The Final, Actual, Serious, No-Bluffing Death of Friendster

è morto

THE DEATH OF FRIENDSTER

Friendster was born in 2003, the product of a blissful love affair between hipsters and technology. Friendster thrived in its early months, despite critics diagnosing it as "clumsy" and "slow", and it still managed to gain a healthy following.

As the months progressed, and its popularity grew, the original Friendsters started get progressively more annoyed: "Why is this social networking system admitting the likes of people who live in Tampa and who are 'married' in a non-ironic way?" they would ask themselves aloud. And so the backlash began. Unbathed people from "Billyburg" to "Ban Brancisco" reviled the site, and began copycat websites where "their kind" could communicate and cyberstalk without the rest of the "normal Americans" intruding.

But Friendster pushed on, and people logged in. Where else could you anonymously view pictures of strangers you've slept with? (All hinging, of course, on whether or not you got their full name.) Or secretly read testimonials from people you hated in high school and finally feel superior to them? (Who wants to be married, rich and jobless at 24?!? NOT I, THANK YOU.) Or even to see how their nose jobs are coming along? (Badly, as I had always suspected.)

And then there was the competition: "Who had more friends? How many friends do you have? How many page views have you gotten? Testimonials? Gimme a number." ad nauseous. Friendster feigned to be all about relationships, but underneath lay a competitive and blood-sucking beast so competitive and number-hungry (Mad Libs joke, prepare yourself...) it made __(noun)__ look like ___(more extreme noun)___ !


The molecular structure of "Pointless Hatred and Jealousy".

And yet, we still came back to you F-ster.

Until now.

A few weeks ago, like Liza Minelli on a manicotti-stuffed-with-botox-fueled rampage, Friendster got a "face lift". All of a sudden, finding out the occupation of the imaginary-man-of-your-digital-dreams became confusing, practically a chore. Things were too colorful, jumbled, hard to find. If you wanted to upload a new picture, you better think long and hard, because EVERYONE is going to know -- as a huge "NEW PICTURES!!!" would flash below your profile blurb. No way of showing your close, personal friends what a thorough bikini wax you just got -- now the whole world has to know! Friendster was like a $10,000 bike with tassles, except the tassles were made of poisonous snakes and herpes.


Won't be needing THESE anymore!

Then this morning happened.

This morning, a friend IM's me with this news that is best described as "Cooh-Cooh-Cah-Cray-Cray" (or "C to the fifth power"):

Friend: OMG
Friend: on friendster
Michelle: ?
Friend: you can now see WHO'S VIEWED YOU
Michelle: WHAT.
Michelle: WHATWHATWHATWHAT
Michelle: WHATWHATWHAT
Friend: i know i know
Michelle: WHATWAHTW!@@#$09:-(;-)89ru0p2q3 r5
Friend: omgomgomgomgomg
Michelle: i am ALITERALLY DYING!
Friend: this is fucking crazy
Michelle: hahahah
Friend: my palms are literally sweating
Michelle: OMFUCKINGGODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDddddd......

Why the virtual freak out?

See, now anyone you want to cull information about will KNOW that you are interested in them in one way or another. Whereas before, you could freely check-in on people you hated/secretly coveted anonymously and with no worry of that party finding out, now ALL YOUR CARDS ARE ON THE TABLE! Want to find out more about the hussy your ex-boyfriend is fucking? Well you better be prepared to lose all dignity whatsoever as that bitch will know you've come for her (virtually speaking, of course).

The point is: Friendster is now officially dead. The one thing it was good for, creepy, faceless fact-finding, is now gone.

Oh, and apparently you can also "Send a Smile" now.


The last time someone tried to "Send Me A Smile" with a "Balloon Bouquet", I tried to "Strangle Myself" with the "Colorful Ribbons".

The Good News Is

I was delightfully surprised to find out that very few to no freaks were cyberstalking me on Friendster. If anything, there were a couple of profiles that piqued my interest, which I IMed back to my friend in an effort to have him "check them out" -- and he's a huge fag, so you know he's honest -- including one man who my friend deduced could "kill me with his pinky or strong manly jaw!". And, yes, I'll also admit to saying that I'd "never had this much fun, IN MY LYF". So shoot me! I'm obsessed with myself.

The point is, now that Friendster is less creepy/sleazy, it highly restricts me, a creepy-sleaze, using it to my full potential.

Now, please, won't someone send me a fucking smile already??

New Yorkers, I Need Your Help

About two weeks ago, I was bitten in the "batty crease" by a practically stray dog on the corner of Sullivan and Houston. The grip of his jaw was mighty but swift, and he managed to leave a good 2 inch long gash along with an aura of bruise around it, thus ruining my future career as an ass model.

As I may have mentioned, the "homeless artist who resembled Lou Reed and lived in a van" flipped when I told him I called the police, untied his dogs, and took off running. He eventually came back with his "license" and "dog's papers" (fish story if I've ever smelled one), and the officers assured me everything would be OK.

Now, I won't know if my central nervous system is shutting down for another 3 days - 5 years, hence I'm living every day like it's my last. So in between hour long marathons of unprotected sex and snorting heroing off the sharp end of rusty nail, I've also been doing a lot of thinking.... about that dog... That dog, that got away with battery, living the swanky life somewhere in what I'm guessing is a pretty sweet van in Soho. If it was a van in, say, the Upper East Side, revenge would not be necessary as that dog would already be living my nightmare.

I thought any attempts at locating him would be futile, as the police refuse to return my calls, even to say thank you for the pot of jam I sent over.

However, after some crafty internet scrounging... I was able to locate a picture of said canine. Don't ask how, don't ask where, just answer me this: DO YOU KNOW THIS DOG? I must find him -- we have some talking to do.


Don't let his sweet demeanor fool you.

OMGOMGOMGOMG

GUESS WHO.

I'll give you two words: Silver-haired Fox.

That's right
.
.
.
It's ANDERSON COOPER!

Full story here. (via Screenhead)

See also: PIZZA THE HUT.

Because I Like To Give Back

Faithful readers know that it is a rare day I choose endorse a commercial website here... but I like to give back. Whereas J. Crew has gone out of their way to make my dream of wearing an orange bathing suit and pink flats to the pool more of an unrealized nightmare, another website went out of their way to provide top qual customer service. (p.s. I still havent gotten my J. Crew merch!)

That website is Keenzo.com. I ordered an iHome about 2 weeks ago, this spiffy new gadget that acts as both speakers and an AM/FM alarm to your iPod. I also got a remote at an additional charge. This website had the cheapest price online, and taken in with some crafty coupon Googling, I got it at a great price. When the remote arrived, some pieces had been broken inside and, sure enough, it was broken. I called the company expecting to have to put up a fight, but within 2 minutes, the guy who answered found my order and said "No problem, we'll ship a new one out today." 3 days later, I have a working remote, a non-working one (not completely true, some of the buttons work OK), and an iHome.

I would be happy to endorse the iHome as well, if it didn't randomly turn on sometimes in the middle of the night, startling me to whatever Clay Aiken song I had blasting from my portable pleasure device.

By the way, I haven't listened to radio in New York for ages upon ages upon ages. It still sucks! BUT I heard Mario Cantone on 103.5 this morning -- worth the price of the machine alone people. That bitch is fucking hysterical and maaaay or may not be rabid. Just like me! Hoorah. Swallowing your own saliva is soooo 1994.

ps Here's an interview with the woman who waxed me yesterday at Haven. Take a good look at her picture -- she knows me better than my future husband probably will. Nothing like getting your asshole waxed while recapping The Apprentice, eh? And at $18 for a forehead wax, it's a real steal. Yes they really do offer that there. But sorry fellas -- she doesn't wax balls!

Things That I've Been Meaning To Talk About

Movies I have watched recently that have caused me to either miss 8 hours of sleep, or another weekly tv series with which I am more involved:

Titanic
Passenger 57*
Jumanji
The Truman Show

*While watching this the other night, I remembered that this was one of my favorite movies growing up. And now I know why: The superfluous Arsenio Hall references. Way to date yourself, 1992. Also, most people seem to think that this movie starred Halle Berry. That would be wrong. The biracial flight attendant here is played by Alex Datcher, better know for her sting as Special Agent Debra Cutler on "18 Wheels of Justice." Ms. Berry did play a biracial flight attendant in the movie Executive Decision with Kurt Russell, however, so you're not completely wrong. ps Another great film, albeit a severe lacking of Arsenio Hall jokes.



Things Which, When Found In My Salad, Make Me Undeniably Ill:

Kidney Beans
Cherry Tomatoes
Artichoke Hearts*
Cat Shit**
Too Much Feta
Chinese Noodles
Things That Are Too "Cold"
Spicy Things
Anything with flavor

*Note: I never learn my lesson with this one.
**I don't talk about 6th grade anymore. Too painful.

Enough lists... Isn't it a BEAUTIFUL DAY out today???

BY THE BY:

Got the post-Jewish New Year Blues? Come check me out October 5 at Galapagos. The info:

An Odd Confession

I would like to preface this posting by saying that I'm trying to change my oral intake lifestyle, hence I started the World Famous South Beach Diet yesterday, along with quitting smoking and caffeine. A day later, and I can tell you that my eyes wish to remain permanently closed, I'm coughing like an orphan in World War II, and I nearly blew a rail of Splenda off the 7 pounds of smoked turkey I bought for dinner last night. In other words, I've never felt better.

On to more important matters: British comedy. Perhaps it's my latest decision to purge myself of all evils (I'm looking at you Snackwells) that leads me to admit this on live blogovision, but... I don't find Ricky Gervais that funny. There -- I SAID IT. Now please, let me explain. First of all, I am a foaming at the mouth Anglophile. I love all things British, which is why I don't DISlike Mr. Gervais. However, when forced to sit through day-long "Office" marathons, and even through the premiere of his new show "Extras" on HBO... I don't know! We just don't mesh!



And yet, I've had to feign obsession with him for nearly a year now. Every time I want to launch into my love for British comedy, the first thing anyone will ask me is "Are you obsessed with the Office?" to which I have to say (through gritted teeth) "Yes, why I simply adore The Office. It's. My. Favorite. Show. Ever." When the truth is... meh. I don't hate it, it's not "Drew Carey" proportions we're talking about here. And I can understand why people enjoy it... I guess. I can watch it, sometimes maybe chuckle. Perhaps it's to subtle for me? But as a girl who works in an office swarming with assholes, spending my weekends watching my life played out on television just doesn't yankle my chain. In fact, I find it depressing.

And trust, it's not because I dislike uncomfortable humor. I caught Gervais' new show, Extras, following a fairly satisfying "Curb Your Enthusiasm" Sunday, a show that many of my friends find too cringe inducing to sit through and yet one that I love. Now people -- I reaaaaally wanted to love "Extras". I read raving reviews, say promos, told myself "This is it. This is where you fall in love with Ricky Gervais." And I watched it. I didn't DISlike it, and I'll probably continue to watch. But was I dying laughing through it? Not really. Save for the ending with Kate Winslet which was truly laugh out loud (it's always fun watching celebrities humiliate themselves, even when they're in on the joke), overall it was pretty low energy. How could a show that makes fun of cerebral palsey not strike a chord with me? It's truly baffling. I like Gervais... he just doesn't make me laugh.


Although I will give him credit, this stunt of his looks HIlarious. Can you believe that's him?

I'll tell you what show I am OB-GYN-sessed with that hasn't yet become cult-like in the states: Little Britain. A show I've quoted so often to friends they feel as though they, too, have sat through the entire first season on DVD 9 or 10 times in a row. Here's a show that makes any American comedy pale in comparison. I'm not going to get into the intricacies of its genius here, but if you have BBC America, try your best to catch the episodes of Season 2 that are playing now. (I, of course, purchased Season 2 on DVD from England last year. See? I'm a dedicated fan, I swear.) For info on the serious, check out this fan's extreeeemely detailed Little Britain website, which includes a few scripts.




The man in the middle? Robbie Williams.

You know, I DO feel better after coming clean with this. I realize that I'm now opening myself up to people trying to convince me that Gervais is a genius, which he may be. But can't a bitch just NOT think something is funny once in a while? DAMN.

p.s. I'm sure my disabled comments section is killing you right now. Love/Hate Ricky Gervais? Convince me either way and I'll post some of your best opinions later on today. youcantmakeitup@gmail.com.

In other news, poor Kathy Griffin! She's filing for divorce from her husband Matt, who was featured prominently on her hilarious reality show on Bravo. Dear God -- I've just told the world that I don't find Ricky Gervais funny and that I love Kathy Griffin. I think I may have officially just lost all street cred. And you know what: IT WAS WORTH IT.

peepeeass: R. Kelly's wife says "Enough is enough" and also files for divorce. Well poo poo in my mouth and bang a 13-year-old, that's a surprise.

Earning A Badge In Shit-Eating Grins

My my my, how my little Dakota has grown!


JKJKJK, she's just a little girl... A little girl with a heart of old. (Inspiration for your nightmares via DudeManPhat)

And just when you thought that Dakota Fanning had been squeezed for all of her melodramatic, retardedly-upbrought, De-Niro-Denzel-Britney-Murphy-Scene-Stealing ways, she pulls another trick out of her Hollywood bag that leaves the country begging for more...


Dakota Fanning's "Bag".

DAKOTA FANNING IS A GIRL SCOUT!


"I do... solemnly swear... to suck the life... out of all of God's creatures... using only my fangs... and the blessing of the Demonmaster... in order to sustain... a presence in Hollywood... or at least... a gig on VH1."


"Here's the number for my friend Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He likes 'em young... yeah... reaaaal young. Yessss, you'll do just fine. Tell him Madame Penny Trayshun sent you."


(through a tight smile) "Get my agent on the phone... yeah hello? It's Penny. Listen, you better make sure you sit me between the two fattest fucks at that convention, you got it? I'm talkin chubby... glasses wouldn't hurt either. And I dare you -- DARE YOU -- not to listen to me. I'll twist your balls so fucking tight you're sperm's gonna come out of your ass, you hear me you dickless shit?!"


Dakota Fanning posing with a copy of her latest straight-to-vid movie, "Chucky's Illegitimate Daughter."

Frankly, this does not come as a shock to me. Think about it, Dakota Fanning makes the perfect Girl Scout! I will now prove this to you using one of my favorite theorem devices, "The Numbered List":

1. She can be spotted from hundred of miles away when lost in the woods.

2. She's an excellent cook.

3. She can start fires with her mind.

4. Her socks are lined with smack.

5. She's the only white girl Robert De Niro considers family.

Congrats Dakota -- your star continues to rise! With thanks to Mr. T. Master, who, for one reason or another, oddly associates me with this little fucktard.

If Shel Silverstein Had Down Syndrome

A friend who shall remain nameless received this poem via text messaging from a jilted lover who lives abroad. Even though the two are “not dating”, he’s still coming for a one time visit to sink his one-eyed Johnny in the hole. And while I literally have no idea what that means, he also is likely going to have sex with her.

Keep in mind this poem was sent by a stranger, a foreigner no less… I left all the misspellings in their ignorant, uneducated, funny-sounding glory:

Sweet Susie Ann I'm laying my head on the pillow,
and putting my dreams on the rim.
Letting my fantasy spin me
Spining all and spin within

If you cry out "Gin!", I'll top you with Rommy,
Oh no don't you laugh, that crap was not funny.
Show me your life,
and I'll jig and I'll jive
And dance for the coming of the day I arrive
to you!

Hahaha… the “to you!” might be my favorite part. I picture it sounding like someone cliff diving and shouting it out as he falls -- to youuuu! -- the last “ooo” fading out the further he drops.

Kinda Slow-han

Sometimes, I find myself on the end of a grapevine I’m not sure I belong on... like if one of the California Raisins had alzheimers and was wandering around the supermarket without any pants on, it would be me. Either way, I find it my civic duty to pass on this overall superficial, and yet still somehow endlessly fascinating, gossip.

Jared Leto -- remember him? The hotly brooding Jordan Catalano that all girls now in their 20’s used to lust after in their tweens. Mr. Leto, who makes for fine gossip rag fodder, has been linked with Lindsay Lohan in a number of different publications. What those publications didn’t tell you is that Leto thinks Lohan is a complete moron. A total twit. He doesn’t even like her. And yet, there she is, at all of his concerts (a true Renaissance man, he’s the lead singer of “30 Seconds To Mars”), acting like a complete diva and forcing herself on him. And even though Jar-Jar Kinks is 99 percent “hitting that sh*t”, his friends and crew are well aware of his disdain for the carrot-topped princess.

El fin.

On another note, isn’t it funny that America Online in England is AOL.uk, not EOL? Sigh.

The New York Times' Guide To Rampant, Anonymous, Public Gay Sex

Here's an article (sent to me promptly at 9 am by my new IM bestie and faggabouttown Mike) more apropos for, say, the Thursday's Style Section:

A Sex Stop on the Way Home

The article reads like the Fagat's Guide to Homo Public Parks (joke via the Will & Grace clip from the Emmy's that I'm sad to say had me chuckling).

Some things I learned: Married men are gay. Who knew! My favorite quote: "Some [married men] aren't getting it at home," the man added. "Some say, 'I'm not even gay. I'm just bored.'" Huh! I guess the good old days of substituting sex with Viagra-fueled, 4-hour-long Parcheesi games is "so 1950s" eh? It goes on: "You have judges, doctors, lawyers, firemen, cops, sanitation workers. You have guys coming here with totally normal lives, married with good jobs"...

The Village People were GAY???


Oh, thank god. My sources tell me they weren't gay... just bored! I know when I'm bored the first thing I do is strap on my assless leather chaps, grab a mic, and get to jazzercising. It's how I keep my figure. Can I get a Grapevine, people!?

While gay gatherings take many forms in ethnically diverse Queens, from the scene in Astoria Park to the gay bars serving Central and South Americans in Jackson Heights, many ethnic groups have strong taboos against homosexuality.

"You know, not everyone who's gay lives in Manhattan and runs in packs like 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.'"

The lesser-known but equally talented "Dirty Indian Gays Dancing Through Your Kitchen" has become an overnight success in random parking lots in New Delhi.

The 4:40's

Why is it that every day, exactly at 4:40, I have a nervous breakdown?

We will return to our regularly scheduled blogging program tomorrow. Unless I'm struck by some sort of genius idea this evening. It sucks too: My friend Mike and I spent all morning coming up with Pornos named after Broadway Musicals, and like ASSHOLES, we both closed our IM windows. Now, the only ones I can remember are the "Pro-Deucers" (not unrelated to "Andrew Lloyd Webber's 'Shats!'"), "Phantom of the Cockera", "Bring in Da Boys, Bring in Da Spunk", "The Sound Of Pubic", and "You're A Good Fuck, Charlie Brown". On 78th thought, maybe it's best we leave that one to the digital underworld.

Take it sleazy, I'm about to slip into the 4:55 "Uncontrollable Urinings" and then go home and slip into something more comfortable.

Mein Ears

I'm watching the Emmy's Red Carpet Coverage on E! right now... and my feelings can be best summed up by this poorly photoshopped picture:



Someone please please please kill Star Jones. Please.

How the hell did this asshole climb the rankings to have her own talk show and do these red carpet interviews? She is impossible to listen to.

Kathy Griffin, on the other hand, love her. Get her out there! Damn.

Rabies R Us

I'm in bed right now, recovering from a dog bite that occurred last night in Soho. A man who lived in a van had tied his three dogs to a fence, and as I walked by, one of them sank his teeth into my thigh, tearing the skin and leaving an unsightly gash/bruise. I'm still on the case, there are a lot of questions I have, and while I went to the hospital, and all the doctors said I didn't need a rabies shot, my own paranoia along with a healthy dose of parental overreacting has left me thinking that I'll be foaming at the mouth and dead around 3 weeks from now. Man in the van, if you have wireless connection and find out your dog is in fact the rabid motherfucker I truly believe it to be, e-mail me at toolateimdeadnow@yahoo.com.

The story is dense and multi-faceted, involving adorable EMT and police officers, my friend Becca who got to turn on the siren (everyone cheer for Becca, she stayed with me the whole night and didn't complain!), and the character I'm planning on basing my one woman show on, "Sheila the Junkie". It will be about a junkie from Florida who doesn't wear any shoes, throws violent tantrums, and curses at the doctors (Tony award winning line: "I'll rent space in your head all night, bitch"). The night ended with me waiting 25 minutes for a cab, and having David Byrne from the Talking Heads make a left turn around me on his bicycle, a fitting ending to an extremely surreal night. And yes, if you were wondering, he's extremely attractive.

The entire left side of my body feels bruised... ps anyone out there ever get rabies shots? Any docs in ze haus? Get in touch if you strongly feel I should get the rabies shots after all. (And p.s., yes I disabled my comments, so if you thought it was personal, it wasn't!) As I type this I feel like my tongue is swelling up and I can't breathe -- is that normal?

FATM,
Michelle

"And, No, I Did Not Make This Siamese Coat Out Of Cats Either."

Simply brilliant article on the newswire today, with the eye-catching title "Inventor: I Never Used Dead Cats For Fuel". Let's dissect this article para-by-para, yes?

A German inventor said he has developed a method to produce crude oil products from waste that he believes can be an answer to the soaring costs of fuel, but denied a German newspaper story implying he also used dead cats.

Christian Koch, an inventor and patent holder of the "KDV 500" that he said produces high quality fuel, said he can transform waste products such as paper, rubbish and plastic materials into fuel.

But Koch, 55, said there was no truth to stories published in Bild newspaper Tuesday and Wednesday that suggested he used dead cats as part of the mix for his organic diesel fuel.

Christian Koch, in a coat that screams "Who... me??"

"I use paper, plastics, textiles and rubbish," Koch told Reuters.

A concerned neighbor, sifting through Koch's "rubbish".

"It's an alternative fuel that is friendly for the environment. But it's complete nonsense to suggest dead cats. I've never used cats and would never think of that. At most the odd toad may have jumped in."

Nothing to see here.

Bild Tuesday wrote a headline: "German inventor can turn cats into fuel -- for a tank he needs 20 cats." The paper on Wednesday followed up with a story entitled: "Can you really make fuel out of cats?"

"Yes, yes I believe you can."

A spokesman for Bild told Reuters the story was meant to show that cat remains could "in theory" be used to make fuel with Koch's patented method.

Just like how this cat, "in theory", is used as windshield wiper fluid.

The author of the story said Koch had never told him directly that he had used dead cats as the story implied.

The website of Koch's firm, "Alphakat GmbH," says his patented "KDV 500" machine can produce what he calls the "bio-diesel" fuel at about 23 euro cents (30 cents) a liter, which is about one-fifth the price at petrol stations now.

Clever one... Alphakat! Because DeadCatsForGas.Justkidding.Butseriously.com was already taken.

"I drive my normal diesel-powered car with this mixture," Koch is quoted saying in Bild, next to a large picture of a kitten. (Ed. Note: !!!!!) "I have gone 170,000 km (106,000 miles) without a problem."

Mitzi smiled at the German reporter when her owner was around. It was only later that the reporter noticed a plea scralwed in blood on the bathroom mirror saying "Help Me", only the "e"'s were backwards, as cats are adorably illiterate.

It should be obvious where I stand at this point. This man is to cats what Ike Turner was to Tina: A caring provider.


"What? I didn't try to make gasoline outta that bitch! All she did was steal my name and my image! On second thought, shit, that bitch should fuel my car!"

Losing Your Vaginity

I normally don't like to reveal how I obsessively monitor all readers who come to this blog... however, this one was too good not to share with the world.

(click to enlarge)



Most likely a typographical error -- he surely meant to Google "King of Vagines", and see his picture come up right between A.C. Slater and Carrot Top.

Also, can President Bush please require Sex Ed in Arabic high schools? There's only one kind of vagines, my friend -- the kind that will kill your sister when she gives it up before marriage.

Krispy Kreme's No Bullshitter

Yes, the very same brand that got me morbidly obese in high school gives the big "F YOU!" to Dunkin Donuts' "Munchkin Policy" (a new rule requiring you to buy 5 munchkins, no less), by offering 4 FREE "donut holes" to people willing to be "Friends of Krispy Kreme."*

Hold on a sec, I've got to construct a "best friends" necklace made out of two donut halves.

*Some of the "Not Valid In" Cities are Hilarie Clinton. To all of you out there in Hattiesburg, MS and Pigeon Forge, TN, my sincerest, delicious apologies.

ALSO: TODAY'S SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE HEADLINE

98 Degrees Singer Not Done With Politics

WHAT THE HELL

Perhaps it's the sincerist form of flattery, or perhaps its some uncreative asshole trying to get all up in my steez, but someone else has created ANOTHER blog called "You Can't Make It Up", and worse yet, THEY'RE POSTING DILBERT CARTOONS. WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE.

Please, friends, help stop this insanity.

http://cantmakeitup.blogspot.com/

p.s. Stay tuned for my upcoming newsblog called CNN.COM. Fucking assholes!

p.p.s. Yes I am genuinely pissed about this.

Roe v. Wade

Q: What is President Bush's position on Roe vs. Wade?



A: He really doesn't care how people get out of New Orleans.

Courtesy of a dear friend's mother, Mrs. Liedman.

By the by, the above picture is President Bush posing with "Flat Stanley". Read all about their adventures here.

p.s. I had so much fun at The Rejection Show last night. It's so rare that a TWO HOUR comedy show can be funny from beginning to end, but Jon Friedman & Co. really pulled it off. I spoke with Bill Plympton after the show, and may have gone overboard in my praise... He was all "You did a great jo--" I was like "Don't speak! I have been a faaaan of yoouuuurs for yeeeeahs now!" And this is stone-cold sober, friends. He was very gracious, and drew me a little picture of a dog saying my name! I came home and placed it next to my MTV licensed Aeon Flux Venus Fly Trap©.

The New Yorker cartoonists, David Sipress and Arnie Levin, were hilarious, made funnier by the people in the back row who couldn't see the caption, relying instead on one woman to loudly read it to them... then they would all crack up in hysterical laughter. It was like the comedy Doppler effect.

And when my parents found out I would be performing on the same bill as Jackie "the Jokeman" Martling née Stern, it seemed like my quest to be a comic in this town suddenly made sense. He was a treat to watch, almost like a stand-up professor -- I felt like I shoulda been taking notes. Seemed like a geniunely nice guy. At one point in his rejection story, while thanking the host and complimenting the performers, he added "And the girl was fantastic..." ... People, I'M THE GIRL! I was thinking of adding a reviews section to my blog, and I am not above adding a quote from The Jokeman himself saying "And the girl was fantastic." Thankfully, I didn't introduce myself afterwards, so no horribly awkward stories to report back to you.

Next Rej. Show is October 18th. Organized people, mark your delightfully tabbed agendas.

The Martha Dumptruck/Andy Milonakis Conspiracy

Today I propose we play a little game, where we decide if the picture in question is of Martha Dumptruck, from possibly the best movie from the 1980's, Heathers, or Andy Milonakis, the funny, baby-faced 29-year-old star of the self-titled Andy Milonakis Show. The similarities are so startling, it makes you wonder where these two were between 1990-2004... Parent Trap remake, anyone? (Answers at the bottom.)

(with thanks to Thighmaster, a man who has a seemingly unhealthy obsession with Mademoiselle Dumptruck, for the Heathers link.)

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Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, that was tough!