the viewing.

#5: Drew probably thinks Coldpay is the greatest thing to ever happen to music. It's the only explanation for the diss of Vince Guraldi's classic soundtrack.

I was all excited to show my kid this special, because I watched it when I was a kid and I'm a selfish asshole so I wanted my kid to watch it and like it and be like me. Then I turned it on and I was like, "Wait! I fucking hate this shit." Then the show ended and my kid was like, "I didn't like that show." Then she went and started throwing things. FUCKING SNOOPY IS TO BLAME. JUST BECAUSE YOU MADE A SNO CONE MACHINE DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO MAKE MY CHILDREN UNHAPPY.

#6: The Snoopy Sno Cone Machine is the shit, so yes it does give Snoopy the right to do whatever the fuck he wants.

#7: Speaking of shit, your kid sounds like a little one. She should prepare for a visit from Krampus on Christmas day.

Peanuts sucks. We need to stop pretending it was any good, because if there had been better cartoons back then, they would have smoked its ass. Take a look, again, at the very first Peanuts cartoon strip.

WHAT THE FUCK? Are you shitting me? Is that even a joke? No wonder crazed gunmen once tried to kidnap Charles Schulz's wife. They were clearly trying to get him to stop making America suicidal.

#8: Yes, Drew, attempted kidnappings of elderly women by masked gunmen are hilarious. Remember that when your daughter mows down a few of her little classmates with an AK-47 because she "hates Mondays."

#9: That comic really is hilarious.

Stop patronizing the Peanuts subculture, everyone. You know, deep in your heart, that the world is better off without it. I wish I'd never known who Charlie Brown was, because he's a whiny little bitch and I hate his guts. From now on, he is banned from my house. I strongly urge you to do likewise.

Yes, yes, this is supposed to be funny. Drew's a laugh riot with his manic ranting and use of salty language. He's taboo and irreverent and cutting edge. His columns regularly touch on such hard-hitting topics as: Did the Chilean miners masturbate?, who's being cockblocked and which pro athlete is a "bitch."


It's no wonder he's so angry. His kid sounds like a mentally deranged gremlin from the anus of hell. Don't worry, though—there's hope for her yet:

After reading this, let's cleanse the palate with the other greatest thing in modern history:

Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest

Killed by the eastern syndicate.

Awww, looks like someone got rocks in their stocking!


It should come as a surprise to no one that this little dose of holiday fuckery comes to us courtesy of Deadspin. They're not exactly known for spreading cheer, but this evil, evil rant against A Charlie Brown Christmas, aka The Greatest Holiday Tradition Known to Modern Man, is just too much.


Here's what contributor Drew Magary has to say about the Peanuts gang (with, of course, my commentary throughout):

Fuck You, Charlie Brown

I showed my kid the Charlie Brown Christmas special the other day and she was depressed for the rest of the week. Why are we still subjecting kids to this awful shit?

I blame myself for forcing Charlie Brown on my offspring. I should know better. I've never liked Peanuts. Ever. The only reason I watched any Peanuts holiday special as a child was because they were the only goddamn holiday cartoons that aired. I watched even though I didn't like it, because watching shit was better than watching nothing at all. Charlie Brown ruled by default. But that's not the case anymore. There are thousands of other holiday entertainment options for your children out there now, and very few of them are the animated manifestations of some asshole's clinical depression.

#1: How old are you that A Charlie Brown Christmas was the only holiday cartoon on TV? Assuming that you're somewhere between ages 22 and 40 that means that you were born somewhere after 1970. And if you were old enough to remember watching the special as a kid, we'll say the time frame was around at least 1975. Rudolph, Frosty, Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, the one with the Heat Miser...how could you have possibly have missed the countless other specials? The only explanation is that Drew grew up in a Unibomber-esque woodland cabin with a TV that fuzzed in for one half hour during the holiday season.

#2: If a cartoon depressed your kid for an entire week, your kid has some serious fucking mental issues.

I watched A Charlie Brown Christmas with my kid, and now I openly loathe it. Who thought this was a good idea to show to young children? Charlie Brown is depressed. Lucy is a bossy cunt. Linus is a head case. Peppermint Patty is like a cocktail party guest who corners you and talks to you until you want to slit your throat from ear to ear. Whenever Snoopy talks, he sounds like a cat being raped. No one smiles. Everyone's complaining or arguing. Horrible slow jazz plays in the background. There isn't a semblance of joy in any of these specials, and anyone who tells you they're classics has been fucking BRAINWASHED, just like I was.

This man is cooler than you.

#3: Peppermint Patty wasn't in A Charlie Brown Christmas, moron. God, get your pop culture right.

#4: Using the word "cunt" and mentioning cat rape in a review of a children's show expl.

#5: Drew probably thinks Coldpay is the greatest thing to ever happen to music. It's the only explanation for the diss of Vince Guraldi's classic soundtrack.

I was all excited to show my kid this special, because I watched it when I was a kid and I'm a selfish asshole so I wanted my kid to watch it and like it and be like me. Then I turned it on and I was like, "Wait! I fucking hate this shit." Then the show ended and my kid was like, "I didn't like that show." Then she went and started throwing things. FUCKING SNOOPY IS TO BLAME. JUST BECAUSE YOU MADE A SNO CONE MACHINE DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO MAKE MY CHILDREN UNHAPPY.

#6: The Snoopy Sno Cone Machine is the shit, so yes it does give Snoopy the right to do whatever the fuck he wants.

#7: Speaking of shit, your kid sounds like a little one. She should prepare for a visit from Krampus on Christmas day.

Peanuts sucks. We need to stop pretending it was any good, because if there had been better cartoons back then, they would have smoked its ass. Take a look, again, at the very first Peanuts cartoon strip.

WHAT THE FUCK? Are you shitting me? Is that even a joke? No wonder crazed gunmen once tried to kidnap Charles Schulz's wife. They were clearly trying to get him to stop making America suicidal.

#8: Yes, Drew, attempted kidnappings of elderly women by two masked gunmen are hilarious. Remember that when your daughter mows down a few of her little classmates with an AK-47 because she "hates Mondays."

#9: That comic really is hilarious.

Stop patronizing the Peanuts subculture, everyone. You know, deep in your heart, that the world is better off without it. I wish I'd never known who Charlie Brown was, because he's a whiny little bitch and I hate his guts. From now on, he is banned from my house. I strongly urge you to do likewise.

Yes, yes, this is supposed to be funny. Drew's a laugh riot with his manic ranting and use of salty language. He's taboo and irreverent and cutting edge. His columns regularly touch on such hard-hitting topics as: Did the Chilean miners masturbate?, who's being cockblocked and which pro athlete is a "bitch."


It's no wonder he's so angry. His kid sounds like a mentally deranged gremlin from the anus of hell. Don't worry, though—there's hope for her yet:

That's called survival, baby!

Schroeder: What's the matter with you? All you think about is "gimme, gimme, gimme; get, get, get"!
Lucy: That's called survival, baby!

Best quote ever from a children's cartoon!

Why isn't It's the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown shown on TV anymore? That show was fucking great! Marcie tries to toast eggs, Sally tries to walk in pink clogs and Snoopy has a psychedelic vision of dancing bunnies.

My personal favorite scene was when Snoopy got a peek inside Woodstock's birdhouse and discovered that he had the place all pimped out super-'70s style, complete with op-art furniture, a stereo with giant headphones and jazzy Playboy Club-style music. Sort of like when Greg Brady went all hippie and turned Mike's den into a groovy crash pad. Anyway, Snoopy gets jealous and tries to then get into the love den and, of course, destroys it. Whoever wrote the acid trip script for this show was a brilliant genius. If you want to see this scene, click here and go to about 6:30. Awesome.

Anyhoo, I'm cooking up some super-fun posts, so keep an eye out. We really need to discuss this Jesse James situation.

Sleep with dogs, rise with fleas

Before I start today's rant I have to mention that I got a most interesting and vexing comment in my inbox, and now I wish I hadn't deleted it. I'm 95% positive it was spam. But it looked like a one-paragraph excerpt from a dirty story! It didn't look like spam: the spelling was good, there were no dubious-looking links, it didn't blatantly solicit anything... but what else could it be? Are they going to send me a few installments, get me hooked and then reel me into to some kind of Nigerian bank account scam? If anyone has seen something like this, please let me know. Not that I wanted to know what happened, or anything...*ahem.*

Now, on to today's fuckery.

The tranquilizers have worn off over at GOOP, because our old pal Gwynnie is at it again. This week's post is about Sleep: How to do it and how not to deprive yourself of it. Apparently, "lie down and close your eyes" isn't enough. And something tells me Ms. Holistic frowns on taking Ambien (or tranqs) when you need a little help.

The post kicks off right away with the pretensiousness: "Basically everyone I know is knackered, me included." OK, we get it: you live in England. I hate it when people who are not British say things like "whilst" and "knickers" in order to sound smart and worldly. And we all know Paltrow won't let us forget for a second that she's as well-bred as a Triple Crown champ.

This post was inspired by a book Gwynnie recently read about how sleep deprivation makes you look older and causes hormonal imbalances. So us serfs can benefit from her infinite wisdom and high-powered connections, she consults "one of" her doctors about why getting a good night's rest is great. Evidently, sleep is as essential for health as a good diet and exercise. Dammit! When is sitting on the couch all night, eating Doritos Collisons and watching Celebrity Rehab reruns going to be essential to good health? GOOP always ruins everything!

Speaking of ruining everything, wait until you hear some of this wacky advice. First, the good doctor names some of the hinderances to a good night's sleep, including "Stimulants or substances that can affect sleep (alcohol [Boo!—Ed.], caffeine, medications, recreational drugs [BOO!—Ed.] herbs, and even some vitamins.) Wait a minute...what was that last part? Herbs? VITAMINS? Gwynnie's world view might turn upside down. And for the love of Deepak Chopra, don't tell Suzanne Somers!

Doc also offers some helpful tips on proper snoozing, including this:

Close your office door, or find a quiet spot somewhere and get comfortable. Take 5 minute breaks throughout your day to focus on your breath. If that’s challenging, then focus on your feet and then your hands. Feel them for a few minutes; become aware of them. This will calm you down. Quieting and slowing your mind calms the body, which is the perfect antidote to the over-stressed state we are often in.

So he just assumes that everyone has an office door. News flash: cubicles don't have doors. Or walls. Does this guy honestly think that the average working stiff is going to be able to do this? Let's be realistic: anyone with five minutes on their hands is going to race outside for a smoke break.

Even worse, he recommends cutting out caffiene COMPLETELY. Is he trying to kill us??

Now here's where it really starts getting fishy. He next says we should "Go for it!" on an elimination diet. That means cutting out things like sugar and processed foods, plus eliminating dairy and gluten products—there goes the Doritos Collisions. Next, he wants you turn off the TV, computer and video games by 10 p.m., dim the lights and take a warm bath. 10 p.m.?? That's when the really good bars open!

Well, Doctor Death doesn't care about that, because according to him, we're not supposed to use alcohol or sleeping pills to help us fall asleep. This would prevent me from my usual nightly routine of acting out scenes from Valley of the Dolls. "My beautiful little dolls! Just one...and one more." I think it's going to be a Neely night!

Next Gwyneth's doctor recommends...oh, just take a guess. That's right: HERBS! Didn't he just say we weren't supposed to take herbs? I'm so confused! He signs the posting with "one love." This made me curious, so I looked this guy up. SURPRISE! His calls himself a "health evangelist" and his practice is all about "alternatives"—detoxes, acupuncture, chiropractic, supplements and so on. His site actually says, "Although we try to avoid Pharmaceuticals, we do prescribe them when necessary." I love how actual, scientific, FDA-approved medicine is the last resort. If that's the last possible thing that works, shouldn't you do that first? Call me crazy! Also, if this guy and his methods are so great, why wouldn't he be Gwynnie's only doctor? Things that make you go hmmmm....

The entry also includes some recommendations for good bedding. Of course, it's all hellishly expensive and high-end. Hungarian goose down (what makes Hungarian geese better than, say, Czech geese?), high-thread-count cotton sheets, ironed linens...who has the time or money for all this?

I want to know who GOOP's target audience is, because every time I read this newsletter, I feel like I just accidentally walked in to some secret meeting, and the attendants all turn to stare, judging me silently. Then after I slink out, they'd hurmph about having to be within several feet of a commoner.

Now I'm all wound up. I'll never get to sleep. Thanks for nothing, Gwyneth Paltrow! I still don't know what "knackered" means. Where did I put those dolls...