America's Next Top Italian-Language-Raper

Okay, so I really didn't have a good image to use because as you know it was CoverGirl commercial week, and Ooooooo'wee, were they bad. When I say bad, I mean horrendous. Those commercials gave my eyes blisters. But anyways, we have the lovely Miss J up there, being his fine self. Also, I would love to re-name this episode The Week I Laughed Out Loud. Miss J and the comments from Tyra and the like were really funny; I normally don't laugh out loud at anything (I really have more of a smug throat-clear instead) but I was howling. That is totally a word my Mom would say. Howling. Or I could also say that this week's episode was a riot. A real barn burner. Anyways, let's just get to the critiques of the commercials, shall wees?

This Week's Winner...
Okay, y'all know how much I can't stands FGM-Fatima (oh shit, did I actually go there? Was I raised in the garbage? Answer: Yes) but her commercial was great! I have to agree with Tyra; she was a little too sexy for a CoverGirl commercial. Fatima, save that smut for NYC Color. But she had fun with it, didn't totally look like she was reading a foreign language off cue cards AND was sick. So, good for you Fats.

Don't Let the Door Hit You where the Good Lord Split You...
Oh Lauren. To quote the Bay City Rollers...bye bye baby, baby good bye. I know that I will take some surrious flak from Tylerface for this, but I really didn't like her. She had the personality of a cardboard box of oily rags. Yes, she took good pictures, but she couldn't walk, she couldn't talk, she couldn't dress herself. Think of it this way - now she will have all the time in the world to sit in her Williamsburg apartment, placing strategic rips in her CBGBs t-shirts, and 'rawking out' to some serious punk rock aka Good Charlotte.

Holy shit, Anya was stuggling with the words in that commerical, but she was charming. She is defs going to be in the bottom 2. I don't know if she will win, but I would put her at even-odds I guess.

I know I am the minority here, but how great is Whitney?!? I love that bitch. She was annoying as hell during that commercial; she always looks like this girl I went to High School with. She would constantly be smiling a big, fat, fake smile, and would answer questions in class like she was on a pageant stage. If Whitney drops the Miss Crystal Crown Illinois act, she could be around for another 1 or 2 weeks.

Not much to say. She was getting a little mouthy during judging. I thought she did pretty well in her commercial. She worked a pretty tight accent. I wonder what other languages she speaks? Obs Russian and 1-900.

Oh.My.God. How funny was it when they are watching Dom's commercial and Miss J holds up a sign that reads 'Hells to the No'? I just about pissed my pants. And when he said 'I still think she's a brother', I did pee my pants. Alls I'm saying is that Dominique has yet to deny that she has a weiner and beans between her legs, which can only mean one thing. Dude looks like a lady.

Next week...Tyra takes some lame shots with the Digital SLR she got for Christmas and I am guessing that the bottom two will be Dominique and Whitney. If I had to put money on it, I would say that Dominique will get the axe next week (hopefully on her junk) but it could also be a two-fer. If that's the case, Dominique and Whitney will be taking the red-eye back to the good ol' US of A.


Happy Monday!!

Hey guys! Hope you all enjoyed 420 day yesterday by either puffin' the ganj or laughing at all the stoner losers who spent the day getting high. I was at a wedding shower, so I did neither, but you can imagine what I would have been doing on 420 day if I wasn't at a wedding shower. That's right - eating a stoner's worth of munchies without actually smoking. I would mow down 13 cupcakes, 2 bags of Doritos, a 2L of Mountain Dew (or Crab Juice) and then when someone would go "Holy shit, did you just eat all that?" I could be like "Uh...not my fault...was high as kite".
Anyways, I thought I would post this amazing video of an Engineer's Guide to cats (above) and Picnicface's Real Zone below. Both a great videos, but you do need sound to watch them, so if you are at work, throw in some earbuds, or just crank up the volume and tell your boss to go fuck himself.
But for reals, I have a crush on Kyle and Mark of Picnicface. I would totally get Polygamist on their asses.


ANTM Surprise!!

Here it is!! Read all about last night's ANTM!!


Hey kids!! Today's ANTM post is being written by a very special reader/contributor/friend-o. I am pumped, because
A) I get a day off
B) Their writing is much funnier than mine
The only downside is that they do not post till 4pm (Canadian/Ontario time), so you won't get to partake in their glory till then. Around 3:45 I will post the link to it, but no sooner - I don't want you to go and spoil the surprise for yourselves.
K, peace!! See you in about 7 hours!!


Everybody's Working for the Weekend, Part 1

The minute I turned 16, my father told me I had to get a job or I would be cut off. I loved when he said cut off; it was like he tried to slow down his voice to really emphasize the weight of it. He would say it in the same way someone would tell you that your parents are dead and that you were going to have to start living with a Pimp. He made it seem like if I didn’t start pulling my weight around the house, I would come home from school one day and find all my clothing in a box marked “for dump”. This was funny to me because I hadn’t gotten an allowance since my 4th birthday, and had essentially been the poorest well-off kid I knew. While my friends would be collecting dollars for doing the dishes or setting the table, I was going from door-to-door trying to sell day-old newspapers to my neighbors. I rooted through the garbage for the better-looking ones; I knew I would have a hard time selling a newspaper that had been sitting under diapers and buffalo wings. I was only 4, so I wasn’t too sure how much a newspaper cost, but I assumed that it was about a quarter. You can’t be too greedy when you are selling things that you pulled from the trash. A quarter would be nice; a dollar would be fantastic. But when it came down to it, I would accept a Popsicle or a cookie. I had discovered the perfect moneymaker; who would say no to a naïve little girl selling old newspapers?
My bitches of neighbors, that’s who.
The first house I went to said no, but let me have my dignity. “No thank you, I already bought a paper today”. Fine, but can you give me a dollar anyways? The next house I went to was a lady I knew, so it would be an easy sale. “Does your Mom know you are out selling old newspapers?” Of course she does, now which one do you want, May 12th or April 30th? It was a simple question, and yet I found myself walking away holding newspapers, no money, and the eerie feeling that I was being watched. I made it only a few houses down before I heard my mom shout out at me from the front porch of our house.
“Are you selling people our trash?!?”
Yes, I am. I wouldn’t have to if I got an allowance.
“Jesus Christ, I better not find you digging through the garbage again. You can’t sell newspapers that have been in our garage. If you need money, just ask me.”
Can I have some money?
“You are 4 years old, what do you need with money?”

Cut to 12 handout-free years later. When my Father told me I needed to get a part-time job, I knew he was serious about it. He would make it his top priority to nag me day-in, day-out until I got one. I knew it was inevitable that I would have to start working; if I didn’t, living with my Father would become like living with the bum who lives down at the train station. It wouldn’t matter how many times I told him I believed he was Jesus Christ, he will always respond with “no, I don’t think you do!” and keep at me until I give him a dollar. I didn’t put up much of a fight against getting a job. I liked money and knew I couldn’t sponge off my parents; their idea of spoiling me was inflating my Pogo-Ball every spring.

Living in a small town meant limited options. There was one restaurant in town that was owned by a Korean couple, and I would have loved to work there if it wasn’t shrouded in rumors. There was the rumor that they didn’t wash the dishes, that they made all-day breakfasts with spoiled meat and eggs. There was also the rumor that their on-the-job training involved systematically berating you until you became a hardened work robot, although this rumor was busted when one of the toughest girls I knew worked there for 3 hours before breaking down and crying in the middle of the diner.
So with the diner out of the question, my options were the grocery store, Canadian Tire, and Tim Horton’s. All the popular girls worked at Tim Horton’s; I had to deal with Heathers at school because I had to, but I don’t think you could have paid me to hang out with them. The grocery store was the jewel in the crown that was part-time jobs, and you had to know someone to get an interview (like Studio 54), so that left me with Canadian Tire. I hated everything in it; nothing about that store was appealing. I hated camping, I hated toasters, and I hated wrenches and hammers, I couldn’t drive, so I hated everything about the automotive department. I was a young, fairly pretty girl with no knowledge of cars, sports, tools, or cleaning supplies, so I was put with the other young, fairly pretty girls at the front-end cashier’s station. Working a cash register was maybe the most mundane thing I have ever done. The orientation was supposed to be 2 hours long, and I had learned how to process cheques over $50 and how many nickels were in a roll in the first 12 minutes. There really was no training needed. All you had to do was say hello, ring in their purchases, bag it, take the money, give the Canadian Tire dollars, and wish them a nice day. For many girls, it was a very difficult 8 hours. These were the same girls who referred to a lunch break as a fuckin’ lunch break, a uniform as a fuckin’ uniform, and toilet paper as ass-rag.
“Ass rag is down aisle 46. Yeah, right past them fuckin’ air fresheners.”
I wasn’t a result of poor parenting skills, so I couldn’t pass the time with as much raw hatred of the job. I liked to work through my shift by pretending I had a gambling addiction. I was just your average white-trash slot-jockey. Darlannah, or maybe Shanda. I went into the casino with nothing but my dignity, and left at the end of the night with $50 and a dirty uniform. For some bizarre reason, the front of my shirt was always very dirty after an 8-hour shift. I wasn’t picking up bags of manure like the Seasonal Department boys or mixing paint like the Hardware boys. I was just picking up dollars and credit cards, bags and receipt rolls. And yet I would look at my red polo shirt and see a murky brown mark on my stomach. It took about 2 weeks before I realize why I was coming home looking like Dirt McGirt after working a pleasant redneck girl named Nicole who caught me sleeping with my eyes open.
“If'ya got time to lean, ya got time to clean.”
Fair enough, so I got out the Windex and started wiping down the grimy machines. Each machine is coated in about 30 years worth of dirt, spread like a thick beige paste over the till. The phones were worse, looking as though some drifter had shoved all the receivers up his ass. Every time I cleaned the machines I would pretend I the star of my own Mr. Clean commercial. I would messily wipe the cash tray and think “no matter how hard I try, it never gets clean!” and then swoop-in with a Windex-ed sheet of paper towel and wipe the cash dividers to a sparkling sheen. “It’s like magic!” I would think, and smugly judge the other cashier’s dirty stations, all the while playing a side-by-side bacteria comparison in my mind. My side would have one or two amoebas, but theirs would be like a commuter train full of aggressive, animated growling bacteria. Real troublemakers.

I could play Suzy Homemaker all day, but it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good unless we locked all the dirty customers out. It was like all the rednecks and trash in my town got together and decided to create their own currency. Maybe they thought the purple $10 bill and the pink $50 bill were too gay or something, or maybe all the numbers were confusing for people with only a working knowledge of literacy. Who knows why, but my till was constantly filled with what looked like money printed on paper lunch bags. Why I would have to scratch away at the grease on a bill to see how much I was given was beyond me. And once you had a full till of greasy money, wet money would be sure to follow. I would see a normal looking guy approach my cash with a few odd and ends: a new wrench, a pack of light bulbs, a liter of Pennzoil. His total would be about $16, but instead of reaching into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet, he would take off his shoe. He would take a moment to find a $20 in the toe as I stared at him in sheer disgust.
“Here you go, darling’! Thought I was gonna have to use the plastic on that one!”
Are you kidding me? I thought, as he handed me a soggy, wrinkled bill. I stood there looking at him with a look of blatant repulsion on my face, as if he just presented me with a handful of cat shit. I guess he realized I wasn’t going to touch it and he said “sorry…do I owe you more?” I would have loved to tell him I’d rather lick his ass than touch money that had been sitting in his shoes, but I knew that getting fired would bring about a tirade from my Father that would be worse than the Get A Job diatribe. So what could I do? I had to take it. He needed motor oil, and I needed a job, so my hands were tied.
Every shift brought about a new disgusting way to touch money. If it wasn’t wet money from someone’s shoe, then it was money that was dug from the bottom of a cat-hair covered fanny pack. A lot of guys would give me dirty money straight from their own filthy hands, but women liked to have the money start out clean and let it get to me via their child. I would see a Mother take a crisp $50 out of her wallet and just as I would reach out to take it, she would pull her hand back and say “Jeremy! Do you want to give the lady the money?!?” Nine times out of ten Jeremy was sitting in the cart-seat covered in a sweater of Doritos and a beard of crusted yogurt. His hands would be little scrapbooks of the Adventure to Canadian Tire: potting soil, Gatorade, car polish, boogers, air freshener, Timbits.
“Oh Jesus lady, no. Just give me the money.”
But new Mothers are like Autistic children, in their own little world. And in this woman’s world, it would be a really big deal for her son to complete her shopping transaction. Most times I got lucky, and the kid would just swish the bill through his hands without even looking at me, leaving little residue. I would hand the change to the Mom and she would point to her son behind a covered hand and mouth “Him! Give the change to him!”
Does he want the receipt as well? Should I ask if he has thought about getting a Canadian Tire MasterCard? Does he get gas from the Gas Bar? Because right now he can get a coupon for 7x the Canadian Tire money if he gets gas before the end of the week, but you know – it’s non-transferable, so I can only give the coupon to him. And I would really advise he take it, because next week’s coupon is only 2x. So really, if Jeremy spends $30 on gas, that’s like an extra $4 in Canadian Tire money. It may not seem like a lot right now, but that shit adds up.


Degrassi and Gingers

First off, I know I said I was going to Live Blog Degrassi, and after about 5 minutes, I could barely watch the episode. What a shitstorm. Why they chose to give the main storyline to actors that are essentially Extras is beyond me. Anyways, I would normally suggest you watch the episode online, but no...save your time. Read a book. Take a poo. Whatever you want, just don't watch tonight's episode.

Moving on. It's that time of the week that I know you are looking forward to. Well, unless you are a Ginger. That's right, it's Ginger time!!! Click here to read about this week's Ginger!

Degrassi Live-Blogging Tonight!

Hey friends! If you can't watch Degrassi or for some reason you would rather read a written play-by-play, then tune in to The Skip-Raid tonight at 7:25 for a whole half-hour of Degrassi Live-Blogging madness!!
See you there!


Cat Costume Parade!

It's Friday, which can only mean one thing...CATS IN COSTUMES!!
...the fuck? When did I start equating Fridays with Lonely Single Women? Who knows, but really, are you gonna turn down pictures of cats wearing cute shit? I didn't think so. I really wanted to do a post on colourful feces, but can you imagine the lack of photos on Google?
Uh, let's get to the cats...If I have any Asian readers out there, can you please email me and let me know what the hell this cat is supposed to be? Also, this cat is pretty famous for wearing costumes and stuff, and he actually died this year. Very sad. What will his owner do now? Oh yes, get another animal and mentally abuse it till it dies. Poor cat.
PS - Crazy cat dresser-upper? Can you take some pictures of your new cat dressed up like Fraggle Rock?Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!! This cat is pretty cute. If it were my cat, I would have to teach it to shit around the fleece and velcro, because I would never take this costume off!!I wanted to laugh at this, but just knowing what the ogre behind the camera looks like was enough to make me feel sad (justa little).You have to click this to make it full size. I stumbled upon this little gem while searching for cats in costumes, and ho-lee-shit, how WEIRD looking are these?!?! I was pretty scared of mascots when I was a kid, but this just put me over the edge. That black cat in the lower-bottom will be in my nightmares for the next 27 years of my life. Oh, but it gets worse...Santa fucking Maria!?!?! What are you doing to my eyes, Jesus? Please click this to make it bigger - what the hell is Ecology Cat?!?!? And that cat in the bottom right? I don't get it; was the costume made in 1992? Is it supposed to be a Heathcliff character? Is it supposed to be John Goodman in King Ralph? On a scale of 1 to 10, how much would you piss in your pants if Kat FM Radio of Dubuque Kat snuck up behind?

Happy Weekend Everybody!! See you Monday!!


"He's cooking our garbage!"

I wish I could be bringing you a fantastic ANTM post, but Tyra jerked our chains with a shitty clip show. Tyra!! Fuck you, wigmaster! After I was let down with a the clipshow nobody asked for, I thought of doing a really good post. That thought was dashed as soon as I walked out of my apartment to do my laundry and almost fainted from the smell. As you can read the title (a-thank-you, Uncle Buck) it seriously smelled like cooked garbage. So I figured i would just post a couple of my favourite videos of the week.

This one is so cute. It was sent to me by my friend Jenn and features a couple of spiders, drugs, and a very tiny gun.

My cousins showed me this one - I really have to start giving them credit, because they show me my favourite videos. Do you remember Benny Lava? That was them. Anyways, I had to watch this one a couple of times before I realized how funny it was. Watch it once, then watch it again. Trust.

I'm sure you have seen this one, but I have never posted it. A great song from an okay actor who was in an AMAZING movie(s). Bear with the sketchy quality at the beginning - all you need is a pair of ears to trully enjoy it.

My sister sent this to me. Some of them actually look better after doing so much meth. Ugh, did I say that? Also, the best one is around the 2:00 mark. Thanks Alex!!


Hot Bologna Sammich

I used to babysit a lot when I was a kid; most of the families in my neighborhood, actually. I also did Lunchroom Helper in Elementary School, which is code for Dorks Making Sure Kids Don't Choke on their Lunchables. It was tremendously unglamorous; two of my friends and I watched a Grade 2 class during the lunch hour. It gave the teachers a break and gave us some pull in class. If you failed a test, your teacher would drop it. Skipped class? Never happened. It was nice; sort of like being in the mafia. Except the stakes were a lot lower and instead of having cool nicknames like Pauly Walnuts or The Mouth, you got called Loser and Dipshit. I was cool with that though because I knew that I was getting good marks in class for doing dick all. In one class I didn't even show up for a massively important presentation, and that mark was mysteriously missing at the end of the year. Besides, I would get eaten alive if I had to hang out with my peers; my mom refused to let me dress cool and my legs were too long for regular pants. Last time I checked, lanky 13-year-old girls who wear their mom's clothes aren't exactly the cool kids. But enough about me being a nerd; the cool kids of Elementary school are working in the Audio/Video Department of Wal-Mart and/or parents and/or addicted to Horse Tranquilizers, so I think I win in the long run.

Anyways, one of the kids in my Lunch Class found out I lived near him, so the next thing I know he comes to school with a note pinned to his jacket asking if I will babysit him and his brothers and sister. I figured it wouldn't be that bad; 3 boys and a girl would normally be a pain in the ass, but the two boys were about 8 and 7, so they basically take care of themselves. They lived in the apartment building down the street from my home, and I'm no snob, but where I grew up, only two types of people lived in apartment buildings: seniors and empty nesters, and poor people. Needless to say, this family wasn't 6 seniors, so I mentally prepared myself for what I imagined a poor person's house looked like. I had only ever been in one poor person's house before, but the family wasn't really poor, just crazy. The parents smoked a crapload of drugs and didn't care what time you went to bed. We could swear all we wanted, and one of the sons lived under the stairs in the crawlspace. I loved sleeping over, but my mom didn't like when I would come home the next day with leaves in my hair and smelling like stale cigarettes, herbal tea, and cats. In retrospect, I don't think it was a healthy environment for children; I'd be willing to wager $100 that 2 of the kids smoke Crystal Meth on a daily basis, and the 3rd is still living in the crawlspace.
When I arrived at the 8-year-old's apartment, I was surprised that it didn't smell like smoke or have any cats, and no one slept under a staircase or broom closet or with their Mom and Dad. Sure, it was messy and there were stains all over the carpet, but I could assume that no mom was as anal as my Mom was about drinking juice anywhere but the kitchen table, so I figured that lots of people with kids had stains on their carpet, especially if they were renters. That was a term my Dad loved to use; Renters. House without landscaping? Renters. Kids carved their names into the garage door? Renters. Naturally, I looked at the carpet stains and broken bathroom fixtures and whispered "renters". It wasn't until I rented my first apartment that I realized that renting did not a lazy-slob make, and I reserved my judgment against anyone with a leaky faucet or stale bread in the breadbox.

The kids were not really what I was used to. Rambunctious and silly, but dirty and messy. I chalked this up to their mom being recently married to a guy who's arms were covered with unidentifiable tattoos, which where I grew up meant, "I give up". Well, to adults at least. As long as the step-dad was paying me $6 an hour, I would turn a blind eye to a face-tattoo that said "I Kill Cats". But for all the carpet stains and broken cupboard handles, they had cable and a leather couch. Cable meant I got to space-out and let the TV babysit the kids and a leather couch meant I could sit and watch TV with them, free of the fear associated with dirty people couches. Leather didn't trap vomit or pee, and even if it did, you would be blissfully ignorant to the fluids that predate your ass. I stuck through after-school sittings and weekends, knowing I would be able to weasel my way into the very lucrative summer break period. That was when you made the serious cash. Instead of one $20 bill, you would get two. It was like winning the lottery; getting paid to watch TV and make sure the kids didn't systematically murder each other. The only thing that bothered me was that their air conditioning was always broken. I grew up in a home that could easily be confused for a meat locker. It would be the hottest day of the summer; seniors would be dropping dead left, right, and centre, and my house would be so cold that you could spit on the floor and it would be frozen before it hit the linoleum. So I would try to work my hours around High Noon; if their mom needed me at 1pm, I would see if I couldn't push it to 2:30. She had a hair appointment at 11am? I would be there shortly after 9:30. One Saturday she asked if I could be at her house all day, from 8am to about 5pm. This meant big money in the 13-year-old babysitting world. You would work 9 hours and make $50; you would be stupid to turn down a shit-show of cash like that. I agreed, knowing that we could always kill time at the park. The 4 kids were cool with lounging around the house for all of 15 minutes before they asked to go to the park. Shit no! Not before 2pm! The park was right beside the apartment building, and if we went early it would mean I had no way to kill the remaining 8 hours. The younger ones would obey me (because young children are stupid and will do what you say), but the older two were content to jokingly flip me off and keep begging 'till I caved. I knew that I could wear them out and kill a good portion of the day by taking them on a picnic to the park. Yes, I would be the cultural babysitter, the hero who would pull them from the wreckage of WWF Wrestling and Pizza Pops. As they packed backpacks with crayons and paper (to draw the trees) and books (to read in the shade), I made a picnic lunch. There wasn't much in the fridge; condiments and baking soda, a few wrinkly vegetables, a carton of milk. There was tonne of food in the cupboards, but it was all non-perishables in cans. I thought bringing Chef Boyardee to a picnic was a little more ghetto than I was willing to have, so I reached to the back of the fridge and pulled out a package of garlic bologna. I didn't think to check the date (their mom was a bit of a space-case, but not neglectful) and made 5 sandwiches. Into a backpack with the crayons and books, and off we walked. Maybe 10 minutes from the house I realized I had made a grave error. It was about 200 degrees outside in the sun, and it would only get hotter. It was like when we exited the apartment, we walked through a wormhole that drew the Earth closer to the Sun's surface. I thought it would get better as soon as we got to the park, where we could all collapse under a tree and die, but I didn't take into account that the drinks in my backpack might be boiling hot and the sandwiches might be steaming in their Ziplocs.

The minute I bit into my bologna sandwich, I knew something was wrong. It tasted like shit. I won't waste an elegant metaphor on you; it actually tasted like someone sandwiched a dog shit between two asscheeks. I waited for the kids to mention the shitwiches, but they ate them without question. It appeared that they had built up an immunity over the years to rotten garlic bologna; I, on the other hand, began barfing all over the picnic table, the grass, the youngest boy's sandals. I washed them off in the pond and hauled ass out of there. I guess they had seen their mom vomit aggressively all over their belongings before, because they could not understand why we were leaving. I knew I wouldn't make it home; the heat combined with the nausea to create a feeling I can only equate to being punched in the stomach with a fist made of fire. My Mom was at home all day, so I knew that if I called my house, she would come and pick the kids and I up and drive us home. All I had to do was get to the drugstore down the street to use the payphone with 4 kids without barfing all over the sidewalk. Unfortunately my body wanted to reject all traces of tainted bologna, and I kept vomiting all the way to the store. I couldn't let the kids wait outside the store, because it was right across the street from a shady variety store called the K & Y (yes, they did sell KY there), so I told them to go pick out some candy. I wasn't going to buy it for them, but I was willing to let them take a dump on the floor if it kept them busy while I was on the phone. The payphone was in a one-way door vestibule, so you could go in, but in order to get out, you had to walk through the store to the exit on the opposite side. Every time I picked up the receiver, I would start to barf in my mouth. I knew I wouldn't make it to the exit in time, so I would just swallow it, and what I couldn't swallow went through my fingers. My Mother, out of sheer embarrassment, came to pick me up. I will never know what her ride over to get me was like, but I know if I was her I would have pissed my pants from laughing so hard. What kind of a moron eats garlic bologna from a house that has 2 bedrooms and 6 people living in it? The car pulled up and I told the kids to drop everything in their hands and get in the strangers car. They probably stole so much candy while I was barfing into the payphone; what did I care? After dealing with me all day, I would have let them get away with stealing 5's from the register.

When their mom came home at 5pm and asked how the day went, there was an unspoken bond between the 4 kids not to mention the barf. Well, at least that's what I like to imagine. I like to think they all huddled together in their bedroom, arms around each other’s shoulders and necks to seal in their voices, saying "Let's not tell mom about the babysitter getting sick...we will gain nothing from embarrassing her, and besides, she is so much fun and very pretty!"
The reality is that they weren't even fazed by my barfing on their shoes and dragging them downtown, only to abandon them in a drugstore, and then push them into an '87 Buick station wagon. The first words out of the oldest boy’s mouth were "I got to eat my breakfast in my underwear on the couch this morning!"


Ginger Tuesday!

Click here to read about this week's Ginger! It's an obvious one, and yet I hadn't done it yet! Can you guess who has been lucky enough to avoid my wrath for this long?


America's Next Top JC Penney Model

I have to admit that I totally stole the title of this week's ANTM post from reader Alice, who foolishly emailed me with it in the subject line. I teefed from you, bitch. Deal with it! Anyways, this week you might have noticed that I didn't have an ANTM recap - and if you did, you emailed me to ask me where it was. On Friday, my inbox was nothing but:

James, Subject: Where is the ANTM post?
Annie, Subject: Why didn't you do an ANTM post?
JD, Subject: When will we get the ANTM post?
Chad, Subject: How soon till you get the ANTM post done?
Hakim, Subject: Increase your love stick with 18" of pleasurable love juices!!1!
Reyrey, Subject: Why do we not have the ANTM post yet?

And so on. Vultures, the lot of you. But as promised, I wrote all you scabs back and let you know that you wouldn't go without. We may not have money, but there will always be plenty of hot bologna sandwiches (that reminds me of a story, which I believe I will regale you with tomorrow - would you guys like another story? You seemed to like the bedskirt-shithouse story, so I think I might give you another one).
But really, you come here for one thing and one thing only - bitchy and cruel comments said to tear young girls away from their dreams of becoming an international supermodel, so let's get to it!! First off, here is what our little Intern, Tylerface, thought of this week's eliminee...

Okay, so I knew Claire was getting the boot this week, (No, seriously. I actually knew. I read a spoiler.) and I couldn't be happier! Bitch was hella annoying and got increasingly uglier as time progressed. Her roots started to grow in and bitch looked straight up dusk hooker. No joke. You know, the kind of hooker you see on the street corners around 7:00pm to about 10:00pm and you're not too sure if she's really a hooker or just a civilian; because hookers constitute as "Royalty de la Rue". (Everything sounds better in French.) So, she's gone. It was her and Lauren in the bottom two, and although Lauren's picture was not fierce in the slightest, it was still better than Claire's. Who was like completely flat faced. Genetics you say? Well, I say it's because of her little "mishap". Allow me to explain with these four words:

"I'm gonna slide in!"
Claire; honey. If you're reading this (Editor's note: she's not - she's breastfeeding), sliding is what you did the second time. The first time was straight up faceplant. I can't even begin to explain the pain I felt when she fell. It was somewhere between stomach pain due to immense laughter, or.. no that was it.

Normally this would be where I rip Tylerface a new asshole, cause he just insulted my Claire, but I have to agree - she has been getting rull bad in the past couple of weeks. Also, let's state the obvious - homegirl is an Oldie Olsen, and needs to get home to make her kid Peanut Butter n' Banana Sammiches and watch The View. Claire, out!

And who won? WHO CARES? The pictures were so lame that picking a winner would be like picking the yellowest piece of corn out of your shit. Let's talk about them as best we can, but it is gonna be like pulling teeth - they all look like leaves ironed between two pieces of wax paper.Anya
Canadian kids are gonna know where I am going with this, but Anya looks like either Zip, Zap, ou Zoup in the Grade 5 Cahier d'Activité. I totally just confused the Americans. Don't worry guys, I was just speaking jibberish.

That sounds like a perfume. I really have got to give Dominique some credit for this shot; I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to keep your dick tucked between your legs in the water.

Okay, I don't know how to say this delicately, so I will just come out with it...
HOMEGIRL IS ANOREXIC. Are you looking at her fingers? Homeless drug-addicts are salivating over those hypodermic needles she calls fingers.

That arm is bothering me so much!! How come she looks so rigid? Oh well, at least she got a great haircut this week. Paulina Pore-iz-cove-ah was right - she looks less Russian Slut now.

Oh my god, this shot is so bad...she looks like (oh Christ, I am going to hell for this) a Downs-Syndromed Sarah Polley. Oh wow..that was tame. I think I can do better than that. Alright, Lauren looks like a Welfare-receiving, Wal-Mart shopping, pregnancy-drinking, fetal-alcohol-syndrome-giving, crabs-having trailer trash motherfucker.

I am calling this one now - Stacy-Ann will be eliminated this coming week. Pack your bags! It's time to ship-out! Look, she's not going to win; ANTM is so predictable, we can now determine the winner 8 weeks prior to the final elimination. See you later Stacy-Ann!

Okay, I am biased, but I think this is a great shot. Even if you hate Whitney, you have to admit that this fetus-embryo-shit is working for her. Also, I felt kinda bad that Ashley Paige said that Whitney was too fat (to wear that...ohh! Diss!!)
Cheer up, Whitts. Ashley Paige makes shitty swimsuits and I wouldn't be caught dead even standing near one in a store. Don't let this set you back; stay strong, and for the love of god, turn down every offer for plus-sized mall work that get's trown at you when you are booted off the show. I will cry tears of Swanson Hungry Man Dinners if I see Whitney in a Torrid or Lane Bryant ad post-ANTM.

So, next week Fatima might get the boot for being an Illegal :(


Classic Sesame Street

Sesame Street taught me lots of things: don't eat food out of the trash, a strangers just a friend you haven't met, your parent's divorce is entirely your fault. But above all that, Sesame Street taught me that smoking drugs and animation don't mix. Wait, did I say don't mix? Sorry, I meant fucking badass. Here are some of my favourites. Let's see if you recognize any of them, and if any of you are Amish, then enjoy them for the first time!!

1. Girl at the Sea
This is the story of a girl who goes to the beach and all the pictures in her book become real. Also, everything in this movie later appeared in my nightmares shortly thereafter (especially the girl's dead eyes).

2. Six Soccer Socks
I saw this when I was about 3 and honestly thought that this is how my mom did the laundry; that the clothing danced into the machine.

3. Plants Need Water
And apparently this movie's animator needs plenty of acid.

4. Cat Food
This charming little story about animal abuse has such pretty animation. I always wondered if the cat suffocated to death at the end (which, in retrospect, is a terribly morbid thought for a 4-year-old).

5. Teeny Little Super Guy takes his nephew to school
This was my FAVOURITE of the Sesame Street shorts - I was like Bart Simpson when Itchy & Scratchy came on Krusty the Clown. Also, I thought the Teeny Little Super Guy was real and that if I was real lucky, he would show up in my milk glass one day. I also had an imaginary friend named Dave who I honestly thought was real. I had some serious issues with reality when I was a child.

6. I've Got a New Way to Walk
First off, this was a great song, and those pigs had some fantastic dance moves. But this video is great for me because when I was growing up, our next door neighbor was from Scottland, and there was no accent I imitated more than the Deaf Accent (which is very difficult to make sound authentic) than the Scottish Accent. I borrowed certain dictive properties from the muppet at the beginning of this short, and quite a few colloquiallisms from the Scotty dog in Lady and the Tramp.

7. Cat out of Blocks
Blocks are fun, kids like blocks, kids like cats. How much more explanation do you need for this one? Just watch it.

8. Crayon Factory
Factory tours are fantastic, and I love learning how things are made. However, How It's Made is awesome about 3% of the time. Why? Because they always show you how boring shit is made. Crayons, though...amazing. This one is dedicated to Jenn, who loves How It's Made almost as much as me.