Christmastime in the Emerald City

{May 30, 2008}   It’s Mah Blog0versary!

Yay me! Blogging for a full year! And by blogging I mean posting random pics, plotting general worldly overthrow, poking fun at celebrities and other less fortunate characters, screaming about fuckwits who can’t get the hellass out of my way, and occasionally talking about bunnies.

It’s been a good year!!!

Here is what I have done this year:


Started knitting again!

– Became an Auntie (in the metaphorical sense…if my 17 year old brother spits out a kid from anyones ovaries any time soon I will throw a shit fit)

– Celebrated 1 year at my job. Dudes this is a milestone for the kind of girl who just ups and leaves jobs she doesn’t like.

– Got out of debt.

– Kicked out a psychotic deadbeat roomie who was really just sleeping on my couch and taking up ungrateful space.

– Came up with THE most disturbing and offensive Halloween costume yet. (Seriously guys, I don’t know how I’m going to top this one.)

– Met some awesome new peeps at my occasional knitting circle, Le Stitch and Bitch! We also do Ladies Who Lunch 😀

Got rid of my smelly, smelly cats.

– NEWSFLASH! My bitchy downstairs neighbour moved out! Hahahahahaha! I win!

– Had only one cheque bounce.

– Became domesticated.

– Quit smoking! It really wasn’t that hard.

– Aquired some hardcore baking skills.

– Met with therapist about panic attacks. Called the number he gave me and heard “Thank you for calling the Borderline Personality Disorder Clinic.” Hung up and said “Oh shit.”

– Tried Zoloft, Celexa, Clonazepam and Ativan. After the second bout of withdrawal said “Fuck this, I’m just smoking weed.” Doctor says I might as well.

Began renovating my apartment. Still trying to hide that fact from the landlords.

– Helped one of my bestest buds get her house all ready for her Greek-to-the-Max Religious Extravaganza. It was tons of fun.

– Pretty sure I helped get my idiot boss fired, except by that time we were thinking she was alright. Quickly realized that she was never alright.

– Got a second tattoo. So did my brother. This bothers me greatly. I’m supposed to be the hardcore one.

– Was surprised with a batch of baby bunnies and managed to keep two of them alive.

– Finally saw the horrendous Two Girls One Cup. Dear God almighty.

Caved in to the corporate addiction to coffee. Hazelnut. Three cream, one sweetener. Yes, I hate myself for it.

– Dragged a dresser up the stairs.

– Admitted my love of Jack Black movies.

– Discovered some pretty rocking people online.

– Told a snippy, too-casually dressed coworker “I wouldn’t hire you at the Gap dressed like that.” Felt pretty damned good about it.

– Met some pretty cool people via blogging. Shout out to Romi! (You’re all pretty cool, but I’ve at least technically ‘met’ her 😛 )

– Fell in love. Didn’t see THAT coming, but it’s pretty rocking. His name is Josh and he rocks my socks. (Sorry babe, wordpress is being a fag and not letting me post a pic 😛 )

Anyways folks, that’s all for now! Here’s to another awesome year. Thanks for reading and stuff, hopefully I get to meet more rad people and keep up the hilarity. Wiggity word!

P.S. Talea was around for all of this. Sorry, but she’s my bestest bud, so I have to promote her and shit. Y’all know how it is.





We all know that just about every news story you see, from the indepth expose to the little reel of text across the bottom of the screen, has one form or another of bias. Frustrating isn’t it? All you want to know is what’s going on outside but somewhere out there is a huddled mass of enigmatic shadows deciding whether you should donate all your money to a lost cause or lock yourselves up in a basement against all the unholy evil in the world. How often do you watch a thirty second clip and think “what the hell is really going on?”

Well I have all the answers, natch. And so I share my insight with all you wonderful people. Of course, I don’t have time to explain the glorious, glorious truth behind every single flicker of media out there, so let’s just focus on a fantastic few.

By the way I might not be able to link you to all the stories because most of them were stumbled upon in a hazy stupor involving OMNI News South Asian Edition (I’m Caucasian for those who haven’t noticed) and a pot of French Onion soup, fancy bowl included.











Premise: So the article mentions the third foot found this past February, which I guess means Google hasn’t caught up yet since I just caught wind of the fourth. Four random feet have washed up along the west coast and nobody knows what the hell is going on. Always a right foot, in a sock, in a shoe. Meanwhile, CSI ratings are skyrocketing.

The Ugly, Ugly Truth: You know that fresh Pacific sushi? Yeah. Take that you trendy west coast hippie bastards.










Premise: Kid at Wal-Mart reaches into a bin of seedless watermelons imported from Mexico and gets stung by a fucking scorpion. Like shopping at Wal-Mart isn’t scary enough. Hippies everywhere are freaking out about the co-demon of Wal-Mart feat. Genetically Modified Foodstuffs.

Cold Hard Fact: Mexico is coming. Run.











Premise: Thank you George Stroumboulopoulos (or Snuffleupagus if you ask Josh) for bringing the most important news into my living room on a nightly basis. Unfortunately, last nights episode isn’t up on YouTube yet, and the hockey game screwed up CBC’s schedule, meaning it was on an hour later than usual. Consequently, I don’t remember much of it, particularly which coast it pertains to, but I do know this: pirate attacks are up ten percent. Yes pirates do exist and they have guns instead of swords, but the swashbuckling spirit of stealing other people’s loot is still high and mighty.

What You Only Wish You Had Realized: The nerdy 1337speak subdwellers controlling the counterculture of witty tshirts, webcomics, humorously captioned felines and the eternal pirates vs. ninjas battle have broken the fourth computer wall to bring the epik crusade right into our living rooms. Or high seas. Whatevs noobs.








Premise: Completely accidental collapse of tree narrowly misses four tennis players who get together on a weekly basis to flash their sweater sets and call each other Muffy. No ankle socks were injured, and the group continued their game on another court after 911 was called to remove the tree so they could get out.

Reality Bites: Attempted insurance scam by the guy who sweeps the court after every adorable game. His car was crushed by the tree that was in actual fact coated with a blend of molecular particles designed to seep into the roots and rot them out, causing the crash. Unfortunately, the car was not only under the MacGuyvered tree but under a No Parking sign as well. Fail.








Premise: Some dude crashes his big ass truck into a garden centre, and then passes out with his foot still on the pedal, burning rubber until the paramedics drag him out. Both he and the little old lady he smacked into are taken to the hospital with non-life threatening injuries. Passerby scratch their heads and wonder what the dealio. Police suspect a possible medical condition.

Stranger Than Fiction: Medical condition indeed, but on the part of the little old lady, not the driver. She was up to her ass in debt from all the medicinal marijuana the driver has been selling since he confiscated that first baggie from his son back in 1993. Attempted smackdown. Fail.


So there you have it folks. Sorry I couldn’t explain the entire universe and such, but I have bills to pay and therefore a job to do and all that noise. But feel free to ask for my crystal clear bias free opinion on anything that’s been nagging at your little brains. I’ll hook you right up with the facts, yo.

I’m going to qualify that header with a little bit of information: I dropped out of University after my first year. Yeah, I know. Me, the prodigal child who went to gifted school, was in all advanced classes and spent most of highschool on the honour roll.

Was it too hard? Well it kicked my ass, but I probably could have plowed through – I passed a history course without even going to the exam, clearly I was doing something right. Did I spend all my money and time partying? No. I was poor and didn’t like anybody in my residence building. Did I decide to switch my major from Forensic Psychology to Interpretive Dance? Kind of, I guess. I did spend a fortune going to the best school for makeup artistry in North America before realizing that the Toronto beauty market is completely oversaturated. But hey, people spend that kind of money on vacations and I acquired some serious skills. No regrets at all. So why did I drop out?

Because it sucked.

Plain and simple, I didn’t like it. It’s not that I don’t have the wherewithall to haul my ass through difficult times in the hope of a great future ahead. I just didn’t see a great future ahead. Sure, I could have had a career as a forensic scientist, growing slowly more obsessed and insane (my fellow apartment dwellers were disturbed by the “motivational” photos plastered to my wall on the rare occasion I opened my door). But I lived with this lingering fear of spending all that time and money only to change my mind. I saw so many people achieving degrees only to find them useless, and so many people doing alright without them. I’m not saying higher education is useless. I’m just saying I was disillusioned. Everything I learned was through textbooks, holing up in my tiny bedroom for literally months at a time. The daily get up and go process, the classes and interaction with other humans only served as an example of why an education doesn’t make you smart. So I shunned it all very quickly, moved out on my own and threw myself into the real world for a whirlwind tour of poverty, uncertainty, adventure, heartache, exploration and a few good life lessons that all the overpriced tuition in the world could never have afforded me, and as is becoming increasingly obvious, has not been afforded to a great many of the more educated ‘others’.



When it comes right down to it, your electric bill is the last one that needs to be paid. At least in Toronto where they will go for over a year before sticking that orange tab of paper on your door. On a related note, your account number is attached to your address, not you personally. So when you move, it’s not a very good idea to keep making online payments to the old account number because even though you will be credited for it, it’ll take them a year to figure it out and it’s a super pain in the ass.





 To prevent crack addicts from rummaging through your shit, don’t put out your recycling until you hear the truck coming. Empty beer cans are like gold. This of course, depends on where you live. If you can’t figure out whether or not you are surrounded by crackheads, you should probably just give up and wander into traffic. They don’t all look like Dave Chapelle, by the way.



There is no greater skill than being able to lie.


It’s all about who you know. I got this job because someone I made a brief impression on called me up to offer it. Talea got her job because I got that same someone to call her. At our previous place of employ, I was promoted from lowly phone monkey to reception because Talea knew me and my hyperorganization. Sure, the job was posted and technically available to anyone, and plenty of more educated and more senior people were a little miffed, but at the end of the day people hire you, not your resume.




Experience trumps education. I suppose some kind of college degree in business administration (What the hell do they teach in those classes? How to file? Did we not learn the alphabet and therefore how to alphabetize in kindergarten?) might beef up my salary. But if I walk into an interview with years of customer service and a list of references attesting to my skills, that meek little girl in her first suit and a newly framed degree doesn’t stand a chance.


Don’t bring your parents to a job interview you stupid, stupid twit.


You really, REALLY don’t need a swiffer. 




If you live in a sketchy place, make friends with the scariest looking person you can find. Again, it’s all about who you know.

You have to start doing the job you want before they will start paying you for it.


A four apartment quadplex with simple slots at the door for mail is going to be more secure than a two level series of bachelor apartments with 12 locked boxes. The former indicates an established level of trust. The latter…well, lets just say that I can still go back to my old apartment and open up most of the mailboxes with my fingernail.




Knowing city by-laws like the back of your hand is very useful, especially with jackass neighbours. Also become familiar with any rules and regulations pertaining to renting and lease agreements. Landlords will fuck you the minute they can.






When scouting for a dwelling, check all the taps and flush the toilets. Sure it might have a great view and tons of amenities, but you won’t care so much about the concierge service when you have cold shampoo running in your eye and you end up tripping on the shower curtain and are found by the paramedics staring blindly up into the still running ice cold spray. “Oh God, my eyes!” should never be anybody’s last words.



Learn how to break someones nose. You probably won’t ever have to, but it’s a good skill to have.

Not doing your own laundry by the age of 20 is wrong. Sending your laundry home to your parents makes you a sad, pathetic individual. Girls at school, I’m talking directly to you.



Find a good doctor. Don’t assume they all know what they’re talking about,   because a frightening percentage of them don’t. That nagging feeling of frustration like you’ve spent three hours trying to assemble a shoddy piece of Ikea furniture except you’ve been doing nothing of the sort? Yeah, it’s not the product of allergies and isn’t going to go away any time soon. It’s probably the sinking realization that you’re grown up and have to start acting like one, but you should still do something about it.



A good pair of heels can get you further than you think. So will a good tie and a good set of cufflinks. So will a chainsaw.

Get it in writing. People will doublecross you for a latte, nevermind a dollar.


If you’re getting calls from a collections agency, you probably already know that you’re fucked. You don’t have to stay on the line with them or let them scare you – feel free to hang up, laugh maniacally or make animal sounds. See that guy there? He’s screaming about the Manson muders and their relation to his mothers favourite Borscht recipe. And he’s having a grand old time. You can too!



Your printer didn’t just run out of ink on the day that you’re expected to bring a resume to an interview, and you don’t have a family emergency. For the love of all the is decent, just learn to say “I’m no longer interested in the position.” You’re not going to hurt anyone’s feelings.


Stop being afraid of hurting the feelings of people you are never going to see again. It’s very liberating. Feel free to walk out on a bill when the service was really that terrible. You don’t have to be nice to your ex. That pizza guy doesn’t need to be tipped 20% unless you have the same delivery guy all the time. If you do, make friends with him, man, make friends. You never know when a pizza guy is going to come in handy.




Nobody is interested in your regurgitation of the social theories you learned in school. If confronted with such a character, ask them if they’re going to introduce any original thoughts any time soon or if you should just break out the Communist Manifesto and get it over with.


If a taxi driver forgets to put the meter on, you don’t have to pay him out of sympathy. In this and in many other situations, asking for a name or employee number will get you a hell of a lot. If your cab gets in an accident you do not owe him anything other than a screaming shitfit. Learn how to throw a screaming shitfit, they can be very, very helpful. If your taxi driver happens to be a squirrel, pay the fuck up. Squirrels will lay the smackdown.



Return policies in most stores are more flexible than you think depending on how long you are willing to stand in line and argue.



Your first apartment isn’t going to come with a garbage can, toilet paper or a mop. You’ll also find yourself amazed at all the shit you need that you would never have thought of. Whether you’re a do-good bakeasaurus rex moving into a cute little condo or a hash smoking layabout living in the slums, YOU WILL NEED ALUMINUM FOIL.




A life well lived is the best revenge, but paired up with a wad of spit in the eye it’s damned near perfect.

And lastly:





Dear Miley Cyrus:

I despise you quite a bit right now. Your tarted up face is everywhere, and your vapid lyrics are put forth through your mechanical voice everywhere I fucking go. I’d feel sorry for you if you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself so much. My problem with you is that you’re a fake. That’s right, a great big phony. Let’s investigate the walking pile of lies that is you and everything you hold dear. Hold my hand on this journey child, your training bra doesn’t give you the right to cross the street by yourself just yet.

Firstly is your alter ego, Hannah Montana. I know you’re not much more than a walking Disney creation, but now that you’ve decided to crack your Mickey Mouse shell and start singing vaguely sexual lyrics (since those budding boobies are nothing more than two chubby cash cows in this industry), I don’t want to hear the name Hannah Montana ever again. Miley isn’t your real name either, but it’s sure as hell better than Hope or Destiny, so take the damn name and run with it.

Secondly, you can’t sing. You can’t even pretend to sing. I fully realize that when I was thirteen I had a crush on the Backstreet Boys, but at no point did I accredit them with any sort of artistic merit. They were fodder for my blooming sexuality and innocent daydreams of holding hands in parks. I’m quite sure there aren’t that many thirteen year old budding lesbians, and am not at all certain if one even knows if they are a lesbian at that point, so your celebrity confuses me greatly. Why do flocks of fans buy enough of your prefab albums to skyrocket your ass to the cover of enough magazines to even make it onto my radar, let alone piss me off? The Backstreet Boys could at least bust out with a decent a capella harmony, there being five of them and all. You can’t even sync up with the Studio Magic background track that makes you sound worse than Cher’s half-ass Framptonesque warbling on “Believe”. It’s bad enough that you rely so heavily on the post-production vocal version of photoshopping, but you can’t even do that right!!! STOP IT!!!

Thirdly, when you do sing, you sing shit. I don’t mean you sing poorly, we’ve already covered that. You know how “talking shit” implies slanderous, overdone untruths? Well you sing shit. You sing about rainbow flavoured love and make vague references to deep internal feelings like you’ve discovered your G spot for the first time. YOU’RE FIFTEEN!!!! I could probably go to jail for even MENTIONING that! Have you even gotten your period yet? Your meaningless lies about the cute boy at school are an unforgiveable insult to the great artists of our time who have loved and lost and written a decent fucking song about it! Go listen to Janis Joplin’s “Bobby McGee” you air headed little twerp. Now THAT is some soul! How the breath coming out of your glossed over mouth hasn’t turned bubblegum fucking pink yet is absolutely beyond me, but I would greatly appreciate it if you kept it in the schoolyard where it belongs.

Fourthly, and most offensively, you’re fucking stupid. I know Daddy is a country star and that’s why you’re famous, but being famous in the country-star sort of way is nothing at all like being famous in the pop-star kind of way. Country has it’s own flavour of soul and generally comes from authenticity. As a poptart, you’re no more than an oversized piggy bank. You’re pretty and sparkly, and so Industry Execs put money into the entity that is Miley Cyrus Inc. in order to get more money out in the end. That money pays for your wardrobe, your tourbus, your makeup and hair, and enough Studio Magic to make your voice palatable enough for incessant radio play. Sure you’re getting quite a few bucks out of it, but they’re getting even more. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be giving you your shiny pink big-girl pants in the first place, would they? They make money off you. It’s that simple. You’re a cash cow: they feed you lies and you shit them gold, with enough left over for you to tell yourself that it’s all okay. If you’re fine with that, alrighty then. We all have to abandon a few of our morals in order to pay our rent. What you don’t seem to realize is that as soon as you become an actual grown up, your appeal will have worn off and you’ll be dumped quicker than Britney after a crying jag. And that, my dear, makes you stupid.

Since stupid people generally understand concepts a little better with pretty pictures, lets take a look.










Disney’s Hannah Montana… 











 Plus lots of cash… 


















Equals Little Miss “I’m going to shake my booty even though I don’t really know what it’s for yet, and give millions of teenyboppers the impression that they know what the hell they are talking about when they get all lovestruck up in their not-yet-completely-formed brains and start making everyone else’s life a living hell with their sparkly lipgloss drama.”


Please also note the byproduct of this equation:











That would be money to the power of ten.

Unfortunately, this is not a stable equation. With the addition of TIME the BYPRODUCT decreases, resulting in less money for professional hair, makeup, wardrobe and sound.

The final outcome looks more like this:












That’s right! It’ll happen to you too! Stop now and spare yourself the humiliation. And spare my ears while you’re at it.



P.S. In case you still don’t believe me, I’m pretty sure my bff Talea is just about to rail on your ass for your parade of shittiness as well. Please click here for further demonstration of your inability to produce anything of worth to society.

So there’s a couple of things in life that are pretty unavoidable. Death and taxes, for example, at least until I finish up with the cryogenic reasearch (not for me, I’m already immortal, but for the bastards who keep taking my money). Another is celebrity gossip, at least in snippet form. I know none of you would dream of picking up the US weekly going on about Brangelina’s latest addition to their multicoloured genetic sampling, or Oprah’s most recent weighing in. But the information still manages to worm its way into your innocent bystander brain. You know Beyonce and Jay-Z got married whether you give a shit or not, and that Britney has gone from being tasteless to flat out fucking nuts. Because when you’re in a lineup at the grocery store and the feeble old lady in front of you insists on counting out her pennies, your eye will naturally wander to the giant bold font of every colourful magazine with its scantily clad wares on full display. You know Lindsay Lohan is about as classy as a puke filled tobacco spittoon, and I can guarantee that nobody wants to hear the name Miley Cyrus ever again.

Frankly, it’s getting a little old. I really can’t see much of a difference between Britney and Lindsay. They’re both blonde, strung out fodder for magazine punchlines, and neither of them have a smidgen remaining of any potential they may have once had. Mariah Carey is STILL struggling with her image and posing with the exact same facial expressions that she’s been carrying around in her luggage for the past decade and a half since she decided to flatiron her hair. And yes, J-Lo still has a great big booty. BORING!

You know what I miss? The fun-tastic celebrities of yore. The face-slapping antics of Macaulay Culkin and the goggle-wearing goodness of the entity forever known as “that Urkel kid”. We all know where Will Smith is nowadays, but what about Carlton? Or Hilary, who once made a huge deal over a boyfriend with a mole and was given the snappiest line ever: “You’re making a mountain out of a mole, Hill!” What’s Emilo Estevez up to these days? I haven’t heard anything about him since Will Ferrell drunkenly rambled his name back at the Roxbury. And Screech! Come on! Why aren’t these guys on the Surreal Life?

Well fine then. I’ll do it my damn self. I’ll find out what the hell happened to these people. And in the meantime, I’ll think up some fun alternate endings that would have ensured their lasting memory instead of their imminent disolve into obscurity.

Macaulay Culkin:

I really don’t know if I can come up with anything more insulting or outlandish than this photo, but just for the sake of morbid curiosity, I’ll switch from Google images to just plain Google.

Let’s see. Well firstly, he was arrested for marijuana possession back in September of 2004, probably still self-medicating after his harrowing Michael Jackson ordeal. He’s had a failed marriage or two, but who hasn’t? Oh here’s an interesting tidbit: he apparently bought Marilyn Manson his first pack of cigarettes for his role in Party Monster (yeah, I’ve never heard of it either). And it seems he stopped accepting roles while his parents were seperating because they were squabbling over his money like wonderful parents do, and after the flop of such atrocities as Richie Rich, never made it back into the limelight.

Cause of Obscurity: Fucked over by parents. It seems all the fame and money in the world can’t stop the inevitable.

Far Better Explanation: While he may have thought it ironic that he was corrupting a previously cancer free Marilyn Manson with his bad boy smoking ways, the tables were clearly turned shortly thereafter when Macaulay was roped into the Mechanical Animals as an understudy. He never got a chance to wear the boob-suit however, because his outlandish choice of personal styling was what Marilyn describes as “just a little too weird for my taste.” Macaulay currently remains in Marilyn’s employ by licking makeup brushes clean in exchange for petty cash and vitamins. Jackson is coming for him soon, he promised, he promised.

Steve Urkel:

Although the irony of the actors name – Jaleel White – does not escape me, the simple truth is that you probably didn’t even know what it was. He is, and always will be, just plain Urkel. But after his final nasally rendition of “Did I do thaaaaaat?” he was never heard from again. At least not so that anyone would notice. Did you know Bea Arthur performed the Urkel dance with him on stage at the American Comedy Awards? That’s cause Bea Arthur kicks your mothers ass.

After Family Matters got the boot, Urkel tried to write and star in his own show called GrownUps, which was a clearly failed attempt to carry along his childhood fame into adulthood. Bringing along Punky Brewster didn’t help, and the show tanked. Since then, he has managed to get a few bit parts here and there instead of tastefully hanging up the suspenders and calling it a day.

Cause of Obscurity: Cancer of the pseudonym. Without Urkel, there is no Jaleel White. I’m sure his friends and family will claim otherwise, but they are wrong.

Far Better Explanation: Urkel and Bea Arthur got married on the hills of Pasadena and now own a ranch known affectionately as “Burkel.” They have three children, all named “Argyle” and rivalled only by Michael Jackson’s kids for the collective title of “Most Obscure and Probably Really Ugly”. We’re not quite sure how, but they are in fact responsible for the crisis in the Middle East. Something about a Burkel brand Burka, with a terrible, terrible misunderstanding along the way. A camel was also involved.

Alfonso Ribeiro:

You probably didn’t know his real name either, but it was mentioned on Family Guy, so that’s good enough validation for me. I do know he was on another show, since that was the point of the reference, but I can’t for the life of me find it. And by “find” I mean “click more than one Google link”.

At any rate, Alfonso went through a divorce as well, and handed physical custody of his daughter over to his wife while still insisting on joint legal custody. Clearly this child is being primed for showbiz and a future battle over the assets gained by her no doubt gapped teeth. Alfonso himself appears to have never gotten over the loss of fame once promised him when he was cast in one of Michael Jackson’s Pepsi commercials, and has most recently been seen in a McDonalds’s ad.

Cause of Obscurity: Graciously exited the scene after McDonald’s told him he wasn’t black enough for them. He is now a professional dancer. I’m not even kidding.

Far Better Explanation:  Are you retarded?!? He’s doing the Carlton Dance for a living! What could possibly be better than that?!?

Hilary Banks:

Unworthy of any mention of her real name, not much is known about this elusive character except that she was a bit of a jerk on Fresh Prince. She was also on Blossom before that, as clearly indicated by the headgear, and had a brief stint on Melrose Place as well. Nobody has seen or heard of her since she appeared in The Ladies Man back in 2000. It was filmed in Toronto, and yet I don’t recall it – either a testament to our more presitgious productions or to just how lame a gig one gets after sporting ridiculous hats for a decade. Either way, she seems to have been filtered out of the far more talented (term used liberally) ranks we see on television today.

Sidebar: IMDB member blaque108 informs us that Hilary was on the cover of Ebony once upon a time. Thanks blaque108.

Cause of Obscurity: The hat, clearly. Whereas Michael Jackson absolutely made his career by sporting a mysteriously bedazzled white glove, this atrocious number never made it out of the early 90’s. Not seen in this photo are tendencies towards spandex, wild prints, mirrorball earrings, parachute pants and other era-approrpriate faux-pas including the themesong to Darkwing Duck playing constantly in the background. 

Far Better Explanation: Anything to do with Michael Jackson because that fucker has clearly ruined the life of every single celebrity I once loved and cherished.

Emilio Estevez:

We all remember Emilio Estevez from his days as the Mighty Duck Coach. But do you remember in the third installment when the story replaced him for the most part with a tight-ass college coach who looked distressingly identical to him? Yes my friends, it was a sign of the times to come. Our most recent recollection of Mr. Estevez was his not-quite-cameo in A Night At the Roxbury with Will Ferrell screaming Emiliooooo!!!!! Emilioooo!!!! Before that, and before Mighty Duck fame, he was an apparent member of what was known as the Brat Pack. I’m a tad young for this to have any bearing on my consciousness whatsoever, and only know this as a fact because I was too lazy to turn off a biography on Demi Moore a few weeks back. I also recall it having something to do with Molly Ringwald whose cause for celeb I still can’t figure out.

Since hanging up the skates that were never his in the first place, Emilio has actually continued to act, just not in anything worth mentioning. His name does not conjure up the same initial absence of recognition that Alfonso Ribeira does, but rather a feeling of “Awww, yeah, I remember him!” We remember his talent fondly.

Cause of Obscurity: Suckage. While his most recent stint “Bobby”  actually did fairly well, Emilio made a crucial mistake by abandoning the Mighty Duck bandwagon all those years ago. Apparently he only agreed to appear in the third installment at all in exchange for Disney’s financial backing in his actor-director fiasco “The War At Home.” Critics liked it, but nobody else did. And thus began his tailspin. His failed engagement and marriage to Demi Moore and Paula Abdul respectively didn’t do much for him either.

Far Better Explanation: It’s a little-known fact that his engagement to Demi Moore failed after she discovered Emilio canoodling with fellow Brat-Packer Molly Ringwald. Unfortunately, Molly also had a severe case of ringworm, as indicated by her unfortunate family name. The medication involved in the treatment affected his ability to make clear decisions later on in life. Emilio is currently a stockholder in Neverland Ranch, a further testament to the devastating effects of this illness. Please contact the author of this blog for info on where to send your charitable donations. A food drive will also be set up, as Mr. Estevez claims to be shockingly low on Doritos and Mr. Pibb


This guy goes by a whole plethora of awesome names. Firstly, the character he played was actually Samuel Powers and would have been a super mega hunk with a super rad name like that if the writers hadn’t already decided to turn him into Screech. The actor himself is named Dustin Deschaine or Dustin Diamond, depending on which Wiki article you look at. And considering that he was with Saved By the Bell right from its early inception in ’88 to the final curtain on several modernized versions in 2000, he’s had a fairly good haul. Since then he’s apparently been trying to get his standup comedy routine up and off the ground, and was also a member of Celebrity Fit Club Season Five. His shitty attitude during the latter and tardy arrivals in regards to the former have kept him well out of the public eye. Apparently he was also a bass guitarist for the now-defunct band “Salty Pocketknife” but of course just because you and your friends got drunk in a basement within proximity to some instruments and gave yourself a clever name, it doesn’t constitute a “band”. Especially since Salty Pocketknife isn’t really that clever.

Most recently, Screech has been seen in his own sex tape scandal, leading one to wonder how anyone would get in bed with someone most notably associated with the name Screech. Assuredly, a bad vocal pun was made somewhere in the film. He has also been on radio shows explaining how broke he is, and hawking $15 Tshirts that say “I Gave Screeech Fifteen Dollars to Help Save His House,” explaining that there is an extra e in Screeech because he does not own the legal rights to his namesake.

Cause of Obscurity: Poor financial planning, the plague of most child actors. Anybody remember how Will Smith was nearly bankrupt after Fresh Prince went off the air? And how he resorted to cheesy feel-good rapping? Well, apparently the original Mr. Smith had a few things that Screech here didn’t, including talent and work ethic.

Far Better Explanation: Never got together with Michael Jackson.

So there you have it folks. I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. Wasn’t it far more adventurous than seeing Lindsay in her umpteenth teary-eyed snot-nosed photo, or speculation over Mariah’s actual weight? And it was far more informative too. Knowing Brangelina’s exotic humanitarian vacation getaway details is not going to save your own children. Realizing that Michael Jackson secretly controls the world is vital to their survival. Remember these important things people. And now, just because I’m so generous:


The Zodiac Killer:

Instead of continuing on with the shoddy actor theme, I decided to go a little more morbid. This fun little fellow killed a few people in Northern California back in the 60’s, and is most notably known for stumping police with his cryptic messages, some of which have never been deciphered. Five confirmed killings are on the record, as well as two survivors and his own claim to as many as 37 victims.

He was never apprehended, and the killings stopped inexplicably. To this day, nobody knows exactly who he was or what his motives were, though he still retains his boogeyman status with frequent pop culture references including a movie with Jake Gyllenhaal. Interestingly enough, the Zodiac Killer himself once told the media “i am waiting for a movie about me i wonder who will play me the world is in my hands now.” Fantastic grammar and everything.

Cause of Obscurity: Stopped killing. This freaks people out because serial killers usually continue until they are caught, as it is a terrible compulsion not easily ignored by even the smartest of fiends. Some speculate that he went into hiding or simply moved to a different state and continued his plan unrecognized.

Far Better Explanation: Hit by car on the way to pick up a box of cat food.


So I’ve found myself a little stuck with writing lately, only because I’ve been generally less pissed off thanks to my awesome boyfriend and my overall improved ability to not let the world’s jackassery spin me into a trauma that’s much less eloquent outside these virtual perameters. And unfortunately, it’s when I’m pissed off that I write my best. It gives me the outlet to be snappy, sharp-witted, and sarcastic in my observations; to provide helpful suggestions as to storage places within various bodily orifices for the idiodic ideas of the masses; in other words, the chance to be a bitch. 

On a day to day basis, I am actually very nice. Karma and such – I go out of my way to help friends and complete strangers where I can. Even when I call someone an asshole on the subway, it’s for the greater good. But there is a side of me that just really gets a kick out of being mean. Not to “people” really, because when I get pissed off enough, you’re no longer human, and I can be as mean as I want. This doesn’t work well in person though, because people cry and leak and stuff and then they’re human again and I feel like I’ve stepped on a starving African orphan. With AIDS. 

But if they don’t blubber and wail, or if they are distant somehow I’m GREAT. On the phone, for example, I can be as aggressive and mean as I wish I could be in real life. I had a super proud bitch moment a few weeks ago. Our internet went down and everyone was pissed. After an afternoon/evening of disarray, we figured out that a single phone number had been disconnected by mistake. The next morning it was my job to get on the phone with Bell (who we no longer use) and figure out what the hell happened. The fun part is that these people on the other end of the phone aren’t real to me, so I had an absolute blast. “No, we aren’t waiting for a tech, 4-6 hours is unacceptable. I don’t think you realize the severity of the situation or precisely how much it has cost my clients so far. I need to know why this line was cut, and I need to know immediately. No, that’s not good enough. Your employee number please? Listen, we’re going to get a MASSIVE bill for tech support, and I need to know who’s going to pay for it. Yes, I realize you are just doing your job, but so am I and I have 60 people breathing down my neck – you have one, me. Then put me through to someone who can.” One hour and five different phone monkeys later I was put through to someone who told me exactly who’s fault it was, and it was AWESOME. A fantastic feeling of accomplishment. Me, *I* figured out who’s fault it was. And it was an important person. Delicious.

Last weekend, my internet blipped for thirty seconds. Twenty minutes on the phone later, I was discounted up the ass. “I’m sorry but this is not at all what I plan to continue paying for. You’re automated menu has mentioned internet difficulties in my area since the minute I signed up. But I give you the benefit of the doubt and am left with unreliable service in return. Do you think I feel like a valued customer at the moment? No, I don’t. No, discounting me for the offline time is not acceptable. It doesn’t matter that I couldn’t get online for thirty seconds. It matters greatly that for several weeks, I have been unable to write an email, or transfer funds between my bank accounts (right, because I’ve got SO many with SO MUCH money in them) or go about any of the activities I pay for the convenience of having online access to without wondering if my internet will go down. Really? That’s what I’m paying for? One more thing to worry about? I want these charge reversed. Your name and employee number please” So the bill comes along with two months worth of phone charges, and only ONE month of internet charges. Because my internet went down for thirty seconds. I wasn’t even online at the time. If I hadn’t been in the room, I wouldn’t have noticed the little light blip off and then on again. SWEET. Next time they ask if they may know to whom they have the pleasure of speaking, those faceless little monkeys will be calling me Princess HottenTots.

Notice the absence of any swearing or personal attacks. These are ineffective measures in getting what you want, because they make you look desperate and flawed. I’m right, and perfect. The insects on the phone, they are not. And don’t give me shit for dehumanizing people, you all know you hate those headset wearing liars. They do lie, they hold out the serious discounts for the people who demand them. And if you are one of these people, well hey, I would probably hold the door for you out in the real world somewhere, but as soon as you adjust your little foam covered mouthpiece, your ass is MINE.

In real life, I sometimes get a rare chance to fuck with people legitimately. Because it’s not about being a bitch. I’m really an awfully nice person. But there’s that funny little side of me that needs to be let out once in a while, so if I’m given good reason to fuck around with someone, I’ll take it and laugh with glee. One of our very pleasant clients came up to my desk and said “I just got a call for someone asking for someone I used to work with. It’s a very unpleasant matter, and I don’t wish to speak with them. Is there any way to screen those calls out?” I said absolutely, it would be my pleasure, and proceeded to demonstrate: “Hello? No, I’m sorry but there’s nobody here by that name. No, you have a wrong number. I can’t imagine how you just spoke with him, there’s nobody here by that name. No, you weren’t just speaking with me. I can’t imagine what you dialed earlier, but you simply have a wrong number. No, you can’t. No. No. No. Well I hardly think your opinion of my personal character has any significance in the matter. Goodbye now.” He was quite pleased.

We’ve got someone in the office who likes me to screen people for her. She’s got me on instant messenger and will often send me instructions.

Client: “She’s here for an interview, I’m still trying to find an assisstant who isn’t a total retard. What does she seem like?”
Me: “Rather timid, really. You seem like you’re looking for someone aggressive. She seems frightened of me, and mispronounced your name.”
Client: “I don’t want her.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to reschedule your interview. She was called away a few moments ago, I just spoke to her on her cell phone. There’s no need to leave your resume, we’ll be in touch. Bye now.” Nothing personal. I don’t dislike you as a person. But you’re unnecessary, so you can continue being a pleasant individual elsewhere.

Client: “Thanks, you’re great. Can’t you be my assistant?”
Me: “I like realistic pay and benefits.”
Client: “Shit.”

The same client had someone show up a day or two ago. I greeted her very politely, asked who she was here to see, and then her name. I left a voicemail and within ten seconds received an instant message:

Client: “She had an appointment hours ago and didn’t show up. She’s been jerking me around and it’s wasting so much of my time and money. Get rid of her, feel free to be rude.”
Me: “Yes ma’am!”

Me: “Ma’am? Hi. Unfortunately, you missed your appointment this morning. So you won’t be able to speak with anybody. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “But I just need to speak with her for five minutes.”
Me: “She’s unavailable. You were expected at 9:30 this morning, and it’s nearly noon.”
Her: “Yes, I was unable to come in. I just need a form. It’s very urgent, my court date is tomorrow.”
Me: “You should have called. She’s unavailable now, and won’t be available any time today.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yeah, she’s STILL not available. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “Okay, I will come tomorrow morning then.”
Me: “No. How do you know she’ll be here? You could drive all the way for nothing. Call and make an appointment, and show up on time.”
Her: “Can you make the appointment for me?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Well then what time tomorrow she is here?”
Me: “I don’t know. Call to make an appointment with her.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yes. It is. Call to reschedule. Thaaaank You!”

Saying thank you at the end of a sentence is a really good way to indicate that the conversation is over and the other party must now leave. And they can’t even say you were rude – they just didn’t like the answer you gave them.

Anyways, I’ve rambled enough. You see, the thing is, this sort of ability to see someone as not so much a human but more of a bundle of cells comes in very handy when you work for a corporation. Corporations are recognized legally as seperate entities – this being the benefit of incorporating. But if you look at a corporation as a seperate individual and run a few diagnostic tests, you’ll find that they are quite psychotic. Cold, emotionless, unable toform any lasting bonds. They will be super nice and bend over backwards for you as long as you have something they want, but the minute you bounce a cheque you’re dead to them. No love lost. Goodbye corporate luncheons, hello call to security the moment you step foot back in the door. As Talea put it so well “If I took my job personally, I’d be on the floor crying all day”. So it is really an asset to be able to detach yourself in this manner when you need to wring necks in order to find out who’s going to foot the mile high tech bill for pulling the plug on everyones life internet.

Outside of work, it’s considered a ‘problem’. A ‘symptom’ actually if you want to get up close and personal. It’s actually pretty nice that my job gives me an outlet for the dark side. But I figure I should probably work on other outlets as well. What if I don’t need to squeeze answers, discounts and apologies out of people? What if I start lashing out at people I like because I just haven’t gotten my bitch-fix lately? This is not good.

So I’ve decided on some new goals. For my very nice wish-I-could-fix-the-world side, I’d like to have my finances in good enough order by this approximate time next year so that I can buy one of those $100 lottery tickets that donates proceeds to childrens hospitals. And for my holy-shit-I-am-SO-good-at-bitching-people-out-and-secretly-really-LOOVVVE-it side, my goal is this:

I want to make a collections agent cry.

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s true: I would make an excellent collections agent. But I’ve been on the other end of that, and while I was never intimidated I know there are a ton of people who are just trying to make ends meet to feed their kids. So the morals of that don’t sit right with me. I want to use my evil for greater good. But I’ve already gotten rid of all the creditors in my life. So I need some Karma. If anyone has someone out there who owes them money, or who’s hassling them for money, let me know. Is the phone company threatening you? Is your internet bill astronomical? Well I can help, because I am good at being a bitch for constructive purposes.

It’s a new marketing campaign. Call me. Please.


et cetera