It’s Christmas…

December 25, 2008

Frigid

…Love each other.

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Christmas Gift: Coal > This

December 24, 2008

This should never be.
So real. So scarily real.

It's ALLLIIIIVEEEE.

No one likes a realistic doll. People think they do, but they don’t. That’s why the Bratz are such a big hit, because the doe-eyed tramps (really remniscient of those Steve Madden ads, no?) would never really be seen walking residential streets. If anyone ever saw a human bobble head (i.e.: striking imbalance to flimsy neck) with a coiffure as ludicrous in length (past knee caps) as that of Chloe & Co., they’d be ignored. Or made fun of. Everyone loves a winged eye, but not a creature-like scrawl. And people appreciate a shapely brow, but not an intense overpluck. And nobody, I mean nobody, enjoys a frosted lip.

Yasmin, Chloe, Sasha, Jade. Class.

Yasmin, Chloe, Sasha, Jade. PETA's next victims.

Dolls are supposed to be fantastical. Which is why I do not understand the holiday favorite that is Baby Alive. Her stomach, like a well-loved, but slightly loose-ended (pun intended) grandparent, does not agree with green beans. So, despite the fact that the $59.99 animatronic comes with said faux food, it tends to give her the runs. Literally.

“Sniff sniff,” she chirps in a singsong voice. “I made a stinky!”

And “Be careful,” reads the Hasbro doll’s promotional literature, “just like real life, sometimes she can hold it until she gets to the ‘potty’ and sometimes she can’t!”

This is wrong on so many levels. Gross, being one. But it also completely negates the original selling point of a doll – that it’s f*ing pretend.

A warning on the back of the box reads: “May stain some surfaces.”

I’ve heard enough. But I am a little curious to how far the implementation of reality will go. If I neglect feedings in order to avoid the mess, and instead choose to spend my motherhood stroking her hair, will DYFUS show up at my door?

Merry Christmas, folks.

A Letter

December 24, 2008

On behalf of the average woman, I write Beyonce this letter:

Oh, me? Nothing. I'm just resting.

Oh, me? Nothing. I'm just resting.

Stop it. Sit down, and just stop it. You’re married now and everyone deserves a break. But it seems, you, oh abnormal one, have been doing more work since the nuptials than ever before, and it’s making me feel a little shitload unproductive. I want to wish upon you the immediate pregnancy of triplets, but I know with 100% certainty (and that’s more confidence than I feel in most things) that once Lil’ Shawn, Lil’ Tina, and (something a little more creative like) Beyrihannzeria are born, your body will bounce back to its original state of unusual, but perfect proportion and I’ll go back to feeling terrible (see: self-deprecating) about my (insert what you will here) _____ build. And knowing you, the day you are released from the hospital, you’ll throw a sold-out concert (where you descend from the sky and land on a 2x2in platform in 36-inch heels)…of which I will have unwillingly bought tickets to.

I feel small just watching you in one teary-eyed session after another in front of my television, so I give much props to those who must interact (I mean, fail at attempting to compete) with your incomparable nature. I saw you on Ellen DeGeneres the other day and you claimed you didn’t cuss. Oh, really? Is that so Lady Bey? What about when you fell down that flight of stairs in front of millions of people and busted what looked to be your dignity, but was really just your leg? Huh? What about then?

I’m sorry. That was mean. But, honestly, what do you credit to you looking like this when you dance?

And me looking like this?

Was it written in the stars?

Smooth Operator

December 24, 2008

Hey ma, can I talk to you?

Hey ma, can I talk to you?

I am convinced star quality is innate, because I hate cigarettes. Not just hate, but abhor. A feeling so strong I’ve thrown fits of rage at loved ones who love them. This rage is the shiny happy kind that the Moldy Peaches so eloquently sing of. I know because after the red-faced tantrum, I felt strangely good about my (questionably) reasonable point made. I – with a stranger as my victim of judgment – quietly question their sanity and intelligence; I save the hurling insults for people I know and am well acquainted with. I despise the existence of cigarettes, and the subsequent habit the puffer surrenders to. Loathe so much that despite my (very) short stint in dabbling with said substance (blame it on the a-a-a-alcohol), I feel no shame in my clearly hypocritical judgment calls. I am sure star quality is intrinsic, because this picture: 

Puff, no pass.

Puff, no pass.

bothers me none.

And that is why Barack is President. He can do no wrong (please note that this is a time-sensitive comment, as he has not joined office yet). It is now undoubtedly clear that his charisma not only emanates when making  “yes, we can” type speeches, but also off of 20-year-old flexible surfaces. And that’s a problem. Nobody likes a charming mofo. Now, the 16-year marriage to Michelle – renamed Love in the Time of the Cholera Divorce – makes sense. Barack was that fourth Boyz II Men member, wasn’t he? The one who layered Wanya’s whining with baritone begging. Smooth effing operator. He’ll win her back every time! And when I say her, I mean we, the people.

The fact that this:

Obama - College Years 3

has temporarily made me forget all sensical thoughts of the  poison-laden package he holds in his hand makes me uneasy. I don’t like being vulnerable.

(

Oh, ma, why you gotta do me like that? 😦

OBAMA ’08. Yes.