VERSEZ

Emoticons VERSEZ Hats: I’m Only Slightly Crazy Edition

 7-10 readers! How you doin’? 

Ew, did I just reference Wendy Williams as my opener? No, don’t say it—I’m disappointed enough in myself already.

It’s my fault for using that busted-ass witless RuPaul mirage as page-view bait. As a gargantuan loud-mouth who is perennially mistaken for a female impersonator herself, I should know that gimmick is about as engaging as PBS pledge-drive on mute. Well, I guess it’s not so much a “gimmick” as it is a “sexual death sentence”, but…that’s neither here nor there, right?

Sigh.

…What was I talking about? 

Oh, yeah; I’m back, albeit a little later than initially expected (fuck, at least I’m consistent)—I got into grad school for fall of 2012 (SUCK IT, HATERS I DON’T HAVE ‘CAUSE I’M UNIMPORTANT!) and am presently hustling hard to procure a steady means of part-time employment that doesn’t involve, you know, hand-jobs or hamburger meat (and certainly not any combination of the two, if I can help it. Unless that pays more than eight bucks an hour, in which case, who do I blow?).

Hey, now! That shit woke you right up like a good-old-fashioned pregnancy scare, huh? That’s how humor works, you guys. When you feel like you’re losing your audience, you just say something gross so they’ll all really hate you. Where’s my call from 30 Rock, Tina?  Jeez. 

Okay, let’s get to the actual Versez before you unfollow me in a fit of rage-fueled boredom.

…Sort of like the reaction literate people have to the ‘Hunger Games’ series. 

(I’m still seeing the movie, though, shit.) 

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VERSEZ Special: It’s not Valentine’s Day anymore, but it’s still “Feel The Love” week on BET, so…

Hey, there, 7-10 readers!

(An anime character appears to have landed on my left breast. How very distressing…)

So I’m not going to be around for a while, what with art school applications and the inevitable back-to-back nervous breakdowns therein, so instead of an actual post, I’m offering a very silly Valentine’s Day-appropriate poem I wrote about a year ago that was originally intended for…well, let’s not discuss that, shall we? Still, I believe it communicates, however sloppily, the way I feel about each and every one of you, darling, beloved Tumblrinas—all using only two genocide references! 

I know. 

I’m such a sweetheart. 

Anyways, see you after March 15th, sluts! And please, should the spirit so move you, do not hesitate to wish me luck…Beyonce knows I need it. 

This Is Not A Sonnet: 

If you were a Martian, I’d be your third head,

If you were a vegan, I’d eat tasteless bread.

If you were right-wing, then I’d be your butt-boy,

If you were a pitbull, I’d be your chew-toy.

And if you were Jesus, I’d be your stigmata,

If you’re Mussolini, I’ll be your frittata,

If you were Chinese, then I’d be your Comrade,

If you are Al Qaeda, I’m Islamabad.

If you were Mick Jagger, then I’d be your pants,

If you were a Nazi, I’d be Vichy France.

If you raw-dogged some rando, I’d be your Plan B,

And if you wore glasses, I’d be your Bundy.

If you went to Hogwarts, then I’d be your cape,

Or your wand, or your broom, or your owl, or your Snape…

And if you liked bondage, I’d be Betty Page,

If you’re Joseph Smith, then I’ll be underage.

If you were Fox News, then I’d be propaganda,

If you were a Hutu, I’d be your Rwanda,

If you were a stripper, then I’d be your pole,

And if you were Ratty, then I’d be your Mole.

If you sold fake purses, then I’d be your haggle,

If you were a trash heap, then I’d be your Fraggle.

If Disney had drawn you, I’d be your Prince Charming,

But if you felt the same way….well, that’d be alarming…

-T

PDA VERSEZ Camping: Shit I Won’t Do Edition

7-10 readers! What’s good…in the…hood?

…Yeah, that one hurt almost as much to write as it did for you to read. Oh, wait, hold on, my phone’s ringing…

Sorry! That was just my sugar-daddy. He’s in Harrod’s London and was just calling to confirm my preferences in Louboutins and Belgian cheese platters.

PSYCH! It was actually my mother, asking whether the cleaners had, in fact, managed to remove the disturbingly trenchant yellow armpit stains from my interview blouse…and informing me that the family dog got into my tampons. Again. Are you familiar with the land of glamour? Because that’s my fucking zip-code, you guys.

In other news only slightly less nausea-inducing than New Gingrich’s sex life, Valentines Day plans to molest us with its big pink tentacles yet again in 2012, despite my numerous strongly worded letters of protest.

Now, I should clarify something before we get started: I loathe Valentines Day for distinctly Liz Lemon reasons. Not only is February 14^th the one time of year it’s considered categorically “pathetic” to buy yourself a life-sized teddy bear, sixteen industrial-sized packets of Hershey’s kisses, or a large glittery dildo, it’s also an orchestrated corporate assault on the very concept of singlehood, willingness notwithstanding therein, naturally.

This sucks for two reasons; firstly, it promulgates the widespread misconception that chocolate is some kind of sensuous group activity. (It’s not. It’s for quelling the onset of emotional darkness with handful after handful of syrupy shame. And if Chris Brown musically pledges to lick chocolate off my body one more time in a desperate bid to distract me from his Dennis Rodman hair, I’m going to do to him what he did to Jay-Z’s stock in Barbados in 2009. Guess who gets sticky stretch-marks and zero fucking candy in that scenario? Think about it, Breezy).

Secondly, it makes me feel obligated to engage in some kind of big smoochy relationship, which, let’s face it, is categorical balderdash. I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend. Why? You guys read my blog; you know the fuck why.

I’m mean and spoiled and bad at math and more emotionally unavailable than Tucker Max at a performance of the Vagina Monologues at a lesbian bar in Portland.

I use words like “balderdash” for Beyonce’s sake—if speaking like a mustachioed member of the Edwardian landed gentry isn’t considered a total boner-shrinker, hand me a top-hat, address me as “Lord”, and toss me at the nearest popped-collared bro. I’ll be forcibly wall-flowered faster than you can say “PIP-PIP, CHEERIO, OLD CHUM!”

Solo Kelly Clarkson listening party aside, I think it’s time for this Nazi medical experiment of a rant to commence. And please keep in mind, 7-10 readers, all of this ranting is just a by-product of my embittered loneliness.  Pay no attention to the bitch behind the curtain. 

(Potato-faced solidarity, sister-girl.) (Hey! It’s a “Read More” cut! Look at me, gettin’ all fancy, like a house-trained miniature pig, or a rapper with a GED!) 

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New Years’ Resolutions VERSEZ Honesty As A Best Policy: Shit That Doesn’t Work Edition

Oh, what’s up, 5-6 readers?

I trust your holidays went off without too many pudding-induced strokes or official paternal disownments. (Oh…is that last one a touchy subject? Sorry, Paris.

I mean, you still have your vital organs to sell, I suppose. And your skin. And all that footage of you being senselessly cruel to check-out clerks whilst wearing the pelt of a lost Olsen sister. And the trademark to your life-story. I’m sure Logo or Oxygen would barter upwards of, like, eight sticks of Trident gum for that shit. Have you seen those ads? What silly-nilly dingle-goose would agree to be paid in gum? 

 You would, Paris Hilton.

You would.)

For those of you who aren’t interested in the least, my Christmas sucked half-staff donkey-cock. 

(Oh, whatever, Eddie Murphy, you’ve been blown by worse.) 

It took the makeup wench on the all-day shoot for our family Holiday card seventeen hours to make me look as if I wasn’t carrying tadpoles in my gullet like an ovulating bullfrog. (Amphetamines, fertility pills and Dallas humidity are a lethal combo, you guys—did you know they fry steak here?).

Additionally, I’m experiencing a personal dilemma thorny enough to rival the Rom-Com ramifications of Katherine Heigl’s hair color; I don’t know if it’s appropriate to call you guys “5-6” readers anymore!

You’ve numerically exceeded my extant ‘term of endearment’ quota, although thankfully not by a significant enough margin to justify this blog’s existence or anything perverse like that. Still, in recognition of the fact that a couple of strangers willingly seek out this needlessly verbose colostomy bag, I’m going to start referring to you guys as “7-10” readers instead of “5-6”.

I know.

This is like when Facebook added its new “Timeline function” and everybody was like, “WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT? I’m totally gonna deactivate this time”, before stalking their old boss’s ex-girlfriend for seventy-nine more hours.

OH SNAP!

 WHO SAID IT? I SAID IT.

I’m just articulating what you’ve always thought but never had the courage to voice, you guys.

Okay, this intro is goin’ down slower than a paraplegic lesbian.

Sorry, that was…yeah, I don’t know what that was. Sigh. Let’s just pull an Ashton and move on to something without Frankenstein bolts holdings its genitals together, shall we? 

New Years Resolutions:

If I see one more goddamn TV spot for a discounted gym membership, pro-biotic yogurt line, or overpriced personal organizing system, I’m going to use that anger as an excuse to properly lose my shit at the homeless guy who sometimes sings me excerpts from the “Ass N’ Titties” remix outside the Park Street Dunkin Donuts.

Sexual magnetism. It’s a gift. 

Seriously, though; I hate these campaigns’ target demographic for the same reason I hate Emily Bustamante from “Love & Hip-Hop” (yes, I do watch that show religiously, no, you may not stop reading) —-I can’t stand bitches that simply refuse to learn.

Just like you can’t hope to expect monogamy from rapper, entrepreneur, and 6^th grade Spelling Bee forfeiter Fabolous if he hasn’t exhibited any interest in the past, you can’t genuinely believe that you’ll commit to losing 20 pounds for good this time purely because you have made this pact with yourself on Verne Troyer’s birthday (Jesus, did you guys see that sex tape? …Neither did I.)

Now, I’m no fancy scientist or anything (I’m a woman, for God’s sake), but if you didn’t manage to do it in 2011, 2010, or the Clinton presidency, you probably aren’t going to pull it off over the next 12 months.

This isn’t to say that lofty goals are inaccessible or that previous failures can’t be overcome with some strategic planning, just…why wait until January? Obviously the holidays aren’t for ambition, they’re for drinking until you can’t feel your great Uncle’s hand on your ass, but the seemingly inescapable cult of overzealous January virtue is still a dangerous one.

Sure, you’ve eaten celery for dinner the last two nights, you have ink in your printer, and the Master To-Do List you typed up that makes Proust look like William Carlos Williams is still inhabiting prime real estate on your fridge, but, come on, dude, like, I can see you. We can all see you.

You’re sitting naked on your couch making a “shirt” out individual slices of rosemary ham. You aren’t writing the short story you’ve been working on for three months because you’re obsessively Google Imaging the phrase “Tom Hardy In A Scarf” instead.

You sniffed that guy standing in front of you in line at Starbucks yesterday. You did. You sniffed him. Did he smell good, slut? Did he?

Because it won’t get any better. Eat your ham shirt, creeper. It’s over now. Nobody’s coming. 

NO, Ryan, I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about other, incompetent people! 

…Yeah, fine, I’m talking about me. And get your greedy paws off my ham, dude! Just because you’re a big-time movie star doesn’t mean you get to barge in on my rosemary-scented sob-fest, sir.

God. 
Where was I? 

Still, change is technically possible, yet,  5-6 7-10 readers. You can turn the bus around-just look at Ebenezer Scrooge or Ms. Frizzle-but giving in to the Resolution hype is hardly the most effective way to do it.

That social pressure to improve oneself by force is the same pressure that inevitably leads to failure, resignation, and dead goldfish. If you buy fancy running shoes just because all your friends are getting into shape, it follows logically that you’ll be the first member of your crew to watch that overly optimistic investment collect dust from your Cheeto-crumb-coated bed. Letting external influence of a non-legislative nature dictate the scale of your ambition is a little bit like writing your eHarmony profile in Klingon—the fucking Egg McMuffin of reflexive cock-blocks. The EGG MCMUFFIN, you guys. Pay attention.

It’s dire out here, sluts.

“So, what exactly are you trying to say, then, my banana-boobed fuck-monkey?”

Well, I’m glad you asked, Tom, although…can you, um, maybe try and come up with another pet name? Not to be critical, but I’m not sure all these nice people need to know about, you know…anyways, my point is simple; no matter how many times Lady Gaga evicts the glirine tenants of her latest vagina-shaped wig or makes pointier her shiny bosoms for the enjoyment of hairdressers across the nation, her real name is still “Stephani”, spelled the stripper way. Shelving units and sudden pledges of veganism don’t automatically you a better person, y’all.  They’re just a deafening distraction from the stark reality of your inescapable, prematurely entombed existence; like, Percocet addiction with a slightly reduced chance of bloody urine, if you will.

Welp, that was cheery. I should really stop drinking before 3 pm, although I still contend that anything with juice in or near it is totally daylight-kosher. 

Honesty As The Best Policy:

Here is a comprehensive list of all the questions in existence that always require an honest answer:

• “Is that a crack in my space helmet, or just a stray hair?”
• “Why is our baby black, Ji-Hyun?”
• “If I give you the password, do I get to keep my testicles?”
• “So, is that coyote rabid, or just wicked hungry?”
•  “…Can I microwave it?”
•  “But is it a preference or a fetish?”
• “Have the drugs you’re smuggling in your rectum exploded, yet?”
•  “How many sides does the burger come with?”
• “Do I have to be sober for this bitch’s baby shower?”
• “Wait, are you saying you have the keys to Blue Ivy’s funhouse?”

….That was it.

That’s literally all of ‘em.

7-10 readers, if you’ve ever attended a drag ball in a former factory town, attempted to operate a tractor on ecstasy, or engaged in…gulp…sober sex (…freaks your kink isn’t my kink and that’s okay…), you know that sometimes, despite even the best of intentions, shit just doesn’t work out. There’s a reason Pakula didn’t make a sequel to Sophie’s Choice called “I Was Just Kidding”. There’s a reason Gordon Ramsey yells at Midwestern chefs for feeding sushi pizza to their customers, (although you could argue that anyone who orders a dish called “sushi pizza” deserves exactly what he or she gets). There’s a reason you can’t substitute salt for sugar in a cake recipe, even though they do look exactly the same and frankly, the bastard got you a $5 dollar Starbucks gift card for your birthday, so, you know what? Fuck his taste buds.

That reason about which I so emphatically speak is the quantitatively identical in all three instances: (nuance + context) * (damage control) = successful human interaction.

(For all the ladies out there, math just happened.) 

Whenever I hear someone claim transparency as a universal best practice, I have to assume that he or she is a terminally friendless, unemployed, orphaned expatriate of a country where sarcasm or hard liquor are outlawed.

“Honest” people, I’ve noticed, are also deeply invested in “labels”, both in terms of their dissolution (I DON’T WANT TO BE PIGEONHOLED BECAUSE I’M NOT JUST A LINGERIE MODEL, I’M A SINGER/ACTRESS WHO BELIEVES IN HER CRAFT TOO…)

…and their reckless dissemination (LOOK, POLITICAL CORRECTNESS IS JUST AN EXCUSE FOR HYPER-SENSITIVE PUSSIES TO TALK ABOUT HOW OFFENDED THEY ARE. BLACK PEOPLE ARE BETTER DANCERS THAN WHITE PEOPLE! IT’S THE TRUTH-YOU JUST HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR, YO.) 

I draw this comparison not only because both points appear parallel along the same Asshole Continuum, but also because anti-label and anti-lie ideologues continually miss the same basic tip; nobody’s bothered. Without labels or lies, no one would get laid, hired, executed, or entertained. Our world would amount to nothing more than a perpetual re-run of the first 30 seconds of any “Miss Marple” adaptation; all lukewarm tea and zero intrigue.

Anyone who has ever bitched about a mutual friend over french toast or accidentally viewed a “Bad Girls’ Club” reunion knows that speaking whatever is on his or her mind is a great way to get punched in the thorax.

(Never forget.) 

Guess what? Unless you are Stephen Hawking, bell hooks, or Beyonce, your thoughts probably don’t deserve any air-time. Grow up and stake out a passive aggressive slice of internet like a normal person, Jesus. 

Shit, this Versez was pretty mediocre, huh? I mean, even more so than normal, which would make it equivalent to, like, an episode of Wendy Williams featuring the least interesting cast-member of a CW drama about teen werewolves.

Shudder. 

I would stick another Kardashian joke here in a last-ditch attempt to convince you I’m culturally relevant, but, hey, do I look like Ricky Gervais at the Golden Globes? 

(Shut up, people who’ve seen me in person. I shaved my beard this morning and everything.)

Winner: New Year’s Resolutions. Any self-respecting single girl can tell you that the only worthwhile vegetable is the cucumber. Wow, that was gross, sorry. (Accurate, butgross, nonetheless. Wait, are you still reading? Apologies again, then. Don’t you have other stuff to do? Surely you can go knit a thong or play a video-game or fumigate the bodies in your basement or something. God, you’re still here? “Say Yes To The Dress” is probably on! Don’t you want to watch that instead? Well, if you’re sticking around, can I just say something creepy really quickly? That is such a good color on you. Seriously! You should wear that more often. And…do you always listen to Demi Lovato while you trawl Tumblr, or is that just today? Sorry, that was a low blow. What’s in that sandwich? Can I have some? What do you mean you put red peppers on salami? Are you insane? Ruiner. Oh…you’ve clicked out. But I posted a funny picture at the end! I mean…that’s cool; I get it, I guess. There are lots of blogs out there that are funnier and naked-er than this one, so I have to be realistic about your loyal…aaaaaaaaand now you’re jacking off. Wow, your choice of porn is…I can’t un-see that. How do I close this Eye of Providence? Ha! I’m just fucking with you! I can’t see you or your bank account information. Don’t worry about it. ) 

Merry Versez Christmas, 5-6 Readers!

5-6 readers, it’s Jesus’s Birthday (historically inaccurate, sure, but look, who needs knowledge when you have Christ?) and I’m sitting on my parent’s big red couch watching “Nature” with my sister, as is our traditional family practice (did you know that giant Japanese salamanders can live nearly eighty years and reach up to six feet in length? That shit is fucked, yo). I just wanted to say ‘thank you’ for your inexplicably loyal interest in the bullshit that falls out of my Twizzler-poisoned noggin and onto this mediocre site. Thank you for putting up with my irresponsible posting patterns, my pointless ranting, and my unfounded biases against various religious groups and television characters. Thank you for liking, reblogging, and alerting your arch nemeses to the existence of this particularly nasty pustule on the internet’s rosy ass-cheek. Above all, thank you guys for being so goddamn nice to me—I’m a huge bitch, and I really don’t deserve it. Here’s wishing everyone a marvelous holiday season and wildly successful 2012, chock-full of oral sex and industrial-sized free lipgloss samples.

Or, you know, peace. 

What I’m trying to say is…Merry Christmas, 5-6 readers! 

Sexualizing Food VERSEZ Change: Talking Out Loud is a Privilege, Not a Right Edition

Oh, fancy seeing you here, 5-6 readers! 

Well, not “fancy”, exactly. More like, “deeply troubling”. (Don’t you guys have other shit to do, like harvesting hair extensions from your underage Ukrainian prostitute farm somewhere out in the valley?)

I mean, how’s tricks? Or, more specifically, how’s your mom? Still dating that ex-con who thinks that just because he bailed you out of Mexican prison one time he’s somehow entitled to your beautifully curated weed stash?

Wait, did I invent that scenario, or is that the plot of some coming-of-age dance flick I’ve seen recently? When you can’t discern between early 80’s screenwriting and your own ham-induced fever dreams, you really know it’s time for that frontal lobotomy your mother’s always going on about. 

(She loves me. She does. She remembered my name last week, you guys.)

So, I should probably suck it up and acknowledge the elephant in the room now, right? Because it’s shitting on the rug and knocking over all my non-flea market china, (which consists of like, one plate, but still, Williams Sonoma is fucking expensive, you guys, especially after they catch you trying to smuggle all the fluffy-animal-shaped pot-holders out of the store in your Britney Spears tote bag. Fucking Martha Stewart-knockoff Nazis.)  

Oh, but yes…the elephant. 

GO BACK TO AFRICA, WEIRD, LONG-NOSED DOG THING!

…Wait, but not in a racist way, though. That’s just where elephants come from!

What? What do you mean it was born in the San Diego Zoo? 

Balls.) 

Anyways, my last entry had…emotions in it. Like, big ones. It’s my duty as your fifteenth-choice blogger to correct my trespasses against you, ye non-committal and terminally unimpressed readership, and, frankly, after last week’s adjective-happy fiasco, you deserve an explanation. 

Actually, you know what? Let’s just pretend it never even happened, like Patton Oswalt’s hair on “King of Queens”, or that time you caught your dad watching Sploshing porn on his office lap-top. 

I’m terrible at classy segues, so I’m just gonna Waka Flocka this fucker out by shaking my hair aggressively at you until you’re stunned into submission. 

Wow..so, apparently I’m unhealthily attracted to Waka Flocka, now? Um, is there a pill or a 12-step program for this shit? Because I’m 87% sure my eyeballs just caught the clap. 

What was I talking about? Oh, yeah, Versez. I even bore myself, God. 

Sexualizing Food: 

As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, 5-6 readers, I am an unapologetic fat kid who wears her colors with no shortage of jiggling, crumb-spackled pride. Seriously. I fucking love food.

The fastest way to my heart is absolutely through my stomach, and I can’t pretend I haven’t made a shocking myriad of bad decisions based on unproven promises of future bacon.

“You there! Fertile-looking blue-state harlot! You’ve got the kind of haunches that could absolutely bear my gigantic sad-eyed Mormon babies. Wanna move to Utah and become my fourteenth wife?”

“Uh…I mean, like, you sort of look like a Grant Wood painting that’s been dipped in liquid psoriasis and set on fire, honestly….”

“…I have pie.” 

“OH SHIT! HOLLA BACK, BABY! DO I HAVE TO SIGN SOMETHING, OR WHAT?”

“Where’s my floor-length gingham eatin’ dress at?” 

(Coincidentally, “Future Bacon” is also the title of the apocalyptic thriller screenplay I’m writing for Lionsgate. Miss Piggy has signed on to star. May 2012, sluts. I’m like Diablo Cody without the daddy issues.)

In summation, I totally subscribe to the contention that taste can be a transcendent, sensual experience. Gastronomy collapses into the realm of art more often than not, in my opinion, and too frequently language fails even the noblest attempts at the adequate expression of, say, the seething, ecstatic rhythm of a Dragon Roll’s nimble lingual mambo across the taste buds.

Fuck me.

Now I’m salivating for real. I need sushi worse than Miley Cyrus needs Amy Winehouse’s old cell-phone. (Pop-idol drug jokes! That’s what internet-people like to read, right? If it’s on my blog, then clearly not. Sigh.)

Anyways, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, 5-6 readers, I’m also a whore for hyperbole. I love overstatement even more than I love Free Fassbender Fridays, when Michael’s fine ass comes to my house bearing AllSaints gift certificates and 25 metric tons of Twizzlers. (See what I just did there, you guys? With the rhetorical device incorporation…did you? Did you see? Guys? It’s like an Umberto Eco novel without all the pesky meta-literary criticism and about 30% more references to cake and New Jersey.)

Hehehe-beard. 

“So…what’s the problem, then, you wobbling hunk of love-Jello, you? Jesus, was it because I showed up wearing pants last week, Torey? Because we’ve already had this discussion…I have a fucking job…”

Shhh, my hawk-eyed Irish Creamsicle, we’ll “talk” about your pathetic attempts at insubordination later, over, like, Twinkies, or Jack Daniels, or both.

Or…you know, me.

Over me.

Sorry, I’m getting distracted. (In my underpants.)

Damn. This entry is going downhill faster than Oprah in a bobsled.

Alright. I’m back. Here’s what really grinds my gears; while I hardly require universal verbal dexterity of my conversational partners, when they revert to lazy, hackneyed  clichés en route to communicating an individualized experience, my left eye starts twitching with the force of an entire Twerk Team.

And it’s not just the bitches that describe every phenomenon known to humankind as “amazing” that force me to punt puppies into deep space, either (that’s another Versez altogether). There’s one phrase in particular that makes me want to leave the one I’m with and start a new relationship with Food, and I’m not even sure I can bring myself to type it for you, precious and patient 5-6 readers.

(Wait, was that not the best Usher interpolation you’ve ever heard, though?)

(Small victories, y’all. Small victories.) 

Fast-Bend-Me-Over, come here and hold my left boob hand through this trauma, please.

Whew! That’s better.

The fourth sentence of the apocalypse proceeds as follows:

“Wow, this frozen yogurt is like an orgasm in my mouth.”

Um…really? Because, if so, we are NEVER GOING TO THIS PINKBERRY AGAIN.

(I thought that check-out guy with the hook for a hand and FSU chest-piece looked a little shifty. I mean, I still gave him my number…amateur pirates can get it, am I right?)

But yeah, not to put too fine a point on this or anything, but, at the risk of sounding like a spurious bit of early Donald Glover stand-up…fuck, how do I say this without mentioning semen  sailors?

“Ear-gasms” are not actually a real occurrence. Neither are “eye-gasms” or “shoe-gasms” or whatever other porny portmanteaus are casually employed by BU Advertising Majors at finger-sandwich adjacent Tri-Delt mixers.

An orgasm happening inside your mouth, particularly given any sort of passing recreational interest in crack cocaine or 80% BCBG sales, however, could well become an immediate reality for many a young Fro-Yo enthusiast. 

Seriously, unless you’ve got the Orbtiz lady on speed-dial, don’t defile your pie-hole with sexual in-specificity whilst it sings the praises of yummy dessert products.

Look at them. Look at their little faces!

They don’t deserve this.  

“I Don’t Have To Change Myself For Anybody”:

Wait, are you the requisite under-written stereotypical “sassy” black best friend on a late-night ABC pilot?  

Oh, you aren’t?

Then, please, for the love of all things Beyonce, shut your fucking whore-mouth. 

Society, law and reality television demand multifarious shape-shiftings of the general population for all sorts of perfectly acceptable reasons, like job interviews, encounters with Craiglist BDSM Dommes, parties without an open bar, dating outside of court-ordered transitional housing, and improving one’s physical proximity to the genitals of people who understand taxes and PhotoShop. Even the foremost Arbiters of Awesome transform themselves with noticeable frequency; Power-rangers, Drag Queens, cephalopods, Madonna… I could keep going, but then you might pick up on the fact that I just employ incongruous lists when I run out of narrative direction in these posts. And then you might hate me more than you already do. Did you even know that was possible? Read on, then! I like a  challenge. 

Cormac McCarthy and Wile E. Coyote could both easily vouch for the fact that regeneration is born most often and most effectively of violence. That’s why change hurts—it requires willful rupture, unlike compromise, which constitutes a forcible pairing of mis-matched halves. Neither are easy, but in the context of a relationship, platonic or otherwise, both are pretty par for the course. Sometimes you just got to suck it up, put on the goddamn Goofy mask and start smearing buttercream frosting on your butt-cheeks with a flip-flop, you know? That’s just maturity. 

This isn’t to say that you should submit to anything that makes you uncomfortable or unsafe purely for another person’s benefit, but still, that’s not the kind of pragmatic self-preservationist tactic the “I don’t need to change for NOBODY” crowd is defending.

Any relationship, regardless of whether or not it involves hand-cuffs, should ultimately bring out the best qualities in both parties, encouraging rather than stifling efforts at personal progress.  Take Benson and Stabler, or Redbull and Vodka, for instance. You should change because you are inspired to and compromise because you are deeply invested, not just sell yourself short out of desperation, or worse, refuse to step up because you’ve misinterpreted Samantha Jones’s pathological narcissism as a viable pseudo-feminist excuse for avoiding introspection altogether.

Unless you actually live inside a Ralph Lauren fragrance advertisement, I can guarantee you, you’re not that awesome. You certainly aren’t un-improvable. Frankly, you’re probably a piece of shit, just like the rest of us.

And from one piece of shit to another, let me assure you that while a lasting 180 turn-around may not necessarily be possible, successful behavior modification is still well  within your reach. So, stop pretending that you can afford to stay the way you are, okay?

Your emotional rigor mortis is what’s making bitches leave your ignorant ass in the first place. Don’t treat “being yourself” as an ideal state; that’s like remaining “honest” or “optimistic”; a patently terrible plan.

Okay, now I’m just talking about my immediate economic future, but the point still stands, right? Again, this isn’t about exposing yourself to sabotage, it’s about self-awareness and objectivity. Standards are good, and there’s no doubt that you are possessed of many attributes that would recommend you highly to any potential suitor, employer, or check plagiarist, but, come on, Jennifer, you know you have some issues, too.

I mean, you watch “Psych” sometimes, for fuck’s sake. You steal lipgloss from CVS to make you feel powerful. You’ve been wearing the same bra for at least a week even though you had to replace the left cup’s broken underwire with a pipe-cleaner you tore off the sculpture of a Mexican tarantula you made when you were ten for your mom’s birthday, which is weird for like, a lot of reasons, the most concerning therein being that your boobs have therefore perched at totally different heights for the last five days and you haven’t been moved to do a thing about it.

You actively try to make babies cry on public transportation for your own amusement. You killed a moth last week because you thought it was judging you for eating an entire stale baguette double-fisted alone in your bed.

Your iTunes play-count for Aly & AJ’s “Chemicals React” is well over 60.

If no one has required to change for love yet, you’re probably aiming too low, baby-girl. 

What? Of course I’m not talking about myself. I’m being hypothetical, here. I’m a fucking writer, I can take some creative goddamn license, Prince. 

No, don’t give me your judgmental smolder! You know I hate your judgmental smolder, although my nether regions may or may not feel differently. 

Be still my fluttering underpants. 

Fine…fine, you pint-size sex deity, I admit it, I was being semi-autobiographical just then, but, like, in the spirit of Clint’s “J. Edgar” movie, so, by wearing terrible makeup and deviating wildly from textual evidence.  

I have no idea what happened to this Versez, you guys. I promise, I tried. 

So, I guess I should announce the winner, then. Sigh. I need to get a goddamn job, 0-2 5-6 readers. 

Winner: “I Don’t Change For Anybody”. There’s a difference between harboring healthy self-esteem and remotely causing rectal bleeding in orphans with your stank attitude, you know? 

And Now For Something Completely Different, VERSEZ Edition: A Few Words on Free Advice

5-6 victims readers!

It’s a been a while! How have you all been getting along without me? Like a porn star embarking upon her first main-stream movie role, I would assume—with clumsy gusto and a nostalgic yearning for erstwhile cock.

Or, just...fine? Either one. (Do I get points for “erstwhile cock” at least? I thought that was pretty okay. And it’s also what I’m naming my low-fi electro-clash chick-band. Auditions start next week.)

What have I been up to, you ask? Oh…you didn’t? Whatever, I’ll tell you anyway.

I’m back on the job-market after leaving my social justice internship in search of something that won’t actually suck my soul out through my eyeballs with a spiked soda straw. So far, that “something” includes looking up step-by-step video instructions to Jamaican dance-hall routines on the internet and impulse-buying costume jewelry from Forever21, neither of which qualifies as a viable job option, apparently. To be honest, if I didn’t admit to you guys that I’m in a really weird place right now, (as is the case with nearly every 20-something whiny bitch in the history of herstory, apart from, like, Taylor Swift), I’d be no better than John Mayer at a promise-ring convention. 

By weird “place”, I mean weird “head-space”, by the way; not, like, “underground Hobbit brothel” or something. Although that does sound pretty intriguing. Maybe I’d finally get to fuck Samwise.

I’d Frodo that man’s Baggins.

…Yup. 

It’s real. It’s happening.

Struggling it only makes it hurt worse.  

 (Yes, that was a sexual LOTR pun, and yes, you may absolutely stop reading now. In fact, I’d heartily recommend it. Although, clicking through a “Read More” Tumblr cut is sort of like stuffing hog-tied Ryan Gosling in the back of your van…you know you shouldn’t, but sweet Beysus, is it tempting! Seriously, though, I’m going to get kind of serious and pretentious in about, say, fifteen words or so, so don’t make the jump if you’re harness isn’t secure, y’all. Proceed at your peril. (Lions, Tigers, Sincerity, Oh, my!))

Read More

Hugging VERSEZ Eye-Contact; Social Awkwardness Edition

Hey, 5-6 readers!

Do you guys dig my super-sexy sleep-mask? Lamar says I should wear it whenever the lights are on. 

He’s so thoughtful. 

Speaking of which, how is everybody doing post-Thanksgiving?

Still looking for a marginally-consenting Asian teen to fulfill the pesky organ-failure fetish all that behavioral psychotherapy did jack-shit for? I hear that, broseph, and I feel you —it’s hard out there for a creeper, amirite?

Both in terms of playground-proximal erections and, you know, other tricky shit, like border-control. Because as systematically oppressed members of the creeper community, we are forced to stay cognizant of our no-go areas at all times, at least in townships with an armed police force…

Middle-school bathrooms, step-dads’ office-closets, Amsterdam, doll-collector conventions, art-house movie theatres, girl scout meetings, Nicki Minaj’s garage, The Tufts University Library’s Medieval Manuscripts section, Southwest Airlines, ESL classes for refugee children, third cousins’ bar mitzvahs, hookah bars in Miami, pet-shops specializing in reptiles, Texas, above-ground public transportation, underground public transportation, Selena Gomez concerts…the totally hypothetical list goes on.

Since we are the ultimate social wildcard, many of us creepers suffer from incredible awkwardness during customarily mundane interactions, like saying ‘goodbye’ to a cute acquaintance or talking to another human person without vomiting on his shoes. So, let’s commence with the smack-down, shall we? Hugs VERSEZ Eye Contact; the biggest setbacks to befall creepers since the advent of Watchdog.com.

Hugs: 

I fucking hate hugs.

I really, really do.

Nope, actually, that’s a lie. Specifically, I hate conscription hugs, or at least the kind that don’t take place during funerals or foreplay.

If neither of those options is in the offing when I move to solicit a hug from you, that probably means my tits are on fire and I’m counting on your jacket to halt my involuntary back-track into pre-pubescence.

Seriously. Sorry-but-not-sorry about the autism, here, but really, I just don’t understand the cues involved. How long? How tight?

NO, no, that’s not what I meant. Yes it is. NO IT ISN’T, DISNEY HADES WHO LIVES IN MY HEAD. 

Back to hugs—do I have to touch your private parts, now? Do I look like your ride to the abortion clinic? Is this what friendship feels like?

Maybe it’s just the physics of hugging that irks me;  (not that I passed that class, but still.)

Since I’m linebacker-height, most people who deign to embrace me against my will inevitably end up with their noses in my sternum, which is…what is an accurate description of that experience? Unpleasantly intimate? Unnecessarily personal? Mammalian? It sort of makes me feel like a giant pillow, which is exactly as empowering as it sounds.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being comfy, per say—I am well-padded—but just because I am already more-or-less a human duvet doesn’t mean people are invited to treat me as such, what with my tax-paying and all. All my life, as a girl who is boyfriend-size, I’ve been forced to console the recently dumped, let-down and demolished with these cunting cleavage-dampeners, resulting in many an irretrievably mascara-stained blouse and disadvantageously drenched clavicle.

(In identity politics, the academic term for this predicament is, “Shut your fucking whore mouth, dumb-ass white girl”.)

But at least comfort-hugging has rules—if the bitch is sad, lie back and take one for England.

The conundrum of acquaintance-hugging is another mine-field all together—are you obliged to go in right after introductions? Are you going to try to grasp me as we part ways? How much of my body has to be touching your body in order to make this sincere? If I have to ask that question, shouldn’t I be getting, you know, paid?

 Wow. I really am the Soviet team of the Unfriendly Olympics. 

I need to get my Asperger’s checked, like, yesterday. 

Eye Contact:

Eye contact falls into the same social category as handshaking and erotic asphyxiation; there are right ways to proceed, and there are very, very wrong ways, 5-6 readers. Limp handshakes almost always make the recipient feel like a nursing home CNA, and the goldilocks principle holds true for the other extreme as well; bone-crushers, in my experience, either suffer from micropenis syndrome or are active members of the Tea Party, functionally interchangeable states, really.

Eye contact builds on the same dynamic; ideally, it’s supposed to be a gentle, friendly game of hold and release, but I’m guessing that somewhere down the line, Askmen.com reminded it’s dutiful 500,000-600,000 readers that, not unlike receiving gym memberships for Valentines Day and providing blowjobs on the first date, bitches love un-wavering eye contact, because lately I’ve been feeling more like a chocolate bar in the “Matilda” movie than a primate during conversational exchanges.

Obviously, none of these staring contests involve any kind of sexual impetus (have you seen my hair lately? I look like Samantha Fox in 1987 without the porn-star tits); it’s all about “intensity” and “personal confidence”, apparently. The more closely the speaker wants me to listen, the harder his eyeballs assault my eyeballs, which isn’t fucking fair, you guys, since shit like that makes my mind collapse faster than Cameron Diaz’s rhinoplasty in a NASA wind-tunnel.

Because while whomever is glaring at my pupils in the hopes that I will retain the information his mouth is imparting to me slowly, loudly, and deliberately, I may very well be nodding, but this is what’s actually happening in the old-timey telephone switch-board that is my brain:

Oh my GOD this guy’s eyes are wicked close together. Where does he get his glasses fitted? He should try a monocle. Like a fancy Prometheus. Or a walrus-mustachioed squire. Esquire. Umpire. Elmer Fudd. Fraggle Rock. Irrefragably! No NO no, stop free-associating, you dumb bitch—it’s time to pay attention! You missed that whole first part where he told you what to do in the case of a fire, but you’re a smart kid, you’ll figure it out, right?—remember that time that cabby waived your fare because he thought you were crying but really you were just super hung-over? That took ingenuity. Or vodka…either one. Wow. I REALLY want to watch Cadet Kelly right now. What was the credit song in that movie? Not “Perfect Day” by Hoku…that’s Legally Blonde. FUCK. It had really satisfying break-beat production…no, not Super-girl by Krystal, that was the first Princess Diaries…damn, now I can’t possibly be expected to concentrate. Wait, did I put on deodorant this morning? BALLS. I probably smell like a homeless guy’s credit score right now. I hope he doesn’t notice. Also, I have a visible boob pimple. I should have put some eyeliner on that bitch and pretended it was a mole.

“Does that make sense, Torey?”

“…Torey?”  

“…ONE GIRL REVOLUTION BY SUPER-CHICK! TEN POINTS TO HUFFLEPUFF, MOTHERFUCKER!”

“…What?”

“…Nothing. I should probably show myself out…”

And that, kiddies, is why momma doesn’t like to leave the house without her blinders and ‘special’ cigarettes. 

Winner: Eye Contact. Because, like a Playboy Bunny or in-house rehab gynecologist, I don’t so much like looking directly at the person I’m touching. 

‘Run-Ins’ VERSEZ ‘Convenience Friends’: Moving Back Home Edition

5-6 readers!

How’s it hangin’? Thick and low, I hope.

I mean, what?

I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. God-damn, I really am dryer than a Mothers Against Drunk Driving meeting in Evanston, IL.  

Thatjoke was brought to you by my woefully unattended shame-canal, 5-6 readers.

You’re welcome.

(It’s good to have me back, isn’t it?)

I trust that you all have been persevering in your respective fields with unfettered resolve and unblinking confidence, no? There’s little doubt that most of you could be described as the Quarterbacks of life’s NFL, but for those of you Thirds-string bench-dwellers whose lives are not unlike, for instance, mine, (which is to say that they closely resemble the first 20 minutes of the Devil Wears Prada sans swarthy grilled-cheese-making boyfriend, Meryl Streep cameo, Stanley Tucci hair intervention, or professional studio lighting,) I dearly hope that you have not taken to sobbing with abandon in the snack closet at your internship office or drawing fancy mustaches on your face with eyeliner in the bathroom mirror whilst singing the Wishbone theme song to yourself  as a nightly bedtime ritual, because both of those scenarios would not only make you a pathetic weirdo, they might also be symptomatic of a larger issue.

Like caffeine withdrawal. Or an extended vacation in the “dark place”.

For the uninitiated amongst you, the “dark place” is where I’ve been on hiatus for the last week or so. On the map of my soul, it’s right next to Anxiety Avenue and twenty miles or so north of FUUUUCKKKK Falls. You can generally find me tied to a failure-shaped ducking stool, screaming “I’M NOT A WITCH, YOU BASTARDS!” to an ever-expanding group of stoic Sigma Chi frat brothers slowly gathering at scenic Self-Loathing Lake.

Look for me during your next visit! My hopeless, intermittent vituperations are quite the tourist attraction.

But I’m not going to talk about that. Instead, I’m going to discuss the pros and cons of living at my parent’s house at the age of 22, since I like to keep it positive and impersonal on this blog. PSYCH! I’m just gonna bitch at you for 1,000 words! Beysus Christ, how bad must you guys want to fuck me right now?

Answer: Worse than you want a pap smear in Malaysian prison.

Where was I?

Run-Ins:

One of the less charming parts about moving home after college, apart from having to regularly explain to my mother that the economy isn’t fucked solely because corporations have started throwing less lavish Christmas parties (CAUSATION VS. CORRELATION, EVERYONE), is the inevitable misfortune of running into people from my past on a fairly frequent basis.

Since there are no jobs anywhere anyway and I live in a large suburb of an even larger city, the misfortune isn’t as much embarrassing as it is merely inconvenient, but still, since I got out of my awkward phase, like, Thursday of last week, (and it was less of a great escape than an advantageous stumble, if I’m being honest) I don’t really need anyone who knew me before, say, November 14^th of 2010 bumping into me while I’m on my third CVS run of the week rockin’ the no-makeup-swag harder than a steel-wool-treated naked mole-rat.

Plus, watching me engage in small-talk is a little bit like attending a live Black Eyed Peas concert; it’s amusing enough and follows all of the expected entertainment rhythms, but you inevitably walk away feeling hollow and unclean.

Exhibit A: the time I bumped into my grade-school piano teacher during an ill-fated attempt at running around the local reservoir. In service of setting the scene, imagine me, 5-6 readers, disheveled, sweaty, favoring Jack Nicholson in “The Departed” more than is generally considered becoming of a human woman, standing in front of a small, stout, fire-haired Lithuanian woman with long acrylic nails and a nose-mole the size of a porn-star nipple.

“Torey!”

“Hi! It’s been so long, how are you doing?”

“I am okay; I have just had facial, so I am very itchy, but other than that—eh.” 

“That’s…great to hear! Are you still teaching piano?”

“Yes! Yes I am. Do you or your sister still play?”

“I’m afraid not…we were total piano failures.”

“Indeed. You were not very good. Are you student now?”

“I graduated, actually! I’m going to apply to art school later in the year, though.”

“Oh, the artings. I see, I see. Are you or your sister married yet?”

 ….And here comes the ‘WTF Freeze Frame’: SovietYenteSayWhat? My sister and I are 22 and 20 years of age! Does this look like Say Yes to the Dress: Salt Lake? Regulate your facial expressions, Torey. Don’t pull a Miss Piggy on this woman.

“No, no, neither of us is married.”

“Why not? You is tall and everything. You could get husband if you wanted.”

Really? Maybe in the former USSR, lady; men drink a lot of vodka where you’re from.

“Hahaha….thanks?”

“Well, anyway, is good you not married. Do not get married young. My daughter, she married at 22, divorced at 26. Now she thirty; still looking! So hard—no luck. Time is RUNNING OUT FOR HER. Do not get married young, Torey. Don’t do it.”

Wait, am I getting Fiddler-on-the-Roofied? Is this woman going to disappear into the mist at the stroke of midnight? Surely I can’t be awake, right?

“Yeah, dating in the city is tough! Uh, well…um, it was so great to see you! Best of… luck?”

Why are you wishing her luck, Torey? Because she’s clearly gunning for the Gold in the Downer Olympics? She doesn’t need any luck…bitch has ZERO COMPETITION. Like the Michael Phelps of broken dreams. 

If American creepers buy Russian mail-order brides, do Russian creepers buy American mail-order brides? I think I might have just identified a niche market. Thank you, Top-10 liberal arts degree. You do a fat bitch proud.

Convenience Friends:

Everyone I know from college or high school is doing one of four things right now: Americorps, grad school, unpaid internships, or, like, consulting. (Ew.) This means that many of these aforementioned acquaintances/ traumatic memories are also exploring their full potential as Massachusetts tax dependents in a similar fashion to the very writer of this here tumblr-blog. Facebook gets involved, drinks are scheduled, and before I can say “sorry, I have to watch a “Hoarders” marathon in my underwear and cry airlessly into this pint of Dulce de Leche; I can’t get awkward sushi with you”, I’ve achieved semi-coerced “convenience friend” status.

Now, I’m realistic enough about my own abhorrence to maintain a heightened sensitivity to even my closest friends’ perceived apathy towards my company, so that social anxiety is magnified tenfold by the desperate, manic timbre typical of “convenience friend” interactions. I either feel compelled to go on the charm-offensive, an experience that I imagine is comparable to getting licked to death by a snarky St. Bernard, or I completely shut the fuck down, which is worse, since even stony, stern recalcitrance won’t necessarily deter a convenience friend from setting up another hang-out session post-haste.

And why the fuck not? Most people will snuggle up to anything that prevents them from being alone on a Saturday night, especially after the insular, intuitive social sphere of school gives way to a more grown-up, demanding market, which makes me worry that a larger segment of the population than I had originally assumed has not yet discovered the internet. Seriously. Mad Men is the same thing as friends, right? Right? RIGHT? Of course, right, Don Draper.

 You are truly the finest ‘bou on the tundra.

It’s not that I mind disingenuous social niceties or the vapid verbal ping-pong tournament that constitutes conversation with a long-forgotten iPhone contact; I just hate knowing that our association is based entirely on that distinctly Gen Y-derived need for social evidence. Pics or it didn’t happen, right? We have to maintain a documentable internet footprint in order to prove that we are heard, liked, loved, and, in the most extreme cases, still alive. Every personalized online space is a heady juxtaposition of potentially fantastical and utterly verifiable content, and no online personalizer seems exempt from the pressure to quantify rather than qualify friendships virtual and physical alike. I include myself in that statement, of course, but sometimes I still can’t help but resent these vestigial appearances on near-strangers Networking 990s.

LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE, amirite? 

Winner: Convenience Friends. They cost money and require that I brush my hair. 

-T

Chubby Girl Group VERSEZ Upsetting Birthday Cards: Money-Makin’ Edition

5-6 readers! How go the wars?

Yeah, I’m not winning any of them either. Unless watching a Law and Order SVU marathon in a homemade egg-white black-head removal mask with a Mike’s Hard Raspberry Lemonade in my right hand constitutes “winning”. Which it very well might, to like, a Somalian person or Victorian prostitute. Not much has changed around here, I’m afraid; still working as the conductor of my own personal failure train (next stop; Apocalypse!) while I wait for the Jason Segal Muppet Movie to come to theaters.  (Who’s got two chocolate-covered thumbs and advance tickets to the premiere? THIS MISS PIGGY IMPERSONATOR!)

 (No, but seriously, she’s my spirit anthropomorph.)

Between that and resentfully monitoring my dog’s medication intake, (she pops more pills over the course of a day than the entire cast of “Trainspotting” combined), I’ve got a pretty busy schedule going. So, yeah; still fat, still cranky, and still ranty as fuck. Aren’t you glad you didn’t ask?

More importantly, fair readers, I’m almost laughably penniless. This means I need to use what little I’ve managed to retain of my liberal arts ingenuity/ alarmingly lacking math skills to put together some sort of capital-accumulating enterprise that doesn’t include selling my kidneys to the Albanian mob or eating cheeseburgers whilst wearing a fishnet body-stocking live via webcam. I must release the entrepr eneur trapped inside me, in other words, and not just the one named “Two Bit” who deals Adderrall to local middle-schoolers. Fortunately, I am a creative young person who occasionally uses the internet, which CLEARLY means I am capable of, you know, business planning n’ shit. Here are the official long-form proposals for your investment perusal.

Thank you pre-emtpively for your interest in monetizing these ventures. 

They’re fool-proof. 

You’d be an ass to say no. 

Chubby Girl Group:

Predictably, as they have in the race to make cabbage edible and mass-produce talking sex dolls, the Koreans have beat us yet again to creating the first all-fat, all-female pop super-group.

I’m fucking suing.

See, it’s always been my dream to lip-sync with abandon in front of millions of adoring gays, but because drag-balls have invite lists, wigs are notoriously expensive, and my dick is way to big to tuck properly (ladies….), circumstance has once more cock-blocked my dreams harder than a wing-woman with a halitosis.

Armpit mole. 

Seriously though, 5-6 readers, this concept easily pulls a Snooki on the scale of 1-to-Marketable, am I right? Can’t you just imagine three Adele-types in minimal spandex-blend explicating the merits of financial independence in a night-club context over soul-less synth production?

Wait, nope; Adele can actually sing. Scratch that. Okay, so, imagine three Rosie O’Donnells in minimal spandex-blend explicating the merits of financial indepedence in a night club context over soul-less synth production.

Ah, never mind; Rosie’s got a reputation for non-compliance and sporadic show-tune enthusiasm. Um, fine; then imagine three cross-dressing Chris Farleys in minimal spandex-blend explicating the merits of financial independence in a night-club context over soul-less synth production.

FUCK, the fat bastard’s dead. Dammit. Foiled again, Gertrude.

Now you see why I’m going to start holding auditions in such earnest, 5-6 readers.

Here are the arbitrary pre-requisites I’m instituting for Chubby Girl-Group membership; feel free to message me with inquiries/ blurry iSight photos of your breasts:

1)    Fellatio Face: You must be physically capable of catching flying insects or the odd rogue penis with your slightly open pout at any given moment. Initially this can be accomplished with remote-controlled vibrating underwear and an exclusive diet of oysters and flavored lube, but the perpetual appearance of campy arousal really should be second nature by the end of boot-camp. Intermittent, unsolicited moaning, preferably of the phrases “Oooh, Daddy” and “Git Some”, is also acceptable for the advanced proponent of the Fellatio Face practice, but not necessary for beginning entrants. 

2)    Hair-Dancing: Dancing is difficult and requires deeply unglamorous incorporations like discipline, rehearsal, and muscle definition, so instead of choreography, I’m just planning on pulling a Trina, otherwise known as standing near an industrial-strength fan in a catsuit and toying non-committally with my hair. If your tresses are real, obviously, feel free to whip them with the vigor and abandon of philosopher/poet Willow Smith, but barring any genetic predisposition therein, the occasional smize-accompanied stroke will do just fine. Feel free to touch your hair, as well.

3)    Weight/ Height Ranking: We have to form a cohesive visual unit, people, so under no circumstances is anyone under, say, 215 lbs permitted to apply. Unless you have relatives in the business, of course, in which case you’ll get top billing, no questions asked. Height is negotiable, since most humans generally only reach my sternum, but you should be distinguishable from a parking meter or Great Dane in heels.

4)    Ability to See No Contradiction Between Thanking Jesus Christ And Receiving Awards Given To You Exclusively Because You Took Your Clothes Off Or At Very Least Threatened To On Camera: Self-explanatory.

5)    More Cowbell: Seriously; the last single could have used it.

Potential Group Titles:

• MSG
• Girls Endowed
• Lose My Breath
• ASOS Curve
• Danity Lane
• Color Me Fatt
• Jennifer Hudson Circa 2008

Upsetting Birthday Cards:

My friend recently turned 23, which naturally prompted a long and insightful discussion of birthday card politics and the extant interpersonal dynamics therein. I posited that the offensive nature of Hallmark messages is inversely proportionate to the closeness of your relationship with the distributor; near-strangers tend to be the people who think cards containing lame, pre-printed jokes about your age, race, or gender are incredibly endearing.

“LET’S BUY SHOES ‘CAUSE YOU CAN STILL BE FABULOUS EVEN THOUGH YOUR VAGINA CONTINUES TO SHRIVEL WITH THE RELENTLESS VENGEFUL MARCH OF ADVANCING AGE, SO HERE’S A PICTURE OF A SHIRTLESS BLACK GUY TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER ABOUT YOUR LOOMING SEXUAL DECLINE!—HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SKANK!”  seems to be the tenor these annual greetings take on in the case of distant acquaintanceships, but no mainstream brand has yet taken the genre to its inevitable conclusion.

I smell an un-underserved demographic, here.

Enter the Upsetting Birthday Card, designed with the strained affiliation between you and your 7^th grade science teacher/ drug-addicted third cousin/ ex-girlfriend’s aunt in mind. Why hide your true propensity for bigotry with banal, cartoonish stereotyping when you can go whole hog in creating an in-erasable birthday memory for everyone involved?

A few comps we’ve developed with intent for imminent circulation:

• WHEN PEOPLE SPEAK ASIAN LANGUAGES IN MY PRESENCE I FEEL EXPOSED AND UNSAFE.

…Happy Birthday!

• I DON’T HAVE ANY PROBLEM WITH GAYS AS LONG AS THEY DON’T TALK ABOUT OR ACT UPON THEIR ALTERNATIVE LIFESTYLE AROUND ME.

….Happy Birthday!

• “JACK AND JILL” WAS SUCH A FUNNY MOVIE BECAUSE IT WAS A MAN DRESSED UP AS A LADY! THAT’S HILARIOUS!

….Happy Birthday!

• DOES THE INSIDE OF THIS CARD SMELL LIKE CHROLOFORM TO YOU?

…Happy Birthday!

• IT’S NOT. YOUR. FAULT.

….Happy Birthday!

Winner: Oh, obviously the Girl Group. As long as I get to be Nadine Coyle, this shit is go.