Comedy or Tragedy

 

  
   The NE region of the country has been swept up in one humdinger of a heat wave the past couple of days. Temps reached record-breaking status, opting to stubbornly hover in the mid-nineties way into the evening hours like an aging mistress that has long wore out her welcome. As front runner candidate for the Temps Are Too Damn High party, I have used every waking hour in my days to complain about the heat to anyone who will listen. As if my friends, neighbors and colleagues have been living in a plastic bubble this whole time, playing Scrabble with George Costanza (the correct answer is "Moops") while cool central air pumps throughout it and not suffering right along with me. But I've never used logic as an excuse not too rant. And rant I did! To anyone that would listen, which (because of the dangerously humid air quality that's been going on outside for 23 of 24 hours in the day) meant I had to take my complaints to Facebook and le Twitter like everyone else in the city. And when that would no longer satisfy me, I decided to just take it out on my television and yell at anybody on the screen that appeared not to be drowning in a pool of their own sweat. Trapped inside my own apartment, I settled on some brainless reality programming, namely an E! special on the 40 most epic reality t.v. moments. The program covered everything from the time the Real (Ho)usewives of New Jersey fought to end Apartheid in South Africa to the now classic episode of Cash Cab where Rosa Parks refused to sit in the back of the cab, opting instead to call "shotgun" on host Ben Bailey. What's that you say? None of that really happened? Well it certainly needed to because as the years tick by, reality programming has pooped out some really crappy ( <---see what I just did there) concepts. These include a show about swamp people, a guy that horse-whispers naughty kitty cats (not as exciting as it sounds) and like thirteen different shows about ugly and/or fat people that repo cars for a living.




Hey, we can't all be supermodels.

"I'll have the prosciutto on rye with a side of hipster, please."

Super Bowl parties will never be the same.

   I detest the taste of mayonnaise. I don't want to see it on my sandwich. I don't want to see it surrounding my tri-color rotini in your tuna salad. I just don't want to see it. For a variety of dietary reasons, you probably shouldn't slather it all over your capicola foot long (though if you are the type of person to consume foot-long subs on the daily, you probably don't give a hootie hoo about the health implications of a little mayo) but far be it from me to tell you what to do. Miracle Whip doesn't like mayo either. Miracle Whip, for those who live outside the realm of reality, is kind of like the Menudo of the whole boy band craze. Just similar enough to be categorized in the same class of condiments and sauces but with a little more flavor. I'm not sure exactly what that "flavor" is supposed to be. I don't touch the stuff. The brand claims that they offer a "spicy bite" that mayo cannot claim though I'm thinking the goop is as spicy as John Boehner is a "wise latina". Point being, I'd rather use some wasabi paste on my sammich any day. Still there are those of us out there who love to drown all of our cold cuts, pasta and veggies in the taupe stuff.




Mmmm, so hard to resist. Just look at it.

  

Warning: The Facebook is the Debbilll!!!

   Mark Zuckerberg has turned us all into pretentious little jerks! Something about the Facebook brings out the worst in mankind.  Your average mild-mannered mother of three all the sudden morphs into a lusty MILF in a Maxim-girl cover shoot. Your mechanic now thinks he has carte blanche to start waxing poetic about the virtues of self-discipline like he's Guy Freakin' Kawasaki (that's his actual middle name, look it up!) We don't know what it is that's in the formula that's causing us to behave like diamond-encrusted douchebags but we think it goes something like; 5x+4y-√of Myspace=Σ nene leakes. As Facebook further stakes it's claim for total world domination (btw, you can "like" our Facebook page here), the citizens of the world try our best to one-up Spencer Pratt as the douchiest person on the globe. As reactions from the final installment in the Harry Potter franchise started to trickle in for those who went to see the midnight screening, I sat in astonishment as one of my dear FB friends spoiled the ending of the movie with a not so cleverly veiled status update. Unforgivable as that may be, it pales in comparison to the daily capitol offenses committed every day by the people we call friends, family and colleagues. On any given day in the land of Zuckerberg, you're likely to find these vapid displays of behavior *. Such as:

Five Reasons to Purchase a New Britney Spears C.D.



Last night I prank called Mandy Moore and told her to 'suck it'.




 Britney, Britney, Britney. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. If this sonnet seems odd to you or even (dare I say) sacrilegious to those of us who own and enjoy good quality music, please allow me to explain myself. (And stop being so damn elitist, ok?) Britney Spears is the comeback kid, the little engine that could and the bravest little toaster all rolled up into one bedazzled glittery ball. Try as the media has (not to mention lucidity, Kevin Federline and coherent choreography) to keep her down, she just keeps rising to the top. Be honest, you thought Christina Aguilera was going to win this battle way back in 1998, didn't you? No matter. Brit-Brit hasn't allowed any of the naysayers to keep her down. She's bi-winning on a daily basis and I for one am happy to see her shine. Here's why:

Everybody, If You Can Do the Bartman!



20th Century Fox


   Homer is the man...but you knew that already. In fact, most of America (and the rest of the free world) knows that to the tune of over $750 million in merchandise sales worldwide. To be honest, however, I haven't been a religious Simpsons watcher for quite some time. I pretty much only tune in for the season premiere and their much-loved Treehouse of Horrors Halloween episodes. I don't think I am alone here, either. Much like any long-term relationship that is left un-cultivated, the H man and the rest of Springfield's inhabitants haven't exactly "excited" me like they used to. It's partially my fault. The Simpsons have been around all of my adult life... and most of my childhood. I'll admit, I had taken the show for granted. They figured out the formula for irreverent family comedy that people of all ages can enjoy long before Stan and Kyle were off finding zany ways to get Kenny murdered (RIP, little guy). Though critics accurately complain that the program often relies too heavily on stunt casting and that  the show can't compete in real-time with it's easier to produce counterparts on social satire, the program remains a reliable source for yuks and charm.

Simpson's animators must traverse through twelve galaxies to produce one
episode... or at least that's how long it seems to take.

   So why haven't we been watching?

What "Fat Jesus" Taught Me About Independence



Let freedom ring.



    It's that time of the year again, 4th of July, which means we are socially obligated to turn our collective patriotism all the way up to eleven and rock out with hot dogs and firecrackers in tow. One of my 4th of July traditions that I've established for myself is sitting inside with the A.C. blasting and watching horror movies until it's time for the fireworks show. I do this primarily because friends and family members have woken up and stopped inviting me to barbecues during the day. I don't blame them after  what happened at the last grillin' and chillin' event I attended. You can read about that debacle here. Now, you may think that spending the better part of my afternoon, stuck indoors watching campy gore during a national holiday is an odd thing to do but I find it quite fitting for this day. Watching horror movies signifies a certain independence of my own so to speak. You see, I am deftly afraid of many of the themes found prevalent in good horror tales. Fear of the unknown, fear of isolation, human decay/death, these movies hit me at my core and begin to permeate my imagination until I sit powerless and paralyzed with the all-encompassing fear that they portray. I become hypnotized by them. It's like my own version of sky-diving.

Most importantly: CLOWNS... not to be trusted.

Your GF Wants to Enjoy Sports with You, Gentlemen.

Of course I didn't invite her to the game. That would be stupid.

  


   I consider myself to be a sportsfan. I also consider myself to be a girly-girl. I like fashion and makeup and music that goes unch unch unch. I know that those two classifications deem me completely unqualified to speak on anything that is sports related. Women are usually not factored into the sports-nut demographic. I believe most men don't even think women are qualified to have an opinion on sports. True, there are those women out there that don't know Bo about sports and don't care to know and you know what? That's okay. Different Strokes was more than just a t.v. show starring an adorable chocolate covered sour patch kid. It was a show about people with varying backgrounds and interests coming together and making it work anyway. (Or it was a show about how many times white America could "rescue" little black kids before MLK did a somersault in his grave. I'm not sure, I wasn't alive in the 70's and I heard people just didn't give a funk back then). Not all men enjoy vegging out on the couch every football Sunday. The fact is there is an increasingly expanding population of women out there who genuinely enjoy organized sports and we deserve a slow hand clap. We do so all while managing boobs, a career, dinner and a uterus (turns out, lotta upkeep.) Some of us even play a sport or two. Sure, my handling of the stick in my indoor hockey league will most likely never keep David Krejci up at night but I think you get my point when I tell you, women kick some major butt in sports.

We even have our own juiceheads. Nice...ahem...package...madame.