Monthly Archives: August 2008

“What is the definition of a fiancée, if I’m your fiancée?” –Tiffany Pollard

Okay.  Okay.  I know I’m a snobby bitch about a lot of things.  I like literature and films and I have an 80GB iPod and blah blah. I know it’s a flaw and I’m trying to work on it, for real. I promise. And that is why I can say this without hesitation or guilt or anything like that, and it doesn’t even really feel like this statement should be ironic though I suppose it is, in some way… anyway. Here we go.

celebrality

What a brilliant play on words.

I fucking love VH1 reality shows.  I really do.  I actually own season one of Flavor of Love on DVD.  I religiously watched Rock of Love 2.  Miss Rap Supreme is amazing.  Celebrity Rehab–okay that was weird, but I love Dr. Drew.  Celebrity Fit Club, what a good idea, and fuck Screech.  Naturally, all of these shows are amazing and I watch them all the time, usually on reruns during the afternoon as I sit on the couch in my apartment and pig out on ramen noodles and diet coke.  But no matter the brilliance achieved by any of the previously mentioned programs, there will always be one reality TV star who will always have my heart.  No, it’s not Bret Michaels.  It’s not Peter Brady or whatever his fucking name is.  It certainly isn’t Adrianne Curry.  It could almost be Flavor Flav, but that’s another post entirely.  Nay, my reality obsession is… drumroll…

The psychotic, anti-spitting, “princess” tattooed, spawn of Sister Patterson, owner of ten thousand weaves, the only true HBIC, the bitch whose fake eyelashes weigh down her eyelids, the one and only NEW YORK.

God that woman is amazing.  I’ve loved her since Flavor of Love 1.  In fact, she’s sorta the reason I

Ohhh gurrl.  WORK DAT UPDO.

Ohhh gurrl. WORK DAT UPDO.

bought the DVD box set.  I can’t decide if she is literally that mentally whacked or if she’s that good of an actress.  If the latter is true, then I think VH1 should take the first step and create some sort of reality tv award show and give that bitch the numero uno best of the best award.  The statue could be a golden cast of Flavor Flav’s dick or something.  Whatever, she deserves it.  If she really is that unstable, then she should still get the award, because I’d be afraid of her if she was denied.  You know she and her mother would suddenly grow claws (real ones, not those insane acrylics) and sport fangs and pop out batwings and throw a motherfucking blitzkrieg onto whoever didn’t give her what she wanted.  She’d send Tailor Made out to do her bidding, except he doesn’t look like a balding sweaty boy anymore, he’s turned into a gollum-esque creature from New York only letting him out of her closet for when she wants sex or ice cream.

His pores are made of diamonds.

Which brings me to the bad news.  NEW YORK AND TAILOR MADE… BROKE UP.  WTF.  Okay, I know I was rooting for Buddha during season 2 and all, but I eventually came to understand that New York and Tailor Made were a match made in reality tv heaven.  Who the fuck is she going to boss around now?  Other than her assistant, of course.  Who is she going to get drunk with and bat her ten pound eyelashes at and giggle at like a schoolgirl on ecstasy?  Who is going to carry her around the beach so she doesn’t have to get her Manolo Blahniks (you don’t even want to know how I spelled that before I googled it) messed up by the sand?  ONLY TAILOR MADE WAS SUITED FOR THESE CHORES.  Shit, he’s almost as much of a princess as she is, he should know what the fuck is up.

Anyway.  She has now effectively starred on five reality tv shows.  Five.  I ASPIRE TO BE THAT FABULOUS.  The only woman on reality tv that is half as fierce as New York is all the time was Janice Dickinson, and she got kicked off of America’s Next Top Model for being such a badass.  That is POWER.

Do you guys remember when Pumkin spat on her?  That bitch fight was perfect.  Oooh I wouldn’t fancy getting any of my bodily fluids on Miss. Pollard at any time, given her reaction to the spitting incident.  Hot damn.  Can you say harpy?  What a wonderful harpy.

And then there’s the wondrous telephone fight she had with Tailor Made, when they were barely still together.  WordPress is being a bitch, so here’s a link: New York vs. Tailor Made: EPIC BATTLE. Really?  That poor little man child.  He better get down on his knees and suck New York’s dick if he wants her to take him back.  He better sacrifice his left testicle to her.  He needs to personally braid her weaves into her golden hair and shine her shoes with his own spit.  I mean, dayum.

New York, New York… for the chance to have lunch with you I would give my left pinky toe.  I really would.  I would even hang out with your madre.  I just love you that much.

PEAS.

–Meghan

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Filed under celebrities, reality tv, tuesday post

They’re watching.

So I promised a post last night and I didn’t do it.  I watched the X-Files instead.

DO ME FOX

DO ME FOX

I am so so so sorry that I neglected my cyber-duties (Haha.  Duty.) but that brings me to talk about what this Tuesday (erm, Wednesday) post will be about:

CONSPIRACY THEORIES.

Dunundundunnnnn.

I love them.  I think they are hilarious.  Daddy was telling me the other day that a member of one of his favorite bands was interviewed recently and talked about the secret world government and how we’re all being mind-controlled.  YES.  WE SO ARE.  No, we’re not.  But this shit is AWESOME.  Who comes up with these things?  Seriously?  There are BOOKS about the New World Order, something my friend’s father believes in.  Another friend’s fiancé for real thinks the world is ending in 2012 (really, he does).

The real story starts last year when I was lucky enough to have a class schedule that optimized my ridiculous TV watching addiction. One day I googled something I saw on one of the Discovery Channel’s early afternoon timeslots (only weirdos like me watch this shit) entitled “Best Evidence,” a show dedicated to giving more hype to retarded conspiracy theories. Anyway, I googled and came up with the infamous alien autopsy video. Oh yes. That one. At that time, there was another video in the little “related videos” section, with a name to the effect of “SHAPESHIFTING REPTILIAN HUMANOID POPE.” Uh, what? Oh yes. It is true.

There is ACTUALLY and theory that the world is being RUN by shapeshifting reptilian humanoids! AHHHH. Bush is one. The Pope is one. PRINCESS DIANA WAS ONE. THEY ARE EVERYWHERE. 9/11 was orchestrated by them.

It’s like we’re in a matrix run by LIZARDS.

are you threatened?  ARE YOU?

Are you threatened? ARE YOU?

And to make this shit even better, Carleson and I decided to make a Facebook group dedicated to satirizing this theory. It is patently obvious to us and to people we like and respect that it is a total joke. Originally, the members were mainly comprised of our friends, but then… I hadn’t checked it in months and I went to look at it and it had 100+ members, all of which were FIRM BELIEVERS.

JESUS SAID IT SO IT MUST BE TRUE

JESUS SAID IT SO IT MUST BE TRUE

I love this shit. I absolutely love it. I wonder if one day some people got really fucking stoned and decided to start a rumor that the world was being ruled by lizards. Maybe they were watching Invader Zim or something. That is how these things catch on, you know. Someone makes a bet to tell the biggest lie and before they know it, it becomes a cult. Oh wait, that’s not lizards–that’s Scientology. Lulz.

Anyway, I truly love conspiracy theories.  I would be so bored without them.  I would be forced to pay attention to real news.  And possibly worst of all, if there were no conspiracy theories… THERE WOULD BE NO X-FILES.

Watch the X-Files.  It’s the American Way.

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Filed under celebrities, tuesday post

IT’S TUESDAY.

Three things:

One) Since I have made the ultimate decision to discontinue membership of my sorority (for a variety of reasons), I need something else to make Tuesdays seem more important.  Used to be, Monday sucked, Tuesday was sorority day, Wednesday was humpday, Thursday was mixer night and Friday was… Friday.  TUESDAY HAS NO MORE SIGNIFICANCE!  Poor Tuesday.  It has been so good to me in the past.  So I’ve decided to do special posts on Tuesday to make up for it’s current lack of meaning.

Two) Tuesday posts will not consist of bitch rants.  Every week we will post about something we LOVE.  It will be amazing and you people better fucking worship it.  Today’s post will be written later this afternoon, after I make 15 friendship bracelets that I promised I’d do by the end of the summer which is oh, a week and a half away.  Long story.

Three) It has come to my attention that this blog got a retarded amount of hits from searches for Miley Cyrus related things.  So.

Cotton is delicious.  Also, sexy.

Cotton is delicious. Also, sexy.

Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus Miley Cyrus.

-Meghan

PS:  Since this post, about three hours ago, we’ve received 600 hits.  Thank you, Miley.  Maybe there is hope for you yet.

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Filed under announcements, celebrities, general, music

Does anyone find it ironic that the lead singer looks like Jesus? Heh. I just laughed at myself.

I had to do breathing exercises before I started this post.  There are a lot of bands out there today that I don’t like (Dave Matthews, Fall Out Boy, etc) but none of them even come close to rivaling the pure auditory torture that graces my innocent eardrums when a certain band’s music (if one could even call them a band, more like a few homeless old cats meowing in tandem) flies through the air and manifests itself on my radio.  All it takes is hearing the first chord of one of their horribly thrown-together songs (songs?  more like an arrangement of discordance) for me to physically assault the vessel which emits it.

Yes, readers.  I am describing Nickelback.

They need to bathe.

They need to bathe.

I am of the worthy opinion that they are part of a huge conspiracy to destroy the music industry from the inside out.  Well it didn’t work for Erasmus so it better fucking not work for Nickelback!  I don’t understand how people can actually … like them.  All of their songs sound exactly the same, as can be witnessed by this charming website.  REALLY?  They are like a cult!  They get ’em young, they attract young Americans with their filth to ensure that these kids’ musical tastes never evolve past whiny 7th grader!  IT’S HORRIFYING.  Nickelback is like a virus infecting the minds of the weak!  They’re like the crazy fundamentalists who don’t believe in evolution coming to your kindergarden class to BRAINWASH YOU.  They’re like parents who won’t let their young daughters play with dolls so she doesn’t develop a poor body image!

NICKELBACK IS EVERYWHERE.

SAVE YOURSELVES.

-Meghan

PS: I just did a facebook search to see which of my friends listed Nickelback under their favorite music, and it is an EMBARASSING AMOUNT.  I can’t believe this.  I may have to defriend them, and we all know how low that hits below the proverbial belt.

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Hey! Hey, over here! I haven’t been objectified enough today.

I’m going to lay it out there.  I have large breasts.  I don’t apologize for them or make any excuses, nor do I attempt to hide them.  I’m very proud of my body, really I am.  What I am not proud of is the kind of attention our society calls to bodies like mine.  Breasts are a commodity and I fucking hate it.  So today’s post is about implants.  Joy.

Hey sexy, I can see the outline of your implant under your skin.

Hey sexy, I can see the outline of your implant under your skin.

Pamela, I hate you.  I hate you for being a stupid barbie bimbo who contracts STDs and fucks skeezy guys like Tommy Lee and Kid Rock (seriously?  How does that man get so much play?).  But what I really hate you for is your stupid fucking breast augmentation surgery.  THANKS.  Thank you, from all the girls with naturally large tits, for helping men look at us and think “stupid easy whore.”  I REALLY APPRECIATE IT.  Let me tell you, Pam, there is nothing I love more than going to a bar wearing a normal shirt that shows cleavage (because I’m a girl and I like shirts that aren’t former potato sacks) and being seemingly immediately noticed by the drunk sketchballs.  It’s my favorite.  Thanks to people like you, women like me have to endure years of animalistic behavior from men who think big breasts mean one thing and one thing only.  Not to mention the amount of people asking me if they’re fake.  NO THEY ARE NOT FAKE.  Just because yours are, Pammie-dearest, doesn’t mean that every other slender girl with double Ds has to have fake chi-chis too.

So why do women get breast implants?  Fuck if I know.  Oh, wait.  I think it’s because of our culture’s beauty standards.  Yeah.  We females have to make ourselves as “presentable” to men as possible so we can feel better about our own sad little existance.  Women say they get breast implants “because they wanted them” or “not to be sexier, just to look better.”  WHAT.  To look better?  To look better for who?  I never look at a girl and think to myself, “wow, if only her boobs were bigger, she’d look fantastic.”  NO.  No one does that.  To me, the only feasible reasons for a woman getting breast implants are a) you have breast cancer and had to get your real ones chopped off of b) your breasts are naturally so small that you basically don’t have breasts (example: Debra Messing.  But I think she totally rocks her flat-titty look so good for her).  That is IT.  There is NO reason to do that to yourself.  And it just pisses me off.

Implant-bitches, you make me look bad.  Stop it.

-Meghan

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7 things I love about Miley Cyrus

I have a hangover.  I just chugged three yoo-hoos.  I think I like things in list form.  Simple.   I promise I can form complex sentences.  Here we go.  These are the seven things I love about Miley Cyrus:

7) Her teeth.  They are just so amazingly large.

6) Her wigs.  Who knew the platinum blonde Hannah Montana was really the brunette Miley?  Shocker to the world, especially during her concerts which feature both the musical acts of Hannah and Miley.  Separately.  As in, an hour of Hannah Montana and then an hour of Miley Cyrus.  Maybe with some Jonas Brothers thrown in there somewhere.  Oh, parents will apparently murder to get tickets to these double feature concerts.  … I’m now even more thankful that I don’t have a thirteen year old daughter. I mean, that would be fucked up.  I would have been pregnant at age eight.

5) Her father, Billy Ray Cyrus.  How can anyone not love him?  He has an achy breaky heart.  Oooh, his achy breaky heart.  And their relationship is creepy as fuck, which leads me to number four:

4) That Vanity Fair photoshoot.  In case you have all forgotten or are living under a rock, this picture raised quite the scandal.

Is she hungover as well?

Is she hungover as well?

The nation was shocked by the bare back of a 15 year old girl.  Apparently this picture encourages pedophilia or something.  Now, I am not saying that I necessarily approve of the photoshoot or anything, because honestly I don’t care.  I just don’t see how a picture of a 15 year old girl displaying her back in possibly the least sexy way I have ever seen someone’s back be displayed, while at the same time looking like an unwashed undead coke addict, could really be that huge of a deal.  But that’s just me.  The picture I have an issue with is the one with her father.

Sure, well go to the Aquarium right after I finish whoring you out to the media.

Sure, we'll go to the Aquarium right after I finish whoring you out to the media.

Seriously?  I am just so grossed out by this image that I had to share it with you.  That dude is her father.  She is 15.  What. The. Fuck.  It looks like a toned down Harlequin Romance novel cover.  Billy Ray is the Scottish rebel who kidnapped the beautiful daughter of his enemy, only to find her stubborn recklessness to be remarkably enticing.  Ew.  Ewewewewewew.  My brain is too cloudy to really process this so I’ll leave it at that.

3) Her voice is almost as manly as Scarlett Johansson’s.  Maybe she and Justin Timberlake should switch vocal chords.

2) Her first single, “See You Again,” is a blatant ripoff of Corey Hart’s “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night.”  Her second single, entitled “7 things,” is like that one scene from the movie 10 Things I Hate About You except really really shitty and lacking a quality melody.   Look up the video for it, it’s hiiiilarious.

And finally, the thing I most love about dearest Miley Cyrus…

Were I a man, I would really enjoy looking at pictures of underdeveloped teenage girls.

1) One day, our heroine Miley Cyrus decided to take some sexy myspace photos of herself with her iPhone.  We all have.  It’s a natural response.  You finally receive that beloved piece of mind-reading technology and your first impluse?  Take some sexy sexy pictures.  The thing is, we’re not 15, nor are we famous, so no one cares about our amateur pornography schemes on our cell phones.  Turns out, some brilliant paparazzo hacked into Miley’s iPhone and published the pictures on the internets!  Oh, Disney.  I can feel your regret spreading like a slow-killing airborne chemically-produced virus for which there is no cure.  Walt is rolling in his grave.  Actually, he’s been on a spit ever since someone in the Disney offices uttered the words, Little Mermaid 2.  How long until Miley is arrested for possession of crack or spiking her frappuchino with tequila?  I mean, I would.  Wouldn’t you?

-Meghan

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World of War–man, getting my dick sucked is not fun. I’ll go have a LAN party–Craft.

I’ll start this one on a positive note.  The only good thing about the MMO game World of

Theyre at a LAN party in someones mothers basement, while she is upstairs making them pizza rolls in the microwave.  How kind.

They're at a LAN party in someone's mother's basement, while she is upstairs making them pizza rolls in the microwave. How kind.

Warcraft is that it’s like natural selection.  It does me and the rest of the female population of this world a huge favor–it clearly distributes men directly into the “unfuckable” category.  That way, we can ensure that their sperm never interacts with our ovaries, and thus we don’t really have to worry about children being born already equipped with a dependency on Mountain Dew, Pop Tarts and Little Caesar’s 5 dollar pizza.  Although I suppose that might make feeding them a little cheaper (by the way, I will admit that I love all three of those foods.  Separately, and only every couple of days.  Okay, Pop Tarts are acceptable every day.  Whatever).

Anyway.  World of motherfucking Warcraft.  I once had a boyfriend who basically gave up his life to this game.  And what’s even cuter?  His username was an adorable corruption of the word “marijuana.”  So now all the ladies know that he sucks because a) he plays WoW and b) it’s a fair assumption that he’s smoked away whatever usefulness he might have had left.    (P——, if you’re reading this don’t get angry, you were completely aware of my feelings on the subject).  I remember one morning he woke me up and dragged me to his computer, sat me down on his lap and showed me around Azeroth (for the blissfully unaware, Azeroth is the “world” in which WoW is set).  HOW ROMANTIC.  “Hey baby, let me show you my digs… they’re pixelized, on this computer.  But I have three monitors so you can see EVERYTHING!  Now here, have a nice tall cold one–no not a delicious beer, I have a mini-refridgerator stocked with cans upon cans of Mountain Dew.  Doesn’t that take the edge of the day off?  Shh shh baby, it’s okay… we can cuddle after I finish my quest.  It’s important, I have to get to the Queen of Blah Blah with the magic crystal that I found in such and such a cave, after I fought off hundreds of fire-breathing orcs.  Aren’t you proud of your big strong man?”

Absolutely NOT.  I mean… I am almost at a loss for words here, people.  How can anyone defend WoW as a game that encourages social activity and mental stimulation?  These players sit in a dark room, hooked up to an IV of Mountain Dew and staring so hard at their computer that they need a new glasses prescription every three months (and they all wear glasses.  They do).  They justify the inherent lack of physical human interaction because apparently chatting with people through your headset as you go off and raid something that DOESN’T EXIST still counts as quality time spent with others.

I don’t trust people who say they only play WoW sometimes.  You can’t.  The design of the game is such that if you don’t get sucked in almost immediately and join a guild and schedule meetings and work around your WoW playing time, then you basically aren’t really playing the game.  You’re just walking about shooting shit and designing your outfit.  Where’s the fun in that?  HMMM?

Did you people know that you have to PAY for the privilege of playing World of Warcraft?  Well, you do.  Not only does it quickly destroy any chance of a social life you may once have had, but it leaves its cloven hoofprint on your bank account as well.  I mean, I think it’s like 15 bucks a month or so, which isn’t that bad, but still.  That’s 15 dollars you could have spent on a bottle of tequila, which if shared with the right person would have for sure guaranteed the no-pants dance.  Sharing a game of WoW?  Completely eliminates any chance anyone will want to touch your no-no square.

Obviously, players of WoW do not posess what we real-life inhabitants like to call cause/effect rationality.  You might have heard the cliché, “he can’t see past the end of his nose.”  Well WoW fanatics can’t see anything, because their habitats are completely blacked out to only allow light emitted from their computer screens.  They’re slowly becoming Gollum.  Mmyyyy precccioousss woooorld of waaaarcraaaft.  Yep.  Mark my words, one day WoW players will be like the 17 year cicada, only emerging from their holes once every 17 years to rob convenience stores of Mountain Dew and Pop Tarts, only to disappear again.  I cannot wait.

-Meghan

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