Erin kinda looks like Oona from Legend. I'm just sayin'...magical woodland bitch creature. It's the eyebrows.
This cycle of America’s Next Top Unemployed Dwarf (get outcha yardsticks and draw a little line on 5′7 for an idea) is sort of keeping my attention. Last go-round, I cashed in my DVR recordings and spent my valuable (*chortle*) time elsewhere because it was nappy times. I don’t even know who won, Tey Beyana or something? She had cat eyes and very little sauce to her nature and I felt unfulfilled.
But this cycle has at least mustered up enough tragedy to keep me focused. Case in point – Erin’s Cover Girl ad. Tornetta Danjahandz and I nearly fell off the couch when we viewed the latest evidence that when it’s good, ANTM is the most amusing reality show on television.
Erin and her snowstorm/died of fright brows had a little trouble with the task at hand. Whether it was a memory block, or having hurt her mind during the hair whipping challenge back at the Home for Tiny Model Wanderers, or Chronic Stupid Model Challenges Fatigue Syndrome, her heart and soul weren't it. But her salty tears were! Makeup!
It was awesome times enough getting to watch the initial effort on her part but then we got to judging and the final product. I have never seen a more jacked up Cover Girl ad in my time watching the show (except for the treasure at the end of this post). This was so bad that it made me want to buy Cover Girl product just to reward everyone involved. Lash Blast me! You’ve earned it, CW! Let's examine the three faces of Erin:
1) Anger – Erin’s opening reflected a kind of had it up to here feeling to it. You heard her say “like many women, my eyes…” but what she was really saying was “you fucking bought shots for sluts and then spent the rest of the rent money on a Wii? Fuck you! Get out!” She was kinda hood at this juncture, as she defied this activity with her shoulders and barked at us about eyes and lashes. She really should have taken this all the way and hurled the plastic tube at Nigel’s face. He is the one torturing her the most at this point.
2) Tired – The second part, in which she actually SLUMPS AGAINST THE WALL as she attempts to languidly deliver the spiel that she herself wrote, is brilliance. Like a junkie on the nod or a girl who has been rendered helplessly malaised by fellow teeny model Nicole’s monotone wanderings about glasses and people’s backgrounds, she is spent. She can barely summon the effort to raise the project to camera level. Just place it on a little end table, Erin, and kinda gesture at it with a limp palm as her eyes rolled back in her head and she slid down said wall to land in a bleached heap.
3) Trauma – Erin winds it up as if she came from her own personal Extremities and not a crying jag over forgetting her lines and how much she hates Tyra. For reals, she can barely choke out “easy, breezy, beautiful” before she inhales deeply and the stupid editor cuts just as she most definitely began wailing. That was the apex moment for me. This wasn’t a Cover Girl commercial shoot for her, this was seemingly her arrival at the police station in a torn blouse. I blame Nigel.
If Tyra and her Bankable minions can keep up this level of insane pseudo-model bullshit quality, I’m recommitting myself to this cause.
I'm sure you were wondering what the GREATEST America's Next Top Best Friend (that's a clue) Cover Girl ad is. Puzzle no more. Watch this and feel WONDERFUL…FABULOUS!
Now are the days in which parents hoax the potential death of their child to get themselves a reality show (turn on your tv – that wayward balloon might be carrying a vomiting child!). Where a pop star dies and his pre-death spectral plastic surgery and drug addicted carcass visage staggering around during rehearsal gets released to theaters (Joe Jackson, get that cash!)These are the days where snarly women who have born too many piglets hash out their bitter divorces from Ed Hardy-swathed whiny dumbass fuckstick husbands all over my screen vee!
They couldn’t have come sooner. Society’s been crumbling for the longest time. We might as well enjoy the show, right? If you have a problem, just turn off your TV and your many electronic devices and go look at a tree or the ocean.
The Boyfriend and I decided that if we get engaged anytime soon, we’re getting married on Dec. 21, 2012. Right, we’re thinking getting married on the day the world is supposed to end. That’s right, put us at the alter while John Cusack tugs his children through our ceremony to get to safety somehow. I feel that we’re going to have to have six year old children floating around in escaped weather balloons during the ceremony. Fuck doves.
I knew I needed to blog today, and I was perusing the world and this is what I was feeling.
So The Boyfriend is like religious ecstatic over the upcoming Where The Wild Things Are movie. I agree it looks rad and otherworldly and like every bad dream that ended up being mystical and lovely that I had as a kid. The Boyfriend seemingly fancies himself one of those big hairy things swiping at trees and more power to him and his wild rumpus (that sounds dirty).
Everyone lloovveesss that book, and yeah, I liked it as a kid but I wasn’t always strapped into the Great Space Coaster over it. I think cuz’ I was a prissy sort of child and those wolf jammies looked like they were itchy and the forest automatically read “mud and bug bites” to me.In fact, my book of choice for when I was that age was Miss Nelson Is Missing. Ya hearda that one?
The kids in Miss Nelson’s class suck. They have no respect for their pretty teacher. So Miss Nelson gets her bitch on, fakes her disappearance, and comes back in drag! She trannies it up as “Miss Viola Swamp” and puts those little bastard bitches through hell! Say bye to recess, youze got homeworks to do! Anyway, when Miss Nelson returns, the kids show the proper respect and you find out in the end that she’s got a black Viola Swamp dress in her closet and she’s not above using theatrics and bitch trickery to deceive dumb children into respecting her ass.
Anyway, my opinon of Where The Wild Things Are changed when I watched this preview last night. And I can’t find the damn clip but basically…all the actors who do the voices of the big creatures recorded their parts during this two week workshop type thingy on an LA soundstage. Where they mocked up the future sets and attached mikes to their heads and just played their parts. And James Gandolfini…oooh, baby, He was all big and beefy and wearing this childlike striped shirt and these manpris and DOMINATING everyone else and using thss earnest hairy creature voice and laying back with his belly all up and relaxed and telling Catherine O’Hara what a beautiful smile she had and I was SWWWWOONNIIINNNG. It must be so nice not to have to eat pasta and be sociopathic and call strippers whores for once. Who knew he was such a fat whimsical Lothario? His dulcet tones have now made me want to see this movie!
Did you know that Karen O of Yeah Yeah Yeahs did all the music with a bunch of kids? And the main kid’s name is Max Records? What a boss name. Max Records! He sounds like a villain in a musical about the recording industry but he’s a nine year old with great hair!
If you have any doubts as to whether you should be watching soaps (One Life To Live in particular), this should settle the matter, you crazy bitch. What else is there to do? Go to work?
Let me set the scene. Ace high matriarchal monster and ruler of Llanview Dorian Lord is running for mayor and trying to steal the gay vote away from her arch-rival Victoria Lord Riley Buchanan Carpenter Davidson Banks (seriously, for a heroine – that ho gets around town). So she lies and says she’s a dyke and she’s marrying her lesbian campaign manager.
Meanwhile, upstairs, her niece and Llanview’s combo mantarget/uppity bitch Blair is fighting with her multiple ex-husband Todd’s new wife Tea over the fact that Tea had Todd’s kid years ago and neglected to inform him. Well, he had stranded her on a desert island! Really.
The two awesome plotlines converge as Dorian quotes Madonna and Blair (accidentally?) gets flung out a window and lands right in the middle of the press conference outside.
This is….CLASSIC. This is better than any boring shit the CW can put on. Ashlee Simpson-Wentz can not touch this. She isn’t even allowed in Llanview. Elderly women feigning lesbianism to get votes and women screaming in horror after they fling their bathrobed rivals out of picture windows? Why this isn’t burning up your DVRs, I’ll never know. Get this!
Listen, I’ve been to therapy (one of my personalities is named Dr. Debbie Lipshitz) and there were no naked people in the Santa Fe decor-soaked office! Not that I was aware of. I didn’t see any man ass or any peen. I probably wouldn’t have skipped so many appointments. Dr. Phil is a freak-a-leek! What’s worse is that he’s an ANNOYING freak-a-leek. This story might have made me like him more if he wasn’t a dickish Foghorn Leghorn with a pencil eraser face and shady professional credentials with those commercials depicting him constantly berating stupid people. Oh, those commercials. Sure, drive the kids around drunk! Beat your wife! Just don’t go on that sow’s show!
Anyway, some crazy is suing Dr. Phil for malpractice, claiming that he not only caressed her titter but also prevented her from leaving his office and made her look at penis. What the-? Every one of my multiple personalities and my anger management problem would have been cured if I got to look at clothing optional hot dudes for 50 minutes once a week. Can you work as a nude model for psychiatrists’ offices? Is that a valid job pursuit? This is from People.
Shirley Rae Dieu, 56, of Irvine, Calif., claims she was seeking therapy from Dr. Phil in his Hollywood office in 2007 when she allegedly was held captive and “forced to be in the same room with a completely live naked man while he exposed his entire naked body, genitals and all,” according to her filing.
Dieu further alleges she was deprived of sleep and food, “brainwashed” and “subjected to edited tapings depicting her as a different personality other than her own.” On Oct. 9, 2007, she claims Dr. Phil touched her left breast during a therapy session.
First of all, your new drag name is Rae Dieu. Secondly, anyone who lets Dr. Fucking Phil brainwash them has nothing to wash. Who would go to this donkey for mental problems? He came from Oprah! Yes, I know she’s our real president, but not all blessings flow from Oprah. Her school rapes people!
“[Dr. Phil] is nothing like what he’s like on TV,” Dieu told PEOPLE by phone, adding that another woman will be joining her suit. “You have no idea what I and this other woman went through.”
FYI, Big Shirl might be on the make. She’s apparently a multi-litigous sort who is acting as her own lawyer and “her filing is filled with misspellings and grammatical errors.”
So she’s a hillbilly who’s looking for cash to afford Spellcheck. Being illiterate doesn’t mean Quick Draw McGraw didn’t grab her boobie and rub it on his bald head! I’m with Shirley. Get him, honey!
So I pick The Boyfriend up from work the other night at 11 PM, and we take off driving through the dog shit infested streets of Beacon Hill (seriously, rich people, clean up after your little bastard critters. Or at the very least hire someone with the money you get oppressing other people) and we get aways and he informs me he forgot his bag back at the office. Ugh.
So easily annoyed, I snipe about it. Especially when he says this:
“I just don’t want people going through it or someone taking it! But nevermind, I can get it later.”
What does one do with that? If we don’t turn back to get it, I will become obsessive about his big brown backpack and with my luck – it will be the victim of a smash and grab. And then it will be all my fault that his spare mouse with the cool retractable cord has been sold for a crack rock.
So we get a little lost trying to wind through the cobblestoned roadways and one ways of Beacon Hill and I’m irritated so very easily cuz’ it’s 11 PM and I need the couch. And he’s like you need to control your anger, gawd. And we engage in a snarly tete-a-tete which is common enough for us but it quickly improves into a silly exchange of threats like “I will set you on fire” or him trying to tickle me WHILE I’M DRIVING our hoopdee. He’s safe.
Anyway, we’re at a red light and he turns to me and goes:
“Sometimes I think I date you because I’m looking out for the people you would date after me.”
The people of the world (aka the doomed,destined to be inconsolable people who would get up on this after I kill you someday) send their thanks, Boyfriend.
So Tornetta Danjahandz (my roommate, conduit for Internet freakyshit, and former painter of hams…seriously I have a painting of hers that is of a ham) showed me this photo of online actor/cub hotness Michael Cyril Creighton. And besides MCC being cute as a button with perfectly coiffed hair, Tornetta baby followed it up with a link to his web series.
Are you snarky? Bitter? Do you like cupcakes? Are you failed in life? Do you have cool glasses and shorts with an adorable pocket lining? Are you gay? Again, cupcakes? You are gonna LOVE this. This is episode 4 of Jack In A Box. Creighton portrays a failed actor named Jack who works in an off-Broadway ticket booth. He hates his job, smokes too much and is generally resentful and bitchy. Score!
Seriously, this is droll and funny and kind of sad…and we all know this guy. And some of us ARE this guy. SHUT UP, I’ll get a job I hate eventually.
Danjahandz might as well just write this blog. My Internet porn addiction seriously prohibits me from scouring the World Wide Webzers for rad shit.
I would rather she be WEARING Crocs! Where was Teddy Roosevelt while this was going on?!?! This is like that fable about the fable person who rides the scorpion across the river and the scorpion eats the fable person because it’s about wisdom. That croc is gonna buck that baby off its back and swallow her face! Where is her jazz baby mother? Probably busy with Dadaism, and her cigarette holder, and the electric lightbulb, and bootlegging!
Anyone who knows me knows that I have a terror scene about reptiles..specifically crocodiles and alligators. You only see their eyes above the water as they wait for you to fall out of the canoe. They can run fast. And I read somewhere (probably in Us Weekly) that they can climb trees. So good luck surviving! I am about to make like Cher, turn back time, and kick her flapper mother’s ass for allowing this shyt! Boo, bytch, boo!
Now I know why I’ve been giving a pass to that show (sorry, Mary Murphy). It’s like straight porn! So You Think You Can Dance had what I think is prime time television’s first vagina slip last night. See the clip from Gawker above before some prude takes it down.
I love that the dude who shot it slow-moed the whole experience for us so we don’t miss a labial fold.
What I don’t get is that this cooch show is taped. It wasn’t like Janet Jackson ripping off her pasty to end her career all of a sudden. Who was on vagine watch in the editing booth? You would think a show in which people tend to flail about in very little clothing would have someone monitoring for a dick slip or what have you. Either that or some sexy person was too busy with his hand on his control stick while watching this chick and let it pass.
She got all heated when she passed a round or something. Mary’s pigshrieksquawk probably lifted her to heights of passion as well. It was inevitable.
