Thanks, Amy Winehouse

No, really. Thanks. I appreciate it. Your death has, once again, reminded me that I am already too old to die at the age of 27. Not only that, since you died, I have been reflecting seriously on our lives and when I compared them, I realized:

1) Neither of my two albums ever won a Grammy.
2) I don't have a soulful command of jazz music even though I'm white and Jewish.
3) The gigantic pile of mess on my head isn't an original, eccentric beehive hairdo. I just need to brush my hair.
4) When I stumble out of a bar with my bra showing, TMZ doesn't show up and no one is fascinated by my lifestyle, it's just sad.
5) Your tattoos scream "Bad Ass Hellcat," mine say "I got this little shamrock with my sister..."
6) When I went to rehab, there were no incredibly catchy songs about it on the radio.
7) When you died, millions of people mourned talent gone too soon. When I die, tens of people will hope they can get the funeral over with soon.

So thanks again for rubbing your post-mortem superiority in my face, and if you see Heath Ledger, tell him I'm still pretty pissed about that whole "Overdose/Dark Knight" thing. That was just tasteless grandstanding, in my opinion.

Reality TV Star Laments People not Knowing Her "For Reals"

7.20.11

Hollywood, CA -- During filming of her Lifetime Television reality series, Paris Hilton complained to some other skinny blond girl about people not knowing the real her, in what can only be described as the most annoyingly nasal voice ever caught on digital media.

"It's like, people don't know who I really am, and stuff" Hilton said, "They don't even know what I do," she continued after a day of acupuncture, driving around in a really expensive pink car, eating at restaurants with tiny tables and doing voice-overs to narrate aforementioned actions.

The two thin blond girls talked some more about not being understood by the public after being offended by another blond girl who mentioned the infamous sex tape Hilton was seen in several years ago.

"I can't believe she even brought that up," Hilton told the skinny blond girl who was still her friend, right before Hilton's voice over changed topic to her current pregnancy scare.

The rest of the episode Paris Hilton spent laying in her bed, telling her current boyfriend how angry it makes her when the media says she looks fat and how that made her think she was pregnant. "I'm a business woman" Hilton concluded, "I'm just not sure that a big stomach really matches my brand, so I don't know what I would do if I was pregnant."

The episode ended with the star taking the pregnancy test, since "looking fat, according to bloggers and paparazzi" and "that outfit not fitting in Spain" are two of the top symptoms of pregnancy. The new boyfriend mistakenly proposes marriage before the results are revealed, but then takes the offer back and suggests they go for a jog instead, once it is discovered she has only gained a few pounds, rather than become pregnant.

In the end, our heroine learned that if she wants people to know the real her, she must listen to her own instincts and stay true to... Wait, no. She doesn't learn anything.

Today Was a Good Day

Spending hours mindlessly reading Craigslist adds has finally paid off.

http://lascruces.en.craigslist.org/rnr/2443391920.html

Oh My God, Really?

One Entry? Really? No one has anything funny or inappropriate to say about a dirty old mattress laying across the street from the park I took my sister's kids to so that we could play volleyball? C'mon! I have like twenty nasty things to say about that mattress, most of them are about my sister but according to the official photo caption contest rules, I. Can't. Enter.

So, I'll make you a deal. You have one more day. I'm going to go run errands: get a new social security card, buy toilet paper, wash some undies... that sort of thing. The next twenty four hours I expect you to dedicate to captioning the hell out of that photo.

Ready? Go!

At Least the Sluts Didn't Leave Town!

Living in a college town means a few things: always being able to buy an Alma mater sweatshirt at any gas station, having an endless supply of foam "we're #1" fingers and looking forward the mass exodus of flip-flopped, pop-collared, cocked-hatted frat boys at the end of every May. Once commencement commences, I sigh in relief knowing that for the next two months, I won't have to listen to any more "Abercrombie and Fitch on Parade" conversations about how many beer bongs and keg stands that dude did last night as I wait in the check out line at the super market behind a pack of young men pushing a cart full of Doritos, red solo cups and cases of Miller High Life. I am equally thrilled that I don't have to watch eighteen year old girls at target pick our which furry throw rug to buy for their dorm room that will most likely get them a date with whichever aforementioned upperclassman-purchasing-beer they have their eye on.

But last night, I waltzed into a bar frequented by the college crowd and was shocked to see it almost empty. I don't mean a noticeable decrease in attendance, I mean it was damn near ghostly. I felt bad for the band. Then were good too. I didn't know who they were or anything, didn't really care, I mean, I went there to get a little tore up and then verbally abuse strangers. It was sad though, a couple or two would periodically get up and dance to their Texas-themed rhythms, the small crowd would clap at the end of songs, but that was it. I was saddened to witness this lack of drunken participation. But just before last call, I was relieved to see a flock of mildly overweight young ladies in excessively thin summer dresses and spike-heeled shoes march in. "Thank goodness" I thought, as the last one, in Daisy Dukes, a camouflage tank top and cowboy boots stomped up to the bar, "I was worried the drummer wouldn't get any head in the bathroom tonight!"

Hey, Federal Government, While You're at It...

I know you are really busy with this whole Osama DNA testing thing, but I was wondering. I have had like, no luck on the Maury show finding out who my baby daddy is, and I was hoping you could maybe check that Osama DNA for me?

It's probably a long shot, I know. But I've already had those guys at Maury's check Darnell, Leon, Frankie, Paulie, Stevie, Angel, Paco, Lalo, Lupe and Eddie. I was gonna see if they could look for Juanito, but I think he was locked up at the time I got pregnant with Junior, so it's probably not him anyway.

I guess what I'm saying is that you guys are checking that dead Bin Laden guy's DNA anyway, so it wouldn't be much extra work to see if maybe he's my baby daddy. If he is maybe his cave family has oil money or something that I could get for child support, you know? I mean, Junior's got brothers and sisters who have daddys that never send their checks neither, and they need pampers and whatnot too. So, you know, just let me know.

Sorry Fellas and Hispanic Lesbians...

I'm officially off the market. My amazing man asked to make an honest woman outta me and I took him up on the offer. Too bad, crusty old barflies, you had your chance. And all you overweight, spiral-permed mamis, this chica is taken.

You probably thought you had a lifetime of opportunities to snag a slice of this Amazonian delicacy, but you were wrong. So hitch your wagons to some other moderately attractive, severely hilarious and entertaining woman in another gay bar, dance club or bowling alley, because this one is spoken for. And don't expect me to be showing back up, ever!

Fellow Employees, You Are Welcome.

I bet you all think Walter's retirement party is going to be pretty lame. I am here to make sure that doesn't happen. Now, I'm not the kind of public school employee that shows up to a retirement party looking to get wasted and fall on the sheet cake. I'm a little classier than that. Don't be ridiculous, I'm not going to pull a "young new science teacher" and rip off all my clothes and jump into the pool in my tiny lacy undies. But, what I will do is get just drunk enough to say things like "No, I can totally drive home, I just need to chill in the parking lot for a while and remember where I live." When Paul's wife says to me "When are you going to stop loosing weight?" I will reply "As soon as my dad is done dying from brain cancer." And when Walter opens the gag gifts, I will lick my finger and insert it into the rear orifice of the blow up sheep.

I know it's not much, it isn't as cool as having sex in the bathroom with one of your wives or sisters, but it's what I am willing to do to make sure that you go home with some memorable moments from this party.

So It's True What They Say, About First Impressions

Lately I've been trying to subtly convince my boyfriend that I would make a good wife and mother. I think this would be a lot less difficult if our "How We Met" story was a little different.

The night I first set eyes on my boyfriend, he had already set eyes on me from across the dance floor. My heavy eye make-up, high heeled dancing shoes and tight jeans were a beacon of hope for any single man wanting to get all up on a tall, leggy, childless woman. I didn't leave my apartment that night with the intention to make out with the first automobile mechanic that bought me a vodka tonic. Alas, there I was, licking the inside of the mouth of this man who paid for my drink and told me that he "worked on cars." Much to the enjoyment/embarrassment of the other club patrons, we worked the dance floor in the most erotic way two white people can. As a matter of fact, The only reason I didn't follow this mechanic home that very night was because I had carpooled with my roommate.

It only took a couple more awkward movie and or bowling dates for me to prove just what type of girl I was. The exact opposite type of girl you'd like to marry and make the mother of your children. Let's face it. This early on, men want an enthusiastic gymnast, not Betty Crocker.

That was more than a year ago and I'm beginning to worry that I may have not behaved in the most appropriate way possible. In an effort to adjust the dynamic of our situation, I just bought a recipe book so I could figure out how to make muffins. I hope my efforts aren't totally obvious or pathetic. Hey... Maybe I'll just bake the muffins with nothing but a g-string and my new oven mitts. Who wouldn't want to marry that?