An Open Letter to Weight Watchers

A snapshot from a Weight Watchers meeting in the she-she Upper East Side. It's so unfair - check out all the work they've had done.

Dear Weight Watchers,

Hi there. You might remember me. I went to 2 or 3 of your meetings a few years back, in an almost abandoned church uptown. I was the one cheated into buying $45 worth of useless manuals using your "Points" system, which you ended up changing not 3 weeks afterwards with no offer of a refund/exchange. Still don't remember me? Hmm... I was the normal looking girl there with a chatty friend in the third row, behind the two rows of severely anorexic gym rats and in front of the rows filled with the morbidly obese black and hispanic women. The girl who kept quietly scoffing as some 98-pound waifling spent 15 minutes talking about the point differential between steamed asparagus and boiled peas. "Are peas carbs?" she quandried, as I flipped through my (soon-to-be) useless pamphlets explaining fool proof ways to get the "skinny on skinny".

God, still no memory? Gee... ba ba ba... Um. I was the girl sitting next to the fat woman who told us how she lost weight on her Cancun vacation, which surprised her, because even though she ate everything in the buffet three times over and nearly tore into one of the innocent Mexican busboys quaking behind the swinging door to the kitchen, she thinks that walking down that flight of stairs to the beach really burned the fat? The one whose metal folding chair shot me a pleading look halfway through to save its life? No? Hmm, strange. Well, no matter I guess.

Just wanted to send a little tip from a brief (but fumingly angry) ex-customer. Next time you choose a theme song to your commercials urging heavy women to get in shape, you might want to pick something other than Cher's "THIS IS A SONG FOR THE LONELY." I'm sure you thought it was apropos, and maybe it is. But ah-literally, everytime I hear the gayest beginning chords in the history of techno strike up, and see those plus-sized women jumping gleefully in the air like a re-re Mary Tyler Moore, I actually harbor feelings of hatred towards you and your insensitivity. I mean, how the hell did a song ABOUT LONELY PEOPLE get picked? What was that meeting like?:

Intern: Sir, here are the models we picked for the 2005 ad campaign.

(5 heavy-set women enter)

President: These broomsticks!? I want them fat, fatter, fatter! I don't want them to fit through the doorway. You find me the fattest women stat, or it's your unpaid job! Bring Harold in here!

Harold: Yes, sir?

President: Harold, have you picked the song for the new commercial?

Harold: Well, sir, I have a couple in mind... "I Get A Kick Outta You"?

President: (sigh) Next.

Harold: Uh, OK... (shuffled some papers) Um... Desiree's "You Gotta Be"?

President: Too.... inspiraaational. No, I want to beat these fat bitches down until they're banging on our doors on their knobby hands and knees begging for us to accept them.

Harold: Oh, well I...

President: You gotta hit their weak spots. Did anyone ever write a song about a husband not being attracted to his cow of a wife anymore?

Harold: I doubt it.

President: OK, what about "All By Myself"?

Harold: Not bad.

President: God, I don't know, it needs to be more... trannified. You know, make 'em feel like less of a woman?

Harold: I think I've got it.

President: Hit me.

Harold: "This Is A Song For The Lonely" by Cher.

President: Harold, my boy, looks like somebody's going after my job!

(Harold and President laugh for 45 minutes.)

President: Now get out of my office.

Long story short, if you want to get women to use your services, start out by not reminding them of their infinite pit of loneliness. It's also best to not remind them of their suicidal tendencies, or that time their Uncle touched then in their bathing suit area (although I am sure there's country song written about that somewhere).

Concerned,

Sister Celine Dijon (and my dog, Chicken-Fingers)


On second thought, maybe it's a geen campaign: Lord knows after seeing this picture, I have just lost my appetite not only for food, but also for the existence of God.

Two More Days To Vote

Just a small hungover-Sunday reminder that there are only 2 days left to vote for me in the "Most Humorous Blog" category in the 2006 Bloggie Awards.


I'm the middle one.

If you missed it the first time, take a look at my underdog theory/desperate plea for your vote.


Me and my gay leather dog thank you.

And The Oscar Goes To...

I'm back to buying the New York Post in the mornings. Sure, I went through a big book reading phase recently, and I did learn something. I learned that I find the police blotter more interesting, Page Six more scandalizing, and Su Doku more autisticly satisfying than any of the books I'd polished off.

Friends chastise me for buying the paper, known for its extremely conservative viewpoints, to which I'll nod in agreement, very seriously, brows furrowed, while sloooooowly pull out a folded piece of paper from my back pocket, unfolding it to reveal...


TA DA!!! One of the Post's many to die for headlines. For the record, that's not me in the picture, however I swear to you I have a clipping of that very article sitting in a folder at home, along with the headline "Stop Or I'll Scoot" (cop riding a Segway with a huge smile on his face), and my personal favorite, during a stock market slump: "How Now Down Dow?"

To boil a long, complicated story down to 3 to 4 poorly written, slopped together paragraphs, I adore the New York Post, while simultaneously hating it. But like a crack dealer offering you a taste for only $.25, I come back day in, day out.

And thank God I do.

Because today's movie reviews outdid themselves. Don't bother reading the review itself. Just let everything about this image sink in:


There is something so inherently sad about this juxtaposition. Here's a funny guy, Martin Lawrence, giving it his all to make America laugh, in a picture that says it all (fat suit, strain on face, high leg kick), placed next to one critic's swift yet harsh judgment: ZERO STARS. I laughed for 45 straight minutes. (click pic to enlarge)

Now this review had me wondering. It's nice to see Martin back to his old antics and all, but...



Update: A lovely reader writes in to tell me: "Tichina Arnolds (aka Pam) is the mom in Everybody Hates Chris!" Oh! I'm dying to see that show, but still have no idea what night it airs. Checking IMDB, I see that even Reginald Ballard, the actor who played the nefarious neighbor "Brother Man", has also made a nice little career for himself. Who knew?

"Sunny Days, Blowing Your... Ass Awaaaay"

CNN.com outdoes themselves with this one:



No, no, no, no... that was my TUPAC Potty Pal that asked that.


"Pee on my face and watch me kill a bitch! Damn!"

Here's the article: Elmo Book Asks: 'Who Wants To Die?'

Side-note: Posts tomorrow will be much less anger-fueled and anti-child.

Things That Need To End: Grocery Carts for Kids

A few evenings ago, I headed over to my local supermarket D'Agostinos (or, as I prefer "Faggy Chinos") to pick up some staple foods (read: water, pomegranate juice, a jar of Ranch dressing, big wooden spoon, etc.)

D'Agostinos is, in my estimation, one of the worst supermarkets in New York. I've gotten food poisoning from them TWICE (my roomate just now getting over some bad sushi she had recently), they only put things on sale that are about to spoil (just yesterday I got some Dannon with Brendan Frasier's face on the lid promoting "Blast From The Past" for only eight cents), and they always, ALWAYS, overcharge you when you get to the register. Thanks to my kitchen (the size of Kelly Ripa's shoebox), I don't often cook, although I imagine their meat department slogan to be "E. Coli is A. Okay!" Not to mention, their employees boast nothing short of a second grade education, but apparently have Ph.D's in "Bad Attitude." (Oh, I went there!)

And yet, with all of these problems, I continue to shop there on occasion, as it is practically on my corner, and I am severely, severely disabled with mild pangs of carpel tunnel. Also, I am a member of their "Greenpoints Club", where I earn a point for every dollar, meaning that in about 34 years I'm gonna end up with a sweet AM/FM cassette player from Koss.

But one thing that happened a few days ago made me think twice about returning to Faggy Chinos. And that thing begins and ends with CHILD SHOPPING CARTS.

Yes. Tiny, tiny, miniature shopping carts meant to be pushed around by toddlers.

So there I am, myself a literal gie-gie, turning into the dairy aisle with a tub of hummus cradled in my arms like a premie, when I nearly KILL a little blonde child roughly 2 feet tall, pushing around one of these miniature carts. The carts themselves are so small that they have room for one box of cereal, 2 Push Pops, and a single grain of rice. That's it, they're that small.


And there I am to buy the supermarket staples that any Dominatrix College Mascot needs: Cheez Doodles, Zima, cabbage, alien food, Tresumme, and a cock ring.

Why the supermarket would even offer these tiny trolleys for tykes is beyond me. What's the point? So your daughter can feel like an adult at the age of 3? Hey, kid, you want to impersonate your Mom? Here's an idea: Fill a coffee mug to the brim with red wine, draw wrinkles around your lips, and smoke a pack of ciggs in the toilet while telling your best friend over the portable phone how you and your husband haven't done it in 2 years because he thinks you're too "stretched out." There you go... just like Mom!

Normally kids can move really fast. But this little lass in front of me was taking her sweet-butt time scanning all the canned fruits low enough for even the most elderly corpse to spot. Any attempts to go around her were futile as, you guessed it, her mother (why in italics, I don't know, but in my head that's how I say it) blocked the entire path, gazing down towards the world's greatest treasure. "Excuse me." I said. No response. I am invisible next to the glaring golden rays shooting out of her angel's halo. The toddler resumed her 1 BPH (block per hour) speed as mother followed closely. Cut to me, hopping back and forth on each foot just dying to get past them. It took me nearly a whole minute to get by. A whole minute! My hummus, tragically, spoiled.

Why this whole story? I tell it to you for one simple reason:

It was the first time in my life I have ever wanted to kill a child. Yes, to murder a harmless child! At least, one that was full term and not stuck inside of me.


What's next? Grocery carts for dooogs? On second thought, look how adorable that is. In fact, if I was stuck behind a dog pushing a cart at the market, I'd follow patiently for a while, as a steady stream of urine simultaneously ran down my legs.

If you're truly bored, check out these reviews people actually sat down and wrote for the "Little Helper's Grocery Cart." Mrs. Gresh (who rated it as four stars, and is also completely fucking out of her mind) says: "I like taking this to the store rather than having her use the kid size carts that are already there because of the germs. I know her hands are the only ones that touch this cart and therefore we have no germ transfer. I do wipe off the wheels after an especially busy shopping day; I don't want all that mess in the house."


Mrs. Gresh: "I 'ont laihke to bring germs in tha house."

A Glimpse Into Our Non-Existant Friendship

Ever wondered what it would be like to be my actual, real friend? Well, wonder no longer!

Take a peek into what it would be like to have a virtual conversation with a real life functioning autistic gal (read: me), courtesy of friend and ex-pun-blog-partner, Chelsea Peretti.

Here's a hint:



To see more cats on horses (and, admit it, you want to), check out our convo: **CATS *ON* HORSES**.

21 Titles Of Chick Lit Books I Would Like To Write

1. Never After

2. Lip Schtick

3. Live and Let Diet

4. Get a Wife!

5. The Things They Married

6. Wife or Death

7. Ya Win Some, Ya Shoes Some!

8. Sex and the City

9. First Comes Love, Then Comes Porridge

10. To Know A Veil

11. Shop in the Name of Love

12. I Want to Die

13. Berg-Dorf On Shopping

14. Look At This Huge Knife I Bought!

15. I'm Going To Slit My Throat With It.

16. Baked Brie and Prosper

17. Can't Anyone Take Female Writers Seriously Anymore?

18. Dress for Suck-Sex

19. Spending Ten Times What We Earn!

20. The Devil Wears Dress Barn: Why Gina Was Promoted To Manager Over Me At MacFrugal's

21. I've Just Killed Myself

Unwrapped: Sad Christmas on The Food Channel

"Next on the Food Network, Beulah McCormack shows us just how "gruel" life can be with her Classic Slop recipe, just like (the mother she never knew) used to make!"

I've had trouble getting to sleep lately, thanks to a little channel I recently discovered called "Food Network on Demand." There I'll be, 3 in the morning, eyes a-bloodshot, hands trembling, glued to the tv screen watching "America's Pastry Challenge", where pastry chefs from all over the world compete to make chocolate, paint and sugar look like museum worthy sculptures. I've decided that when I die, and if I'm rich enough, I'm going to sponsor a "Chocolate Coffin Challenge", where 6 chefs compete to create the most ornate, elaborate chocolate coffin to lay me to rest in. Although I'd also happily be buried in an oversized pita with a side of babaganoush.

So late last night, as per usual these days, I turn to the Food Network on Demand to see their latest offerings. I refuse to watch anything hosted by Rachael Ray after 8 pm, for fear of inducing a dream where my innards are sucked through a straw by a flesh-hungry demon on a budget.


Rachael Ray: "Here I am in Seattle, and I've just ordered the skull of a baby baked in pig's blood for only five dollars. Let's take a taste... (winks, and puts forkful in mouth.) Mmmm... (pretending it's too hot)... Mmmm... that is sooo good you guys. Mmm..."

Finally, I settled in on an old favorite, "Unwrapped", hosted by Double Dare Alum and OCD-addled Marc Summers, the only man on television who sports a Jewfro and gets away with it. "Unwrapped" shows you the behind-the-scenes makings of some of your favorite foods, and it's comforting to know that the Campbell's soup factory does not employ 14-year-old Thai hookers, as once rumored by the riveting John Stossel of 20/20. (Did you know that Chicken Noodle soup is cooked after it has been sealed in the can? They do it in a pressure cooker! Mmm Mmm fascinating!)

Last night's theme was "Winter Treats". I learned of a delicious looking Grilled Cheese restaurant by the same name in the Lower East Side, as well as how candy cane trees are made (ironically, and seriously, by Thai hookers.) But one segment really pulled me in, and that was how "The Swiss Colony" store makes their famous "Christmas Log." It's basically a layer cake rolled up and covered in chocolate, with an adorable chocolate mold of three little raccoons applied to one end. The factory looked really friendly, and the food reminded me of fattening garbage I used to sell to strange neighbors in order to win a trip to Space Camp. (Needless to say, I bought everything myself, and earned a paid trip to Fat Camp.)

I decided to find out how much these Christmas Logs cost, as they were adorable and looked delicious. And it was on "The Swiss Colony" website that I discovered the real truth behind "Christmas Logs"... they're actually called "ORPHAN LOGS." ORPHAN LOGS. Well doesn't that just spell Christmas! Never once on the show were these cakes referred to as "Orphan Logs"... what's the back-story? Let's check out the description:

(Unwanted) Youngsters of all ages (without parents) will savor this Orphans' Logs! The (motherless) raccoons are pure milk chocolate, too! Our chocolate Yule logs, decorated with care by (really small, almost babylike) hand(s), are meant to remind (long lost, forgotten) loved ones of the original Yule log (their mother used to make), the decorated wooden logs brought home (by your brawny dad) that burned throughout the holiday festivities. And though ours still symbolizes the same family togetherness (you now so often miss and crave), this scrumptious pastry rarely lasts for days. . .it's often devoured in minutes (by hungry, hungry orphans)!

(parentheticals added.)

And now, a Holiday Cartoon, brought to you by your friends at "The Swiss Colony":

Rash-Tacular Slang

See? Even Asians have lip hair!

A few months ago, I presented a list of slang words that I hoped would make it into the everyday English lexicon. One of those terms, "Hilarie Clinton" (as in, "the ageing sequences in Brokeback Mountain were Hilarie Clinton"), have succeeded in being used about 4 times a day... by me.

Today, I'd like to introduce a genius term, concocted by good friend and online Scrab-partner, Lindsay Reinhardt.

So last week I had an event to attend in the evening (Juvenile Diabetes Ball, or Diajew Neediesblah, or something about the poor, I forget), when I noticed under the bright, unforgiving fluorescence of the bathroom lights at work a couple of..... that I seemed to be growing... a... a lady-stache. Some unnattractive yet delicate whiskers adorning my upper lip.***

***These are things women rarely to never to discuss out loud, and definitely not with the opposite sex, along with that time you accidentally shit your pants in Jamaica, and the time you ran out of tampons and rubber-banded some Q-tips together with a scrunchie. One phenomenon that I had never heard spoken about, to anyone, by anyone, is finding your long head-hair stranded in the crack of your ass after a shower. In fact, I think I was drunk when I said this out loud once, and to my delight, all the girls I was with started laughing, knowingly. Clearly, an epidemic yet to be jotted down in some toilet-paper-cum-chick-lit novel that I would gladly write for the right price.


You know these two were pulling navy rope out of their asshole, but God forbid they tell each other about it.

Back to the asparagus broom growing out of my face. I tell Lindsay about my "lady problem", and debate whether or not I should get a quick waxing before the event.

Her response was brilliant: "Don't do it," she tells me, "or you'll get a rashtache."

It took nearly five minutes of silence while my brain tried to wrap around its genius.

"Rashtache." I repeated. Its brilliance overwhelmed me. Rashtache - the redness left on one's lip following a hair removal, that resembles a moustache made of rash.


Me, a week after I burn my lady-face-hairs off with hot coals.

Refusing to believe that any of my friends were smarter than me, I Googled it, only to find out... that Lindsay invented the word!

So congrats to her, and please, ladies, RASHTACHE. Say it out loud. It feels right. Use it. I better hear that shit thrown around on the next season of Laguna Beach, I swear to God.

p.s. I thought of a new character today, a woman who writes terrible parody songs, and her name is Weird Sally Yanklechotch. Working feverishly on her oeuvre as we shpiel.


(sung to Billy Jean) "Silly agent cast Danny Glover (beat) In the role that I was boorrn to play (beat beat) But I'm not black and I can't act."

Too Young, Too Old, Just Right

My friend Gabe just sent me two photos taken with his camera phone Carroll Street G train stop. The writing was on top of one of those "We All Have AIDS" Kenneth Cole ads. This opinionated scrawler first takes his or her catty toll on the visage of Ms. Sharon Stone.


It says "Give it a rest, Sharon."

But not to be one who only poo-poos the rich and famous, she leaves a follow-up scrawl on the esteemed bosom of Elizabeth Taylor:


Liz Taylor's Breasts: "Just Right."

Man, I wish I had a marker! I would totally scrawl over her neck "Check out her enviable decolletage!"

2006 Bloggie Awards: Vote 4 the Underdog... ME!

It was with great surprise and honor last night that I learned of my nomination for a 2006 Bloggie Award for Most Humorous Blog. The Bloggies are considered the "Blogging Oscars" amongst throngs of single, poorly dressed dorkos with awkward bodies, social anxiety disorder, halitosis, and a knack for "skipping out on the tab." Otherwise known as "My Peoples."

Being nominated is a real honor, but let's be frank: It's the winning that counts. Winning is fantastic, awesome, inspiring. Nobody ever writes inspirational poetry about winning stuff, because winners are people who are above poetry. It's the losers who pen dumb shit about falling off your bike and getting up again, healing the wounds, blah blah blah. Poetry sucks and Emily Dickinson killed herself. You get the idea.

So winning should be simple right? Just get the most people to vote for me. Here is the point where I throw out a major roadblock. See, the other 4 sites nominated, well, how do I put this... THEY ARE MUCH, MUCH MORE POPULAR THAN ME. I mean we are talking many, many more hits, many more fans, much more ad revenue. These people own matching shoes, take the subway to work (I ride my handcar), heat their baked beans up in a microwave (I eat mine cold). These are people who don't need to put up posts begging for votes: America loves them and will vote accordingly.

Hence - I need a strategy stat. If I'm gonna take this prize (which I believe is about $20, or roughly 3 Armenian handjobs), I need to devise a way to get people's attention and make them want to vote for me. And then it hit me.

Play the Underdog Card©.

If there's one thing Hollywood has taught me over the years , it's that America (and the world) loves Underdogs. They love rooting for the little guy (or the woman with the thyroid problem, as the case may be.) They love comeback stories, unexpected victories, surprise endings... simply put, America loves seeing LOSERS WIN. Cases in point:

1. Rudy Ruettiger



Hobbit joins Notre Dame football team, and against all odds, makes history books after tackling some meathead and becoming the only player to ever be carried off the field. Also stars "Fat Jon Favreau Version 1", ROC, and Skinny Mute Vince Vaughn.


2. You've Got Mail



Fishlips Von Quaid must close her adorable, little bookshop, after Tom "Mrs. Spielberg" Hanks opens his mega-bookshop down the street. What these two don't realize is that the whole time they're fighting, they're also e-mailing each other anonymously and falling in love! Underdog story as Meg Ryan was single, but eventually was able to marry rich. I always, always cry at the end, but I think it's cause my Dad taped over the actual end with footage of 9/11.


3. Miracle



1980's USA hockey team overcomes the fact that they're all drop dead gorgeous and beats Russia to win Olympic Gold. I, too, hope to overcome this fact.


4. Corky from Life Goes On



Uh, hello! The guy had down syndrome and could STILL memorize his lines. On top of everything, he managed to go on to host the (now defunct) talk show, "The Late Late Show with Corky from Life Goes On."


5. Hilary Swank in... anything



Do the math: The girl has starred in TWO movies (The Next Karate Kid was really more of a documentary) and has, how many? That's right: TWO OSCARS. Admittedly, she had to look like a bull dyke in both films, but underdogs come in all shapes and sizes folks. Even extremely, scarily muscular waif-sized ones. Boys may not cry, but girls do, and I definitely will, if I lose.


6. Ross Perot



Multi-Zillionaire with fetal alcohol syndrome runs for office and wins! (puts finger on hidden earpiece) Hold on, I'm... (listening) I'm getting word he actually did NOT win the election. (mumbling) He's dead now? (clearing throat) Umm... (pause) (smiles blankly at the camera.)


7. UNDERDOG



Best cartoon ever? Maybe not. That's why he was an UNDERDOG folks. Damn.

And that's only 7 of literal millions of examples!

So I propose we try a little experiment: Check out the Bloggie noms, vote for your faves, but specifically, this blog (under the Most Humorous category, ninth from the bottom, or just CTRL-Find it yourself), and submit it. Vote multiple times with different e-mail addresses if you have to! We can do this, America.

Then, forward the Bloggie Noms (or this post) to all your friends, relatives, loved ones, and even those you don't really love (I'm talking to you, orphaned baby in a chest of drawers), asking them to vote for me, and for them to pass it on, etc. etc. If you want to maybe also say that for every e-mail forwarded, $1 is donated to breast cancer, or something of that ilk, go ahead.

Or if you really want to grab my attention, you can even root for this classic underdog on your blog, or even Livejournal. Hell, even your Myspace profile! I'll take whatever I can get.

What's in it for you? Very, very little, other than helping an UNDERDOG out and reaping the HEART-WARMING benefits of watching me BASK IN THE GLORY of receiving an award. Do you see how great that would be for you? Good.

Now get to it! There are only 8 days left to vote!!

With all my love and warmth,
Your nominee,


Michelle Collins

A Whole New World

When my Great Nana Fleinbaum Lowenstein came to this great nation 58 years ago, it was like a rebirth.... if a rebirth included a traumatic boat ride, a thorough de-licing, a handful of gang rapes, gout, re-licing, a new, Christian name (Joan Collins), yet more de-licing, and a suspicious rash that vaguely resembled Charles Nelson Reilly (she would recall later, as Mr. N. Reilly had not acheived the level of fame necessary for relating ones rash to at the time.)


Well, wouldn't you gang rape her? She's gorgeous!

Point being, as her rhuematic foot stepped off the ship onto this free, new land, all of the atrocities of the past (and truss, there were a-plenty a those) seemed to disappear like the rest of her family, and she was faced with the "O" word that defines the American dream: Opportunity.

Speaking of opportunity, this would be a good one to bring up the obvious...

DID YOU NOTICE THE NEW BLOG DESIGN?! Yes, folks, nearly a year and a half into this little adventure I started, I got my shit together, took a deep breath, and hired someone to redesign the blog.

But not just any someone. A genius!

His name is Clay Ostrom, and he is absolutely brilliant. I gave him an idea of what I wanted, and before I knew it, he had created something above and beyond what I had expected. He's also a goddamned delight to work with, professional, funny, and what else can I say? If you're looking for someone with a keen eye for design to set up your website or blog, this is your man. You can see some of his work at his website, Bird Branch, or e-mail him directly by clicking here.

It's Like... Some Kind of Annoying Movie Trend Or Something

Every now and again in New York, you come across poor, unemployed shmucks standing in front of a movie theather, or on your street corner, or huddling around a trash can fire in your airshaft (euphemism for raping you), offering you free screening passes to an upcoming movie. They're everywhere. The good news is, they're giving you free movie passes, so you can't really complain (although somehow I just did).


(midwestern accent) "It stars DJ Qualls and Zach Braff, and it's about dirtbike racing! Call this number and be there at 6:15 sharp! Hurry up now, you're gonna be late for work!"

A few months back, a friend and I went to see the latest Maggie Gyllenhaal epic, entitled "Some Kind Of Heaven." In it, Gyllenhaal plays a recovering drunk and drug addict who, just released from prison, returns to Jersey to live in a halfway house and reestablish a relationship with her young daughter. In other words, nearly identical to the plot of Shrek 3. And in yet more words, utterly and completely soul crushing.


Starring Maggie Gyllenhaal and the Olsen Twins.

Before the movie began, the woman running the screening picked my friend and I to participate in a post-movie Q&A session with only about 10 other people. If there are two things I'm good at, it's speaking up in crowds and shooting my huge arm into the air to catch someone's attention, hence I was nothing short of jazzed. Movie ends, my friend and I discuss privately, and then it's showtime! Q&A time that is.

I had many things on my mind, some things not even relating to the movie at all, and I made sure to tell the proctor all of them.

One major beef I had was the title: "Some Kind of Heaven." Nothing seemingly wrong with it at first, until you see the movie. One scene has Maggie on a payphone, speaking to her brother. She looks around, and then mumbles "I don't know... you'd think we were in some kind of heaven or something..."

Eyeroll times infinity, right? I HATE when a movie's title is somehow slipped into the dialogue. Case in point:

- I don't know... you'd think we were on MUPPET TREASURE ISLAND or something"

- "God, I'm so tired... and it's so rainy... it's like I'm SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE or something"

- "What do you think of this FULL METAL JACKET I got at T.J. Maxx? It's a little big, but it was only seven dollars. Return it?? But I've always wanted a FULL METAL JACKET! Where else, am I gonna find, a FULL METAL JACKET for $7?! Listen, I understand, you're a little jealous. Look, what if I loaned you my FULL METAL JACKET every now and again, would that make things better? Yes? Great."


(muffled) "But it was only seven dollars!"

The Q&A. So I raised my hand and expressed my concern about the title, "Some Kind of Heaven". To which immediately the other dozen or so people started nodding their heads and motioning to speak in agreement. Finally! I had a comment the masses agreed with! It didn't matter what I said from then on -- I could raise my hand and let out a slow, full-bodied fart, and the people would almost definitely second my motion!

The Q&A ends, we're handed $10 (to which my pal and I danced merrily down to Union Square like the Post-War Jews that we are), and frankly, I forgot all about this movie.

Until today.

Because today, friends, is when I learned... that the movie has a NEW TITLE! Don't you UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?!?!?! I CHANGED MOVIE HISTORY! Me!

The new title? Sherrybaby. Meh. It's premiering at Sundance this year, so keep an eye out for it, over-privileged film buffs.


Enjoy your movie, sir.

Is This The Way To Pee-Your-Pants-Ville?

Back when I was overseas (a phrase I've recently used so often it sounds like I'm a syphilitic sailor who was stationed in a Thai port town, when really I am a syphilitic lady who was stationed in Eastern Europe), one thing my friends and I loved to do was watch the MTV Hits Channel. This might explain why I rang in the earliest hours of 2006 laying in a bed built in 1842, watching Newlyweds, and eating bagel chips (i.e., the ideal New Years.)


Geraldine had just about given up on living, that is until she noticed the plate of lemon poppy muffins, lovingly baked by her husband, Frank, a notorious feeder.

There were certain videos that we couldn't get enough of: Kanye West's "Heard Em Say" (animated by Bill Plympton, don't think I didn't lose my shit when I first saw it!), Madonna's "Hung Up" (trite, I know, but addictive), anything by Robbie Williams, and a cover of Phil Collins' "Against All Odds" by "X-Factor" winner Steve Brookstein who not only is adorable (and need I point out, a Jew), but also shares the same velvety tones of legendary Michael McDonald, not a Jew. (See also, the biggest picture of Michael McDonald... ever; also, Michael McDonald's black, gay twin.)


There's something eerily Terminator 2 about this picture, and yet, I can't deny that I'm attracted to this Silver Fox. Nuclear Holocaust is much more appealing when there's inspirational music involved.

But then... then there were those videos that seemed to play on repeat, over and over again, til we wanted to bust a cap in our own flabby asses. Namely two songs: Nizlopi's "JCB", a seemingly cute song about a young boy who rides around with his "Da" all day instead of being in school, but, like fascism, the more you hear about it, the more you grow against it. The other song which is no stranger to the States is "My Humps", which I don't want to talk about because 8 of my kitty lives have already floated up to heaven following post-Humps aneurysms.


Although with a face like that, Fergie's "humps" are pretty enticing.

OK so why all this ranting? One video, shown only a handful of times, was so good, the song so catchy, the video so funny, that I just had to tell you about it. It's called "Is This The Way To Amarillo?", sung by Tony Christie in 1971, and the video stars some very famous British celebrities, namely the star, Peter Kay. If you're a Brit, you're probably rolling your eyes right now (the song was a #1 hit for a few weeks) -- but here in the U.S., this song/video has never really been heard! So I bring it to you.



WATCH THE VIDEO HERE!

Read the history of the song and video here.

And because I realize this post was more educational than entertaining or interesting, perhaps this joke from last night's Joan Rivers Show at The Cutting Room will suffice: "Sometimes I look down and think I'm wearing grey bunny slippers, then I realized that my vagina's dropping." She also made some joke about a man on a toilet, with sagging balls, steeping a teabag in the water, something something, but I clearly just fucked that up hard. Joan, please forgive me, we love you.


All I kept thinking during the show was, "Good God! She was the robot maid in Spaceballs!!" Oh, and also how I'm dying to BE her. All in due time, Collins, all in due time.

Well, It's Better Than "Cathy"

Two of my favorite guys -- also, the funniest guys -- Bob Powers and Todd Levin, hosted an event called "The Strip Show" a couple of weeks ago, showcasing comic strip talents from the NYC area. While recapping the show, Todd gives us what I think might be the comic strip of the new millenium. He goes on:

I then explained that, to get in the right head for creating original comics, I went back and read a bunch of comic strips I really love. Out of that came the inspiration for an incredible new comic about a dry, sardonic rabbit named FARFIELD. My Farfield strips—all hand-drawn! (brag)—are here:

My Turkish Sweet Sixteen

Leave it to Matt Drudge to give this whole pesky "Bird Flu Pandemic" a heart:



Bird flu, shmird shmlu, what IS it like being socially alienated from your peers in Turkey?

And now, for a very special episode of "My Turkish Sweet 16", or "Tatli On Alti":


Makbule: Oh My Allah, who are you going to invite to your "Sweet Sixteen", Söğüda?

Söğüda: Allah, I don't know! So far I've invited Yağmur, Dilruba, Boğaçhan, and Çağatay.

Jülide: You invited Çağatay?! You have such a crush on him!

Söğüda: I do not!

Makbule: Oh my Allah, you so do. Everyone knows.

Jülide: What about Kevser?

Söğüda: No way! Kevser only had one shoe on during prayer yesterday... it's like, Hello, Kevser! Buy another shoe already. He is so poor, I hate him.

Makbule: Allah, totally. Did you invite Zülal?

Söğüda: Zülal? Are you serious?

Jülide: Uh, Makbule, haven't you heard?

Makbule: Heard what...

Jülide: Zülal totally has BIRD FLU!

Makbule: What?!

Jülide: Yeah! Have you been living under a sallamak or something? She was playing with some chicken heads in her Papa's masonry shoppe and got BIRD FLU. I swear to Allah.

Makbule: Allah, I had no idea.

Söğüda: I tell you this much: If that BITCH Zülal thinks she can show up at MY party, with BIRD FLU, she is wrong! I will BEAT HER ASS if she brings her chicken-coughing ugly-effing FACE in my 16th BIRTHDAY PARTY! My father did not pay 5.7 billion to the 5th power Lira to have all 14,000 guests end up a national news headline. Bitch will die. I swear to Allah.

(Jülide and Makbule share an uncomfortable glance)

Jülide and Makbule (overlapping): Yeah... bi-bitch... bitch deserves it... yeah.


Zülal: She just wants to be loved.