Left to my own devices.

This is what happens when you have no friends to drink with on a Saturday night:

Silly, silly graphic designers.

So yeah. Does anyone else think this looks like 'FUCKA'? Tsk tsk, Hollywood. Something tells me there was a lack of focus group research on this type treatment. Nevertheless, I'm enjoying the error. Go see FUCKA in theaters, starting this October 20th!

One step closer to the edge.

So I got in line for registration (for the American Idol auditions) at 6am, and there was already over 1,000 people in front of me. Maybe 2,000.. who knows. Made a couple friends in line (they were all from Wisconsin) and gave them some tips on what places to go to and how to use the Light Rail and such. A lot of out-of-towners.

When we finally got to the registration tables (3 hours later), I walked up and plopped down my two forms of ID, and then a news camera came up to me. Some reporter from the local FOX station I think (read: evil). She asked me what songs I was going to sing and I said I didn't want to say because I didn't want anyone else singing them. Then she asked me to sing something, saying it would probably be my only chance to sing on TV. And I was just thinking, er, I'd like to be embarrassed only once through this whole ordeal, so, uh, no thanks. Then I told her someone wanted me to sing the Cool Whip jingle and she laughed. I didn't realize the bit was live though, so I kept grabbing the microphone and making terrible comments about how I was there as a joke. Uhm, oops?

Then I got my bracelet and forgot my wallet at the table. Luckily I realized it before leaving and retrieved it 5 minutes later. Now I'm at work type type typing away with this monstrous hot orange bracelet on my wrist with American Idol logos all over it. So yeah, in conclusion, I WAS ON TV!!!! :)

More updates Friday night after auditions.

Sign over your self-respect please.

An excerpt from the American Idol audition form release:

I understand that I may reveal, and other parties may reveal, information about me that is of a personal, private, embarrassing or unfavorable nature, which information may be factual and/or fictional. I further understand that my appearance, depiction and/or portrayal in the Program may be disparaging, infamatory, embarrassing or of an otherwise unfavorable nature which may expose me to public ridicule, humiliation or condemnation. I acknowledge and agree that Producer shall have the right to (a) include any of all such information and appearances, depictions or portrayals in the Program as edited by Producer in its sole discretion, and (b) to broadcast and otherwise exploit the Program containing any or all such information and appearances, depictions or portrayals in any manner whatsoever in any and all media now known or hereafter devised, or for any other purpose, through the universe in perpetuity.

Hah. I wonder how many people actually read this before signing. :) Now, no telling them about my porn-writing fancies if I happen to go to the next round, you hear me?

September 8th, here I come! With bells and humiliation on.

Speed Dating, the end.

Yeah, got an email back yesterday saying which of the guys from speed dating were interested in talking to me again.

None of them.

Well, none of the 5 I picked. Weird geriatrics counseling guy picked me, but I have an inkling he put yes to everyone hoping to just get a date out of it. Any date. And some other guy I barely remember picked me too. I just recall him being mostly boring and having huge lips.

Don't Let Your Son Go Down On Me.

Well, Sylvia asked for it.. so here it is, in all its "glory". I tweaked a few lines from last edit, and I think it flows better. A deeper story, if you will.

Just to pre-empt, these lyrics are about a secretly gay man, whose one-night stand gay love affair comes back into his life and tells his wife about everything. He thinks he can be bi at first, but then, no, he accepts he's gay. And the obsession with the gay man who came back into his life progresses from there. And in the melody, he's turning to the gay guy's parents and asking them to please stop their son from, you know, sucking him off. Because it only confuses him more, and breaks his heart! Ok, maybe minus the heart breaking thing. But... I've obviously put too much thought into this. Man, so this is what I actually do with my free time? Jesus.

Anyway, enjoy. Preferably with the original by George Michael and Elton John playing along in the background. It's funnier that way. And without further ado...


"Don't Let Your Son Go Down on Me"

I can't fight no more of your stalking
All my memories seem all hazy from that night
I'm growing tired, and still you stand before me
Ranting here, telling secrets to my wife

It's much too late to save myself from lying
I took a chance and changed my choice of life
But you misread my meaning when I sucked you
Closed the door, and took me in just one bite

Don't let your son go down on me
Although I touch myself, it's always someone else I see
I'd just allow an idea of a wife to wander free, oh
But learning how to swing involves your son going down on me

I can't find
Oh, the way to make a shrine
I'll see him once, and see the way I squeal
Don't give scars please, baby don't
Just because you think it makes me hard
Just because you think it makes me hard, oh
But these balls I have (balls I have)
They need rubs (they need rubs) to make me reel

Oh, don't let your son go down on me
Cause when I touch myself, it's only his face that I'll see
I'll just allow a fragment of his life to be on knees, oh
Cause losing lots of sperm involves your son going down on me

Don't let your son go down on me
Oh, although I touch myself, it's always that one face that I see, yeah
I can't allow the one love of my life to wander free, baby, oh
Cause blowing my whole load involves your son going down on me


*cough*

Eat me, Sonic. So I can eat you.

Does anyone else find it unfair that Sonic, the drive-in tasty delicousness of all fast food gorgeosity, advertises non-stop, yet the closest one around here is in fucking IOWA? It's a cock tease, I tell you! (Aforementioned metaphor only working correctly if I indeed had a cock, but you get the point.)

I'm going to write them a letter. I'm going to write them a nasty, ugly, persuasive letter outlining every reason why they are just being plain douches about their media buys, and should stop making us hate their lovely food by wagging it in front of us on a forever-unreachable fantasy stick. BRING ON THE SONIC CONEY DOGS BITCHES. You know how much business ONE of those freaking places would get over here? It's an injustice!

In other news, that kid dancing with the fake sheet cow on the Jell-O pudding wiggle commercials is going to be a goddamn celebrity one day. Mark my words. With moves and shorts like that, how can the CosmoGirl-reading generation resist? Wiggle.

The sort-of reunion.

So I went to Tennessee over the weekend for my nephew Wyatt's birthday party. Him putting out the candle with his finger was definitely the bright spot of the whole time there, hehe. Hung out with my sisters and other family and all that, and had a general good smashing time.

I drove into Knoxville on Saturday, courtesy of my mom's friend Gertrude's car. There was supposed to be a reunion with the old Root Beer Ranger gang, but half of them didn't show. Anyway, the lesson learned from the weekend is that I definitely can't rap when I'm drunk. I vaguely remember Baby Got Back going on the TV, and me not being able to read or remember any of the words and just laughing instead. That's what happens with ten Steel Reserves in me. Now that's class, ladies and gentlemen.

I want my Lucky's back.

After much research, I've pinpointed the taste of Parliament Lights: #2 pencils and pepper.

Blech.

Ahaha.

Did anyone else see this? :)







"Combination" indeed. Ah, dictionary.com. You slay me.

DRUUUUUUUUUUUUNK.

I'M WATCHING FULL HOUSE, THIS IS ALMOST TEDIOUS. I'M DROOLING WATER ALL OVER MYSELF. DAMN THIS SHOW IS SO BAD. BUT ONLY BECAUSE I'M TWENTY-TWO, ALMOST TWENTY-THREE. GOD THAT WAS HARD TO TYPE. BUT GOD THIS SHOW IS REALLY BAD WHEN YOU'RE IN YOUR TWENTIES. LONG LIVE COULIER!!!! EVEN THOUGH HE WAS ON SKATING WITH CELEBRITIES. FUCKING SELL OUT.

ETA: SMASH CLUB MY ASS.

Bitchwork to the max.

I found out the other day that my official title at work is Administrative Assistant. Does this mean I get presents on National Secretary-Whatever Day?

I might just make it after all.

Well, it's been a while since I last updated. I got a job through the temp agency doing data entry at an insurance place 9 blocks away. It was pretty boring and hellish, but at least I made rent for March. As long as I don't spend it all by then, hm. I shouldn't. I think I manage my money a lot better these days. Being poor will do that to ya.

Valentine's Day was shit, as per usual. After I got off work, I came home and ordered two pizzas and watched American Idol. I don't really feel like saying anything else about it. Maybe next year will be different.

In other news, I made a gay Daniel Radcliffe for everyone's viewing pleasure:

Make it so.

I wonder.. when a couple of Trekkies decide to get married, after the guy proposes, do you think he slips the ring on the girl's finger and says "Engage!"...?

Never again.

Note to self:

Piece of sesame chicken plus swig of orange juice equals VOMIT TASTE IN MY MOUTH.

That will be all.

Aaaaaaggghhhhh.

Holy shit.. so. I was just outside. And was smoking on the back porch in the dark. And I was looking at the ground while I took a drag, and then I looked back up. And staring at me less than 15 ft. away were two wolves. Wolves. Fucking WOLVES. And I looked at them for about a second, sort of paralyzed, and then they started to run toward me. And I dashed to the back door liked I've never moved in my life, opened it, slammed it, and then locked it, breathing all hard.

What the fuck???

The irony in this is that I need a cigarette now more than anything, and I can't go back out there. I'm never going back out there. I'm still shaking from it. I was scared of big dogs in the first place, and this just makes it even worse. Stupid backwoods Tennessee.

Blahhhhhh.

I think the lamest month out of all months is September. What a fucking weak month. If you ever want to make fun of a month, it's September. Fuck Septmeber.

Ubiquitous Larry.

I just heard someone say this in a Minnesota Target:

(scene: very crowded, people everywhere)

Woman behind me in line, talking to her friend: "Well, it's the last weekend before Christmas, so I guess people are just trying to... git 'r done."


Yeah.

Milli Vanilli strikes again.

I don't know why they bother giving these chodes microphones to sing into on the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. They're very obviously lip synching, and it's so amazing how they sound JUST LIKE THE ORIGINAL RECORDING. ISN'T THAT WILD????

And I hate her stupid laugh too.

Has anyone else ever noticed that the method Rachel Ray employs in making her show $40 a Day work is being a shitty tipper?

You'll do.

A good pick-up line I just thought up while in the bathroom:

"Excuse me. I wanted to fellate myself, but I don't have a penis. Could I use yours?"

Hey. It might work.

Infomercials make me hungry.

UrineGone's powerful enzymes have an appetite for urine!

You can't act, bitch. Stop ruining good shoes.

I'm very sad to report that Keds, the shoes I loved as a child, have announced their new fall lineup, starring their new spokesperson: Mischa "I'm a Drunken Whore Who Can't Act" Barton. Her vacant smile and druggie mushroom gaze doesn't really do much for me, and I'm afraid I'm boycotting Keds until they come to their senses. Not like I've bought anything from them in oh, a decade, but it's the principle here. VOMIT.

Doug is a tool.

Surprisingly, this commercial was for real. Watch and cringe. Seriously, I didn't know whether to laugh or turn the channel. Enjoy?

Maxoderm.
(Click on 'See what Doug is up to...' movie link on the middle righthand side of the page)

Tsk tsk, advertising. Tsk. Tsk.

Crunchy crunchy.

I'm getting pretty tired of these commercials where people are eating cereal that's so goddamned crunchy that they supposedly can't hear a word of what's going on around them. You know, like the commercial where the guy in the office keeps getting fired but he can't hear his boss because he apparently eats cereal the entire day. Or the one where there's a bear in the forest and the guy can't hear his wife screaming and running away because, you know, the cereal is so delicious. How about they make a commercial where a wife sees her husband eating Grape Nuts or Honey Toasted Almonds or whatever-the-hell at a cook-out or something, so she puts on a coy grin, goes behind his back, and starts making out with his best friend. Segue into heavy groping and loud moan sounds. And the guy's still just sitting there, back to the action, enjoying his delicious bowl of crunchtastic crunchies. Now that's a commericial.