The tragic results of peroxide poisoning

Time for my biannual blog post!

This time, I'd like to discuss a topic I know is near and dear to many of your hearts- television's most popular show about true love, "The Bachelor." Known for providing an opportunity for soul mates to connect with one another, this television mainstay has become a part of America's collective romantic being. "The Bachelor" is where men- good, strong men with big muscles, little body hair, and a penchant for nicknames (Matt! Andy! Charlie!)- can meet their all-American lady-friend-for-life. The bachelor is given a beautiful home, an unlimited budget to wine and dine their lady of the hour, and, if you are this season's bachelor, the talent from God to wave with both hands and wink at the same time (oh, Jake. Swoon.).

The catch?

The women vying for the man's love are certifiable batshit loons.

There are two types of crazy broads on this show: the women who sob uncontrollably to the camera after getting kicked off on Week 2, or the women who stick around until the bitter end, convinced that over the course of 12 weeks of taping a show, with television cameras following them, no connection to the outside world, and copious amounts of liquor, that they have found the love of their life? I must confess that I am partial to the former type of crazies. As her mascara outlines the Nile-sized rivers of tears flowing from each eye, she wails to the camera about missing out on the chance to meet her husband. She knows in heart of hearts that they are meant to be together. Unfortunately, he cannot see the magic. All he sees are the big boobs of the girl who is more likely to put out, and thus, earned a rose to stay on the show. There goes my husband, she wails between sobs. Maybe next season, Sad Crazy Girl.

The second kind of nutcase, the one who sticks around and accepts an engagement ring and pledge of eternal love from this charming suitor, is not nearly as much fun to observe. However, I give credit where credit is due, and props to the lady from Planet Romantic Delusions for making some good tv, too.

I get it. Love is hard. Finding love is hard. Anyone who has ever dated knows what a clusterfucky meatmarket it is out there. And, after many bad dating experiences, assuming television can only increase your chances to find love is not a hard mental bridge to cross. It can't get much worse than it already is, right? Wrong! It can get worse! Let's say you manage to beat the odds and end up on the show. My guess is that you are not going to make it until the end (just a hunch). And then what? You are forever immortalized in the annals of reality tv as the person some other person chose NOT to love. That cannot and will not leave you feeling okay about your life. You will end up in the back of a limo on your way to being unceremoniously dumped at the airport, booger-ing all over yourself and wailing about lost love.

But, I guess if you are a certain kind of crazy (see above), it all makes sense.

What I've been up to lately

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infinite_monkey_theorem

"Monkeys Don't Write Shakespeare"
Associated Press
05.09.03

Give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of typewriters, the theory goes, and they will eventually produce prose the likes of Shakespeare.

Give six monkeys one computer for a month, and they will make a mess.

Researchers at Plymouth University in England reported this week that primates left alone with a computer attacked the machine and failed to produce a single word.

"They pressed a lot of S's," researcher Mike Phillips said Friday. "Obviously, English isn't their first language."

A group of faculty and students in the university's media program left a computer in the monkey enclosure at Paignton Zoo in southwest England, home to six Sulawesi crested macaques. Then, they waited.

At first, said Phillips, "the lead male got a stone and started bashing the hell out of it.

"Another thing they were interested in was in defecating and urinating all over the keyboard," added Phillips, who runs the university's Institute of Digital Arts and Technologies.

Eventually, monkeys Elmo, Gum, Heather, Holly, Mistletoe and Rowan produced five pages of text, composed primarily of the letter S. Later, the letters A, J, L and M crept in.

Full article here

Genius!

Newest business idea: A pie company called "Jesus Crust"

Flavors:
-12 Apostle Apple
-Persecution Peach
-Last Supper Lemon Meringue
-Salvation Strawberry (can be combined with Resurrection Rhubarb)
-Pe-can Walk on Water
-Cheese-us of Nazareth (cheesecake)

For Kosher pies, please consult sister bakeshop, Jews for Jesus Crust.

Motto: Son of God-damn are they be delicious!

I dislike my place of employment. This is old news, and saying any more than that will make me what is colloquially considered a "broken record." My dissatisfaction has produced a pretty solid list of alternate career choices I would very much like to pursue. Please consider the following:

1. The third Obama daughter

I would like to be adopted by the First Family. They can change my name, hair, clothes...whatever they want, just as long as I can be their kid. Think of me as the Obama-fied Bridget McCain.

2. Ambassador

I have decided that being an ambassador is the EASIEST job in the universe. You show up, shake hands, say ten words, eat free food, and bounce. Apparently, international diplomacy equals glad-handing and devouring mini egg rolls. In order to achieve this objective, I plan to move to a small country where no one wants to enter civil service, sail through all of the mid-level BS (or pay my way to the top) jobs and quickly get appointed ambassador. Hello, life of luxury.

3. Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavor tester

Behold- a career that would allow me to set my favorite foods to the music of frozen milk and sugar. Need I explain my desire for this job any further? Curiously, this job option strikes me as the least-attainable of the three.

I am so glad it took me $200,000 and four years to figure this out. Thanks, college!

this is why I don't have a twitter account

Hi. I'm alive. Mostly.

I guess I can ascribe the lack of updates to a complete and total lack of change in my life. Some people assume I never write because I am just too darn busy. Not so. It is merely a symptom of stunted development and absence of forward motion, an object at rest staying very much at rest.

That being said, everything is still the same. Spring is here. All these April showers better produce some huge goddamn May flowers. I've been listening to lots of new music, more specifically Rumspringa (after seeing them play live..pretty darn good) and Shilpa Ray (seeing her live this week...bitch slams that harmonium!) to name a few. Booked my trip to Europe today. I'm going to Geneva and Paris, neither of which I have seen before. If you read this and have a suggestion about what I should see, please leave a comment or email me! I have dubbed the trip "Tour de Fatass" as I am going to try to consume as much cheese and as many pastries as possible (this includes my plan to make a brie sandwich using eclairs instead of bread, with nutella instead of mustard). My ass is growing in anticipation!

That's about all she wrote. Consider yourself caught up on my life.

sigh.

Well...goddamn.

Here's a somewhat embarrassing note on my past: I resisted getting my eyebrows waxed for longer than appropriate. I don't know what my problem was (subliminal love for Frida Kahlo?), but crossing that threshold happened none too soon in the life and times of me. Ever since, I have been very, very particular about who touches them (wish I could say the same about some other parts). I've had them return to their natural state several times based on my insistence on them being in the right hands. you get it- I am, as the young folks say these days, a "pain in the ass." I would do it myself, but delicate maneuvers requiring nimble fingers and a gentle touch are not my strong suit (ask me about the time I superglued my fingers to my desk!). Add to this my terrible sense of symmetry and I emerge from the bathroom looking a little less like Kahlo and a little more like a Picasso. Hence, I always seek trusted professional guidance.

Which brings me to today, working from home and in desperate need of some eyebrow assistance. Against all better judgement, I decided to try out the nail salon near my house. It's cheap beyond belief and their manicures aren't that bad. Suck it up, self, I said. You need to let go a little- they're just eyebrows!

Things I am never doing again for $200, Alex.

I look absurd. Actually, no. I look surprised! Like I should end! All of my sentences! With this! You should also know that whenever I get upset, one of my many go-to tricks is to stand in front of the mirror, wailing that MY FACE IS LOPSIDED! Tears are usually involved and eventually I call Mom, who always knows just what to say to calm me down- "It's because your face was smashed against the uterine wall for all nine months. Then the doctors had to clamp the forceps on your face, which is why one eye is smaller than the other."

So, now you know. Your choices are either to avoid me for the next month or to throw me a party. I promise to look surprised.