Tuesday, July 30, 2013

5 TV Pitches Inspired By "Naked and Afraid"

Two people, one bathroom stall. The world is watching.

Two strangers find out they are both having an affair with the same person while marooned on a beach with no sunscreen. 

A pair of good-looking singles get depressingly drunk at a funeral/the running of the bulls/their 20th college reunion.

Two senior citizens/new mothers try LSD. 

Two friends compete in the Tour de France while gossiping about Amanda Bynes.

P.S. Naked and Afraid is a real show!
P.P.S. It goes without saying that I would watch all of these. GET IN MY EYES, NOW.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Everything I've Always Hated About Summer* *But Was Too Afraid To Admit, Volume 3

I'm convinced that I'm cold-blooded. I am one of those people who is always cold. Even in July, I sleep with a comforter. My sweatpants know no "off-season." (Partially because I share them with Jeff, but still.) I'm a block of ice--slightly hairy ice, like ice that's been dropped on the floor of a barber shop and then put back in your white wine spritzer. A little dangerous, kind of suspect, sexy if you're into that. But I digress. My point is that I'm a frosty little mofo. So it follows that I should love summer, right? I should love that feeling of being hot-boxed into a room filled with pudding, the kind of heat where you can actually feel your hair frizz, at the exact moment that the sweat gathering under your thuttocks begins to drip down, making a lackadaisical run for your inner knees.

Eh ....

Not so much.

There are many things I hate about summer in general (see also Volume 1 and Volume 2), but now that I have a kid a whole other level of curmudgeonly loathing has been awakened. For instance, toddlers are sticky by nature (they make their own sap, in between tantrums), but add in the grab bag of the average summer day's bonus toppings--sweat, five coats of sunblock, runny popsicles, cheap drugstore bubbles, and approximately fifty-two rounds of sprinkler/sandbox dipping--and you have the human equivalent of Slimer from Ghostbusters. And it wants to be carried, snuggling its grimy 98-degree body against your already steaming flesh.

But once again, I digress. On to my shit list:


Yup, I said it. THE SUN.

Because this?

Is a lie. The sun is not happy. It doesn't rise each day looking like it just pooped a mile-long rainbow, and it's not the color of a shiny, free-range egg yolk.

No, the sun is a giant, angry ball of fire that wants us all to melt to death.

A quick clarification: Don't get me wrong, I like solar power and light and stuff, and I need my vitamin D like everyone else. I just want worldwide cloud cover from June through September so that when I inevitably try to walk through a sliding glass door, no one mistakes me for the Kool Aid man based on skin color.


I live in Brooklyn, where an 8-ounce cafe latte can cost upwards of $14*. But at least that's eight precious ounces of liquid caffeine, not two handfuls of ice with a light misting of something brown that may or may not once have existed in bean form.

Maybe I wouldn't be so harsh if the privilege of being served less coffee over a giant scoop of free frozen water didn't result in a 50% markup. Or if watery milk tasted, I don't know, exceedingly delicious, instead of like sad, cold ass.

But as it stands, iced coffee, you and me are not bros. And therefore I will stand in the 99-degree heat and I will drink my burning hot latte, and it WILL TASTE LIKE JUSTICE.

*P.S. Of course I'm not being serious. It's actually $14.35 with tax.


I'll let a meme do the talking here, because I don't have much more to say than:

So, yeah. Enjoy your summer, kids. I'll be over here, shaking my cane. As usual.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

TGI...WTF? The Importance of Being Pants

Gird your hooded thong-covered loins, children. Ol' Lady LaMarche is dustin' off her fashion sass-hat.

Because woe (and woah), there are some insidious pants trends rising up from the drop-crotched pits of Hades.

I know I've written about pants before on the blog. Longtime readers will recall my disdain for harem pants, rompers, and jeggings.

But dudes. It is getting SO. MUCH. WORSE.

I mean, what in the ever-loving fuck is this supposed to be?

I'm sorry, but soooooo.... now it's acceptable to steal Subway Jared's old Levi's, hot glue gun them to ill-fitting sweats like some kind of nightmarish, thigh-puckered Frankenstein monster, cuff them (insult, meet injury), and then throw on a PVC bra and Zack Morris' 1991 flat top and call it a motherfucking day?

This simply cannot stand. (And definitely not on white stilettos, Miley.)

And it's not just the C-listers deciding it's OK to go all sartorially Sybil below the belt.

That is Jennifer Lawrence, Oscar winner. Appearing in public in half of a "palazzo pant" (and the only thing worse than saying pant in the singular is actually wearing pant leg, in the singular, Katniss) and half of something from the surplus stock of the 1988 Julia Sugarbaker Tuxedo for Her Collection for JC Penny (which only exists in my mind, but still.)

Jennifer. You are a ROLE MODEL for IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG GIRLS. Stop day drinking and find some bottoms that are not conjoined fraternal twins.

I'm sorry; I'm getting upset. Let me simmer a minute.

BIEBER, I SAID I WAS SIMMERING! Whhhhhyyyyyyyyy must you taunt me? And whhhheeeeere did you get the pants from my limited-edition NKOTB Concert Edition Jordan Knight doll? He is only 12" tall--THOSE ARE TOO SMALL FOR YOU!!! The man in the background is wearing both a jacket AND a hoodie, so surely you must feel a stiff breeze somewhere in your crackal region. P.S. If you can poop without removing any clothing YOU ARE WEARING YOUR PANTS WRONG.

Oh, good. Phew. That's better. You can definitely poop into those without anyone being the wiser.

R.I.P., pants. I'll always remember you as being two identical legs with a seam that hugs the genitals, and a waist that causes muffin top in the sides, not the upper buttocks.

You tried your best to shine, but you were just too good for this world.

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