Hateration '06

I had no intentions of posting twice today but there are a couple of gentlemen who's antics compelled me to do so.

Working at AOL sometimes lands you some pretty nice perks, i.e., tickets to Capitals and Wizards games. They're given out on a first come, first served basis so ANY average Joe can get their hands on a set, provided they're willing to stand in line for 30 straight minutes.

Unless, that is, you've got connections.

Connections of the type I refer to will get you box seats at tonight's Wizards vs. Pacers game with no lines involved. The aforementioned gentlemen were graciously blessed with a grip of these seats. Don't get me wrong, the dudes worked hard so they deserved a reward. I mean, I hated on them at first but not that much.

It was only when these gentlemen revealed their braggadocious plans for the 8 hours PRECEDING the game that my gallon of Haterade made its debut.

First of all, they lazed around for 7 of those hours. Didn't come to work until maybe 4:30 or 5pm. And not to DO work, mind you, but to slather their good fortune in the faces of the rest of us (who were, fyi, still working).

And when they walked in? They're dressed TO. DEATH. Sportcoats brushed, shirts perfectly starched and pressed. These fools even had the nerve to get a shave and a haircut. Is this a Wizards game or a trip to the Oscars??

And the thought process behind such a Herculean grooming effort? "We got box seats! Do you know how many WOMEN are gonna be checkin' us out??"

Oh yeah, a slew of semi-old, work-haggard MARRIED dudes. I'm sure broads will be tossing panties at you right and left.

And before you guys get the idea that I'm planning to key somebody's car, these guys are actually FRIENDS of mine. But lemme tell ya, they are SO gonna get it when they show up for work tomorrow...

Man Question

Eric and I got into a fake debate over a man-subject the other day.

Which means I should've just take his word for it since I'm not a guy, right? But you know me -- shutting up is definitely not my forte. So, as per my usual, I thought I'd air the topic on the blog. Because here NOTHING is sacred.

The question I'd like to pose to the guys (gals are more than welcome to chime in) is: why do you zip after you button?

Every guy I've ever dated handles wardrobe assembly the same way -- when you're putting on pants, you button first THEN you zip. For me, that would make it next to impossible to yank the thing all the way up. And of the two genders, I'd think that GUYS would have more of a vested interest in keeping that area thoroughly covered (most of you anyway).

Long ass question short: is button-zipping a GUY thing or is it just a matter of preference?

Cat Spat

I must do a lot of free-basing in my sleep.



My dream from last night? I was Beyonce's new best friend.

We were apparently quite close until things suddenly and inexplicably fell apart. Beyonce's explanation for the break up, "She was too into her cats. Every time we tried to hang out she had to run and 'Make sure they're okay' or 'Check to see they weren't dead' or something. I just got tired of it."

Beyonce, you's cool and all but my cats are my CATS.

Bake Sales for Body Armor

Cranky Liberal and Bastard at Bring It On asked folks to get the word out about this.

It is a non-partisan drive to provide less fortunate soldiers in Iraq with body armor and any other supplies they may need. Read on if you're interested in taking part in an effort that will really support our troops...

-------------------

Everyone,

This is the first time I have ever mass blasted something that is going on Blog Wise. I'm an ardent believer in reducing the amount of SPAM in life, but there are just times you need to be a little more vocal.

Please read the announcement below from my good friend TB over at Bring It On. We are kicking off an important fund raiser for our troops, and we ask you to consider helping in any way you can -- even if it is just a mention. This is a non-partisan issue; please help us help our brothers and sisters. (Oh and if you already know about this drive or have recieved email from someone else, I am sorry - feel free to yell at me.)

Thank You,
Cranky

--------------

In the next couple of weeks a new site will be launched called Bake Sales for Body Armor, it is a not-for-profit site that will be dedicated to raising money to buy body armor for the less fortunate men and women of our Armed Forces that cannot afford to buy it on their own. This not-for-profit is being endorsed by Bring It On! because we feel it is a disgrace that our own government cannot properly equip our brave men and women of the Armed Forces.

Bring It On! also felt that this issue is one that cannot wait and have decided to raise money in advance of the launch of Bake Sales for Body Armor. Please click on this link to donate or get a bumper sticker or shirt to show your support for this cause. All proceeds will be donated to Bake Sales for Body Armor. This is a non-partisan issue, the lives of our soldiers are at stake, please donate now!

After donating, feel free to post this message on your site to help get the word out.

The creator of Bake Sales for Body Armor ia Tammara Rosenleaf, who is a member of Military Families Speak Out (MFSO), Helena Peace Seekers, Just Don't Go and the Prairie Chapel 12. Tammara's husband Sean is currently serving in Iraq. Tammara can be reached at: tammara@bakesalesforbodyarmor.com.

----------------

***Further clarification from Bastard***

I would also note that it is not just body armor. Short of supplying ammunition we are interested in buying whatever the soldier needs to stay alive. Medical equipment, cooking utensils, even clothing. We are taking requests from soldiers now and sorting through what is needed.

----------------

Prescription Beef

I have face pizza.

Not that you'd know it to look at me now, but I've had a problem with greasy trackage since the 5th grade. My face, quite simply put, is an all-you-can-eat buffet of acne issues. The only reason it's under control NOW is due to one of the most marvelous advents in medical science and pharmaceutical commercialism: Accutane.

Quite simply, it's the most beautifulest pill I've ever taken.

I went on my first round of the miracle drug in high school; three weeks of it eradicated 7 STRAIGHT YEARS of horridious breakouts. The clearface phenomenon lasted all the way through college. In my opinion, it's the pharmaceutical version of the Second Coming of Christ.

Not that everyone will agree with me on this. I mean, dude, the side effects of this medication are a virtual laundry list of horrors. The most dramatic of which are ghastly birth defects that could afflict an unborn child if a female patient gets pregnant. It's obviously a pill that can't be carelessly dispensed so I completely understand that doctors need to go over all the risks before prescribing it.

What I do NOT understand is how Capitol Hill used Accutane as a platform to bust its way into my medicine cabinet.

Back in the day, you needed a counseling session with your doctor and a monthly confirmation that you weren't knocked up -- be it a pregnancy test or a prescription for oral contraceptives. But in 2006 we seemed to have DEVOLVED into some kind of medical dictatorship. The gubment has recently passed legislation that makes it next to IMPOSSIBLE to get an Accutane prescription filled. I'd probably have an easier time requesting 50 kilos of coke at the Target pharmacy. (Now that would make for one HELL of a blog post, wouldn't it...?)

Here, in very rough form, is the gubmental list of Accutane demands:

1) I must be given a blindingly-bright yellow, 3-ring binder issued by a program called iPledge that outlines the horrors of pregnancy and Accutane.

2) I must fill out several pages of documentation stating that I shouldn't have sex, that I won't get pregnant while having sex and that my fetus will emerge with three heads if I become pregnant while having sex.

3) I must register on the iPledge web site once a month, answer a series of (dumbass) questions and confirm that I have not become somebody's baby-mama within the last 30 days. My doctor must also take time out of HIS busy schedule to log on to the site and agree with every word I've typed.

--------
The iPLEDGE program is a computer-based risk management program designed to further the public health goal to eliminate fetal exposure to isotretinoin [Accutane] through a special restricted distribution program approved by the FDA. The program strives to ensure that:

* No female patient starts isotretinoin therapy if pregnant
* No female patient on isotretinoin therapy becomes pregnant

This enhanced program is a SINGLE pregnancy risk management program for prescribing and dispensing all isotretinoin products (brand and generic products). The iPLEDGE program requires registration of all wholesalers distributing isotretinoin, all healthcare professionals prescribing isotretinoin, all pharmacies dispensing isotretinoin, and all male and female patients prescribed isotretinoin. This program is designed to create a verifiable link between the negative pregnancy test and the dispensing of the isotretinoin prescription to the female patient of childbearing potential.
--------

4) My prescription MUST be accomapanied by the blindingly-bright yellow iPledge "card" -- which confirms my understanding that Accutane is killing my unborn child -- when I head to the pharmacy. Otherwise the pharmacist will drag me out into the parking lot and thoroughly fistbeat my ass.

5) If I wait longer than seven days to have my scrip filled it is no longer legally valid and will be consumed in the ever-burning flames of hell.

6) I must return to my doctor once EVERY 30 DAYS to lather, rinse and repeat steps 2 through 6. Which means another $20 copay every month (and is Bush gonna foot the bill for this? I think not).

Someone explain WHY haven't I moved to Canada yet?

I've Been Had

I've been tagged -- AGAIN!

This time by Lil Red. That means somebody gives a rat's ass for my 2 cents?? I'm fattered!

Seven Things To Do Before I Die:
1 - Learn another language.
2 - Live in NYC again (maybe).
3 - Get my armpits lasered (hey, YOU asked).
4 - Learn to drive stick (no, not THAT kind of stick...)
5 - Travel to London.
6 - Buy a house.
7 - Learn to play piano (I'm told I'd be good at it).

Seven Things I Cannot Do:
1 - TOLERATE STUPID PEOPLE (Red was spot-on with this one).
2 - A split (again, I'm with Red).
3 - Live a life without cats (ibid).
4 - Pee standing up (no fair that dudes can do that).
5 - Not be a geek.
6 - Avoid using a computer for 24 straight hours.
7 - Quit drinking Coke.

Seven Things That Attract Me To...Blogging:
1 - Somebody somewhere said I could write...and I bought it.
2 - Meeting Eric (okay, I didn't KNOW that was going to happen ahead of time, but still...)
3 - Getting comments from some extremely hilarious people.
4 - General disdain for my PAID occupation.
5 - Boredom.
6 - It helps me hone my writing skills (doesn't it, Red??)
7 - It keeps me semi-literate.

Seven Things I Say Most Often:
1 - "Dude!"
2 - "Like..."
3 - "Um..."
4 - "I hate that!"
5 - "Are you KIDDING me??"
6 - "Retard."
7 - "You're assed out."

Seven Books That I Loved:
1 - Alice In Wonderland (mock all you want to)
2 - The Golden Compass
3 - The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
4 - Jurassic Park (hey, it WAS a good book)
5 - The Poisonwood Bible
6 - The Stand
7 - Parable of the Sower

Seven Movies That I Watch Over and Over Again:
1 - Big Trouble In Little China
2 - Elizabeth (again, siding with Red)
3 - Beetlejuice
4 - Clerks
5 - Clue
6 - Pulp Fiction
7 - Friday

Seven People That Get to Join In Too (if they haven't already):
1 - Tara
2 - Beth
3 - Eric
4 - Genderist
5 - Jay
6 - Dor
7 - JM

Posting Ain't Easy -- Update

This just in.

Eric would like to thank those of you who backed his decision to consume that nasty ass, seasoned brownie.

You's real cool peeps.

F Your Resolutions

Somebody in Georgia wants us all to DIE.

And his assault is being launched one coronary at a time.

Last night I watched an episode of The Boondocks. The one where Grandad gets tapped to be the proprietor of a soulfood restaurant called The Itis. His signature dish? The Luther, a one pound slab of ground beef covered in cheese and bacon, sandwiched between two halves of a Krispy Kreme doughnut.



Believe it or not, they're actually serving this up somewhere in Decatur.

But this hunk of gastroanimosity PALES in comparison to the Hamdog. Which starts with a hot dog wrapped in a beef patty, deep-fried then topped with chili, cheese, onions, a fried egg and two fistfuls of french fries on a giant hoagie bun.



They'll whip this one up for you at the same, fine dining establishment that's peddling Luthers.

But Homer Simpson actually outpaced my blog post by a whopping 14 years when, during an episode of "Smartline," he caught wind of THIS plateful of death:

"We take eighteen ounces of sizzling ground beef and then soak it in rich creamery butter. Then we top it off with bacon, ham and a fried egg. We call it 'The Good Morning Burger.'"



Fortunately nobody in Georgia has listed the GM Burger on their menu. But give 'em five minutes...

Stolen Initiative

I had stellar intentions when I got up this morning.

I said to myself, I said, "Self? You are going to post today. And you're gonna post GOOD."

Then, half a day and one opthalmologist visit later (where I learned that instead of one degenerative retinal condition, I actually have ANOTHER) I can barely even see, much less THINK straight.

In other words, I am in no shape to blog today.

But in the hopes of retaining what few readers I might have left, I've unearthed some salient advice for anyone planning a thousand dollar sabbatical to the far east in the hopes of getting (of all things) laid. I'm sure the following will leave you in good stead...but don't sue me if it doesn't. I didn't write it. Hell, I've never even BEEN to Japan.

----------------------------

Universal Guide to Getting Laid in Japan
by fenomas

Part 1 (Guys)

So, you have made your way over to the far east, seen some sights, ridden the trains, bummed around, met some expats, paid too much for shitty coffee, gone to Ueno zoo and so on. Now you're thinking, "This is cool and all but where the ladies at??"

Don't worry brother, I've got your back.

Just follow these simple rules and you absolutely CAN'T go wrong. Granted, the girl you find will not be perfect; in fact, the odds are overwhelming that she'll be shallow, petty, jaded and soulless. But she will be, at least, fashionable.

First, the preliminaries:

1. Be white.
If you can't meet this requirement, then be black -- that's just as good. If that's also out of the question then be whatever you happen to be, as long as you're not Brazillian or from Southeast Asia. If you're one of those, pretend to be ethnic Canadian.

2. DON'T learn Japanese.
Trust me. The girls that you'll meet by following this guide have learned basic conversational English for the same reason that web designers learn Java: it is a necessary part of accomplishing a goal. They will also enjoy the chance to use their English and will be put off if you are able to answer them in Japanese which, if you're reading this, is unlikely.

And now, here's the step-by-step guide. Don't forget to take notes...

3. Go to Roppongi.
Coming from central Tokyo, Roppongi is the second to last station on the Hibiya subway line (the gray line on subway maps). If you're starting on the circular Yamanote train line, you can transfer to the Hibiya line at Ueno or Ebisu.

4. Find GasPanic.
GasPanic is a bar in Roppongi. It is the most popular bar for meeting foreign guys -- a fact you will take advantage of. If you can't find it, hang around the station and if a group of girls points at you (and they will if you followed step 1) ask them for directions. BTW, Thursday night is cheap drink night.

5. Stand at the bar.
Order a drink and don't bother looking interested in anything particular. Chat with a friend if you've brought one. Girls will come up sooner or later and start conversations. Then it will be time to choose which one to set your sights on. I recommend you follow these guidelines:

If she looks 22, she's 15.
If she looks 15, she's 28.
If she looks 28, she's over 40.

Now that that's all sorted out and you've picked out the lucky lady...

6. Make conversation.
Keep things simple. Stay low-key and use lots of vague answers. If you're asked about your job, make up something in the fashion industry or be unemployed. Just don't say you teach English because that locks you into an exclusive club of 99% of the foreigners in Tokyo (none of whom are known for buying expensive gifts, which is a big draw for the types of women you are currently interacting with). If this goes well, then you're ready to...

7. Make your move.
Nothing difficult here. Just talk about how crowded it is and suggest a move to somewhere quieter. If she agrees then you're golden because there is really only one place in Tokyo that is quiet and crowd-free: a love hotel. When it comes to Love Hotels, most girls will have a favorite (for which you will be paying) but if not, just look for neon.

--------------------------

There you have it -- an easy, simple guide to getting laid in Japan. I guarantee that any guy can do this because I have seen it done by some of the most inept quasimodos the world has ever produced. Of course, when the morning comes you'll never want to see the girl again. But if you haven't learned that by your age, I'm not going to make a point out of it.

Part 2 (Girls)

Okay, basically, the method for a girl to get laid in Japan is the same as it is to get laid anywhere else. Why am I even writing this?

Just go to a bar and come on to a guy who doesn't happen to be with any other girls at that particular moment. Play up to his ego, act really interested and imply that you are interested in a purely physical, no-strings-attached night of passion. How simple is that??

If you're a girl and you don't know how to go about getting laid, then you are either a moron or you're laboring under some bizarre illusion that guys are a hell of a lot more complicated than the apes to which our DNA is startlingly similar. Just get off of the internet and wake up to the fact that, as a woman, you hold all of the power in the world of sexual tension. And if you are not having sex on any particular night, it's because you don't want to.

Posting Ain't Easy

I reached back in time for this story but you'll like it cuz it's funny.

Me, Eric, Candace and Rich are on our way to the movies. We've got about 45 minutes before the show begins so we head to one of the nearby restaurants for drinks and dessert. We seat ourselves at one of the tables, peruse the menus and wait.

And wait.
And wait.

At least half a dozen servers have passed our table without stopping. So we grab our coats and are prepared to vamoose when one of the servers intercepts us and apologizes for the delay. Apparently some broad decided to light up INSIDE the restaurant and it took ages to convince her to cut that shit out. The server asks if we're willing to stick around -- fine, but realize you're skating on thin ice, here.

We ask for our drinks and I tack on an order for the brownie sundae bowl thing. I'm thinking maybe this won't be such a bad place after all.

Until the drinks arrive. I ended up with some girlified cocktail that could have removed RUST, there was so much alcohol in it. I take a few sips before dismissing the thing and just wait for my dessert to show up. Chocolate and ice cream should go a LONG way towards making up for this rapidly declining experience, right?

Um, no.

Twenty minutes later the server shows up with my plate. She's already told us that she'd take special care making the dessert herself so she sits it on the table and admires her own handiwork: a decadent brownie covered with delicate dollops of whipped cream and intricate trails of sprinkled cinnamon. She's almost kissing her OWN ass, she's so proud. Which is probably why she didn't realize that this dessert was severely muffed up.

Less than 30 seconds after she leaves I realize that something ain't workin. I'm supposed to be diving, face first, into a heaping platter of chocolatey goodness. So why am I smelling...

...salt.

And we're all smelling it, yet refusing to allow ourselves to BELIEVE that we're smelling it. Eric finally decides to take a taste of the stuff for confirmation, then declares, "Uh, this ain't cinnamon. This is Season-All."

F-WORD.

Turns out that Chrissy Snow, here, napalmed my brownie with Old Bay Seasoning and didn't even SMELL it during her trip from the kitchen to the table. Cinnamon and Mrs. Dash aren't even CLOSE to each other in the spice rack alphabet so what the hell is the problem???

(Meanwhile, Candace and Rich are losing their shit.)

I immediately request Phoebe's presence and once she arrives, I explain her faux pas. Her response: "No way. You've GOT to be mistaken..."

TASTE the shit, Rose.

"OMG...you guys?? I am SO SORRY!! I don't know how this happened! THEY must have put the wrong seasoning on this!!"

***Notice how the blame has been reassigned. One minute, she's the one slaving for hours over my perfect dessert. The next, she's pointing the finger at an invisible legion of slightly retarded kitchen sprites. ***

(Meanwhile, Candace and Rich are on the floor.)

Corky offers to make amends but, by now, I have no desire to ingest anything that this restaurant can throw on a plate. I request the check and silently fume until we make our way out of there. NOTHING will go right when I'm involved, will it??

ps -- Eric went ahead and ate the thing anyway.

Ingrinable Malfeeance

I promise to actually AUTHOR a post in the very near future.

Until then, PLEASE help this fool progress to grade 2...

Don't Press the Button

I obviously can't follow written instructions.

And I'm hoping you can't either.

Stool Pigeon

If the bird talks, wouldn't it behoove you to take your action someplace else?

Mouthy parrot 'reveals sex secret'
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Posted: 7:46 a.m. EST



LONDON, England -- A computer programmer found out his girlfriend was having an affair when his pet parrot kept repeating her lover's name, British media reported Tuesday.

The African grey parrot kept squawking "I love you, Gary" as his owner, Chris Taylor, sat with girlfriend Suzy Collins on the sofa of their shared flat in Leeds, northern England.

But when Taylor saw Collins's embarrassed reaction, he realized she had been having an affair -- meeting her lover in the flat whilst Ziggy looked on, the UK's Press Association reported.

Ziggy even mimicked Collins's voice each time she answered her telephone, calling out "Hiya Gary," according to newspaper reports.

Call-center worker Collins, 25, admitted the four-month affair with a colleague called Gary to her boyfriend and left the flat she had shared with Taylor, 30, for a year.

Taylor said he had also been forced to part with Ziggy after the bird continued to call out Gary's name and refused to stop squawking the phrases in his ex-girlfriend's voice, media reports said.

"I wasn't sorry to see the back of Suzy after what she did, but it really broke my heart to let Ziggy go," he said.

"I love him to bits and I really miss having him around, but it was torture hearing him repeat that name over and over again.

"I still can't believe he's gone. I know I'll get over Suzy, but I don't think I'll ever get over Ziggy."

Taylor acquired Ziggy as a chick eight years ago and named him after the David Bowie character Ziggy Stardust.

The bird has now found a new home through the offices of a local parrot dealer. Collins, who admitted the affair, said: "I'm not proud of what I did but I'm sure Chris would be the first to admit we were having problems."

She added to The Guardian newspaper: "I am surprised to hear he got rid of that bird. He spent more time talking to it than he did to me."

Thar She Blows

Shife once commented that some of my funniest posts revolve around Target.

Well Shife, Target is doing its best to keep my blog in business because the stories surrounding that place NEVER seem to end. This one involves the pharmacy counter.

Again.

Eric and I are picking up a prescription. We notice there's not a soul in line so we burn rubber to get to the counter before anyone else does. We're heading straight for it...

...when our eyebrows are singed off by the atomic stench somebody's just blown out of their ass. Jebus Christy O'Malley, who straight LACED it up in here?!?

Of course, the automatic response to an ass-plume of this magnitude is to drop everything and hunt down the culprit. Eric and I launch our surveillance offensive and, lo and behold, we identify our suspect: a grandmother who's out shopping with her daughter and grandchild. As soon as Grandma realizes she's been made, she IMMEDIATELY looks guilty and starts nudging her kids out of the area. Yep, we've found our broad.

Suspect apprehended, there's still the matter of the prescription I came to get. But how am I supposed to complete a retail transaction in funk this pungent?? I have no clue what livestock this woman ingested prior to visiting Target, but the air she laid hasn't dissipated in the LEAST. There's nothing else for it -- we're just gonna have to sit this one out.

I tell Eric that I'm audi until the fumes clear but he knows I'm made of stronger stuff than that. Plus, if we leave, there's guaranteed to be a 10-person line waiting for us when we return. Why MUST he be so damn rational at a time like this?!?

Fine. I switch to mouth-breathing, summon the pharmacist, give her my info, sign the receipt and bolt in what must have been 28 seconds. We peeled out of there so fast I think we left tire tread.

Moral of the story is: DON'T leave the house if you've got unavoidable ass problems. Seriously, people!!!

The Homey Commandments

For those who find the King James Version a bit too challenging...

1. I am God. Don't play me (I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt have no other gods before me).

2. Don't be makin' no hood ornaments or pendants that look like me (Thou shalt not have any graven images).

3. Don't be callin' me for no reason (Thou shalt not use the name of the Lord thy God in vain).

4. Y'all betta be in church every Sunday; not just on Easter and Christmas (Remember the the Sabbath day and keep it holy).

5. Don't cuss out yo momma or yo' daddy neither, if you know who he is... (Honor thy father and thy mother).

6. Don't run no drive-bys (Thou shalt not kill).

7. Stick to ya own Boo (Thou shalt not commit adultery).

8. Don't be borrowin' junk and then don't give it back (Thou shalt not steal).

9. Don't go lyin' on a dude to save yo' *bleep* (Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy brother).

10. Don't be skeemin' on yo homey's ice, crib, gear, ride or female (Thou shalt not covet anything that belongs to thy brother).

NOT a Hoax

Mulder would be all over this...

Cy, short for Cyclopes, a kitten born with only one eye and no nose, is shown in this photo provided by its owner in Redmond, Oregon, on Wednesday, Dec. 28, 2005. The kitten, a ragdoll breed, which died after living for one day, was one of two in the litter. Its sibling was born normal and healthy.

(AP Photo/Traci Allen)

What Floats Your Boat

Noticing a pattern in my posts lately, are you?

Trust me, it's not intentional. In fact, this post wasn't inspired by Angelina Jolie's sexual conquests...though I'm sure I'd get a much more enthusiastic response if it was.

Instead, this post is a plea for help.

Your help in defining a word that has increased in significance over the last several years. A word that has come to define a sizable segment of the world's population. A word which has soundly resonated throughout the annals of pop culture.

And that word is: "Ho."

What makes a ho a ho? Sleeping around on the first date? Sleeping with numerous partners? Sleeping with numerous partners simultaneously?

In other words, what floats YOUR ho boat??

H is for Homewrecker

By now, I'm sure you've ALL heard this...

-------------

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- Angelina Jolie is expecting a baby this summer with Brad Pitt, according to a report on People magazine's Web site.

"Yes, I'm pregnant," the magazine quoted Jolie as telling a charity aid worker Monday in the Dominican Republic, where she is filming "The Good Shepherd" with Matt Damon.

The report says the pregnancy was confirmed by representatives of both stars but does not identify them by name.

Pitt and actress Jennifer Aniston announced their separation last January, and Aniston filed for divorce in March, citing irreconcilable differences. The divorce became final in October.

Pitt, 42, has denied Jolie, 30, was behind the split.

-------------

Don't get me wrong. I take no issue with Brangelina, their relationship or their brood of (soon to be) 18 children.

What I do take issue with is the term "homewrecker." And the belief that a woman should shoulder all the blame for destroying a marriage while the wayward husband gets off scott free.

First, let us be honest: there are oodles of hoes in this world.

Hoes who, without shame or regret, would willingly take it upon themselves to tear a marriage asunder. And yes, if and when the marriage falls apart, that ho deserves a foot in the ass and an open-hand slap in the mouth.

But what about the DUDE??

Maybe I'm just listening to the wrong news outlets, but I haven't heard ONE person condemn Brad for leaving Jennifer Aniston. (I can't exactly blame the man; that woman is boring as hell -- but that's fodder for another conversation.)

Sure, Angelina might have had a hand in ending Brad and Jennifer's marriage...
A big hand...
A big, honking, huge ass, GIANT hand...

But BRAD is the one who made the decision to leave his wife for another woman. If Angelina's the ho then Brad certainly qualifies as "co-ho" in my book.

So why don't you ever hear that? I've read how "unfortunate" the break up was and how much of an "emotional toll" it must have taken on Brad. Yet, all of Angelina's recent press seems to amount to "Humanitarian Homewrecking Harpy."

My point is, BOTH of them are skeezers. And if I were Ms. Aniston, I'd have beef with Angelina. But I'd have sirloin STEAK with Brad's creepin' ass.

Homey-land Security

Thanks to James for the KICKASS title...

Check Yo'self

I might have to run a drive-by with my shopping cart.

Nowadays it seems that most of us have resorted to check/debit cards to fund our purchases. It's usually faster, easier and just so much more chic than dumping out a pile of balled up cash at the register.

Because, you know, I gotta be mad chic when I roll though The Teet.

So if everybody (except Eric) is on the same, debit card page, how do I manage to get stuck in line behind the ONE monolith that's hellbent on writing a check?!

This happened to me last week at the Target pharmacy counter. I pull in to find a clot of fools posted up next to the prescription drop off area. Being that the pharmacy is in an awkward location, it's hard to find a parking spot for my cart that isn't blocking an entire aisle. On top of that, I realize that the "line" is vaguely pointing in one direction and I'm pointing in another. Someone could easily sashay their way to the counter before I can even get to it, which means I'm already antsy.

So there I am, trying to run some counter-blocking interference, when I realize that I and all the other patrons have been standing in the exact same spot for a solid 7 minutes. The source of the delay: some poor, elderly creature that decides to wait until her total is tallied before pulling out her checkbook and putting pen to paper. And of course, her dexterity is not what it used to be, so what should have been a few lines of basic financial information turns into a master's thesis on economics.

Made even more long-winded by the fact that she insists on holding a conversation with the pharmacist the ENTIRE TIME she's making out the check. I'm not sure that HE even knows what this woman is talking about, but he nods and makes nice as pharmacist probably should. The rest of us are left standing around, feeling guilty over our lack of patience and infuriated that we feel guilty in the first place.

The ordeal ends 10 minutes later. The scars have yet to fade.

New Year, New Dude

Just shows to go ya: sometimes a CLEAN break is best.

----------------

The first message is a girl’s apology for cheating on her boyfriend. The second is his response:

Brad,

It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now. I feel like the worst person ever.

First, I am truly, truly sorry and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. All of us had WAY too much to drink and I did a stupid thing.

I can handle you being pissed at me. What I can’t handle is thinking that you see me as a different person. It is weird, the world looked funny yesterday, I couldn’t crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can’t listen to and I just feel beyond crushed. I don’t know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn’t. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid but you have come to play such a significant role in my life. I hate feeling like you hate me and that all of your friends think Im a terrible person, because I am not.

Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can’t even focus or work today, I can’t eat. I seriously hope against hope that you are not done with me. Please don’t cut me off. I really don’t think I can handle that.

I am so sorry.
Elizabeth

----------------

Dear Elizabeth,

Thank you for your concern. I’ll be sure to file it away under “L” for “long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn’t care less about.”

You did a “stupid thing,” huh? No, doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is “a stupid thing.” Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is “a stupid thing.” Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45 minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you’re taking so long because you ate too much bran isn’t as much a “stupid thing” as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.

To be honest, I’m not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet (not once but twice in a two-hour time span) or that you seemed to think that saying “Well, I didn’t f**k him” somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn’t care less if the world “looked funny” to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada bags and jelly beans, I’m sure it must have been most unsettling to actually consider somebody else’s feelings for 24 hours.

The good news for you is that my friends don’t think you’re a terrible person. They just think you’re the average, run of the mill, cum-guzzling blonde who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but it’s pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she’s seeing someone else in New Jersey. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser, we’ll laugh our heads off about the whole thing.

Talk to you never,
Brad

p.s. -- I bcc’d about 100 people on this email.

Meet My Parents

Because they're TRULY starting to lose it.

I got my mother a computer for Crimmus this year but it's been ailing lately so Eric and I planned to go check it out on Saturday. I called a few days in advance to tell my father we'd be coming by.

Well, Saturday morning rolls around and I wake up uber late...maybe around 11:30. I laze around a bit before I roll over to check my cell phone. I hit a few buttons, realize that it's not turning on and reset it. Once it comes back on, I realize I have no less than three voicemails and 6 pages from my parents. Um, what on earth is going on here??

I listen to the messages: the first is my father calling at 9:51am saying that he had to run a few errands and might not be at the house when I arrived. The second is my father saying he was worried that he hadn't heard from me since the first call. The third is my MOTHER sounding frantic and begging me to call her back as soon as possible.

WTF??!?

I've GOT to put an end to this quickly, so I call my father and he immediately freaks out: "You had your mother and I worried SICK! We've been trying to get in touch with you for the past THREE hours! Your mother was afraid that you were laying on the floor, too sick to pick up the phone. We called your friends and your sister but nobody had heard from you. We were even printing out the directions to your house so we could drive over there to see if you were okay..."

ARE? YOU? KIDDING ME?!?

Okay, so if YOUR parents don't hear from you for three hours they leave a voicemail or call back later. MY parents don't hear from me for 3 hours? They file a missing person's report.

It was only later that I discovered where the problem lie: when I'd told my father I'd be coming over, my words were, "More than likely I'll be there sometime in the afternoon."

To an average person, "sometime in the afternoon" sounds like anywhere between 12 and 5. To MY father, it sounds like "I'll be there at EXACTLY noon. If you don't hear from me, I'm dead. Alert the National Guard."

What am I going to DO with them??

Because We Cared

Man, I am SO crushed.



NEW YORK - Scott Stapp, former lead singer of Creed, is engaged.

Stapp and Jaclyn Nesheiwat, Miss New York USA 2004, will be married Feb. 10 in Florida, they announced this week. They met last January at a gala for the Muscular Dystrophy Association in New York.

The couple became engaged late last year, the singer's publicist, Dvora Vener Englefield, told The Associated Press on Thursday.

Stapp, 32, founded the rock band Creed and won a Grammy Award in 2000 for the song "With Arms Wide Open." He struck out on his own last year with the solo album, "The Great Divide."

Nesheiwat is the director of public affairs for the Scott Stapp Foundation, which promotes healthy parent-child relationships.

Nyah Nyah

Since I got clowned...

...for admitting that I'm obsessed with certain televised shopping programs, I am hereby repealing my Less Forwards decree. Nyah nyah!

(Dude, it's only January 6th and I'm already going back on my New Years Resolution? LAME.)

Oh well, hope you enjoy it anyway!

I Need A Man

So I'm watching ShopNBC. Partially because I'm obsessed with it and partially because it makes great background noise when you don't want to be distracted by GOOD television. Anyway, one of the salesbroads is pushing some kind of diamond bangle thingy to her loyal viewers. The suckers were selling like hotcakes when she she decided to go with THIS as a selling point:

"This is the perfect bracelet for a woman who is single and living alone and doesn't want to have to be bothered with closing a clasp."

Okay. Hold it. Back this thing up.

You're selling me a diamond bangle for umpteen-hundred dollars and the ONLY way you can justify this purchase is: I ain't got no man.

Who knew that women were so inane as to base their jewelry purchases on their relationship status? I'm 29 years old and this is the first I've heard of this.

And is it the same situation for EVERYBODY?
1) What if you're a lesbian?
2) What if you've married a dolphin?
3) Do you hock your jewelry after a divorce?
4) What if you're dating a paraplegic?
5) Can your baby-daddy hook you up?
6) What if your husband's secretly gay?
7) Is it really 2006 or did I just dream that up??

New Year, New Tag

Some Bastard tagged me so I must oblige!

Five Random Facts About Nicole
(Whether these facts are actually that random is up for debate...)

Fact #1: I am scared to death of falling down stairs. It's not that I'm not afraid of the steps themselves. I just have this insane, irrational paranoia of plummeting down a flight. Doesn't matter if they're stationary or in motion -- I'm gripping the hand rails like the jaws of life.

Fact #2: I'm partially Native American. On my father's side. His grandfather was part of the Lightfoot tribe in Big Island, VA. Wish I knew more of the details on the geneology but alas, I don't.

Fact #3: I'm left-handed. A fact that won't raise many eyebrows. But admit it, it's damn COOL! Especially since I'm in the design field -- being left-handed just confirms that I'm supercreative. Besides, those who write with their left hands are in their RIGHT minds. ;)

Fact #4: I was THERE. As in, "I was living and working in Manhattan during 9/11." An admission that might not mean much to some, but it means a hell of a lot to ME. That day was indescribably tragic and surreal.

Fact #5: I have never been drunk. So many have tried to put an end to my decades of sobriety but, as of yet, none of them have succeeded. Mind you, I have nothing against alcohol. I just don't like the taste of it enough to guzzle it until I'm blind in one eye. And as far as drowning my sorrows? That's what 12" strawberry cheesecakes are made for.

You're wishing I'd just go back to posting forwards again, aren't you?

Okay, now to pass on the torch to Lil Red, Vixen, NJ. And, just added, Eric!

(Erech and Mojotek are now off the hook. Sorry dudes.)