To say that there is nothing on Route 78 between Birmingham, Alabama, and Tupelo, Mississippi would be an insult to the word "nothing." There should be a sign when you enter the highway saying, "Your bladder must be this big to ride."
Our eventual goal was Memphis but we decided to stop off in Tupelo to see the house where Elvis Aaron Presley was born. To say that the house is small would be an insult to the word "small." I think our current hotel room is bigger.
The house is surrounded by a very nice park, visitor's center/museum and the Presley Memorial Church. We just took a picture of the house, read a few of the memorial plaques and left. At Graceland many years ago, we learned more than we ever needed to know about the King of Rock 'N Roll. We didn't really want to hear it all again.
The producers of American Idol either need to finally fire Paula Abdul or start holding contestant auditions at a rehab center. There is no way the droopy-eyed former singer should have been allowed on camera in that condition. The woman was practically drooling into her giant red Coca-Cola cup.
I hear Amy Winehouse needs a roommate.
My favorite moment from what was a fairly boring show-- aside from the trainwreck that is Abdul-- was the hopeful who mistakenly said, "I'm going to prove to Simon that I am America's next top model."
Much to her credit, she laughed heartily at her own faux pas, but I really think she's on to something. Why don't they just combine reality shows and save us all a lot of time?
The possibilities are endless! Let the designers from Project Runway make the clothes for the American Idol kids. As a challenge on Top Chef they would have to make the America's Next Top Model girls eat. Judge Judy could bitch slap all the Kardashian ho's just for being annoying.
If nothing else, send Dr. Drew over to the Idol set so he can help Paula in a way Dr. Phil was unable to do for Britney.
During our 12-hour Jersey-to-Georgia drive last Friday we heard Katy Perry's song "Ur So Gay" on XM radio's XMU. The entire first line of the chorus, "You're so gay and you don't even like boys" quickly became my newest catch phrase. I managed to use the line on my husband three times in a 24-hour period.
My husband found himself on the receiving end of such a musical insult when he became obsessed with handcream he found-- ostensibly for me-- in a clearance bin. He was blown away by the "sliminess." He'd put it on several times a day and jokingly say, "Look at me, I'm moisturizing. My skin is so soft and supple." To which I would reply, "You're so gay and you don't even like boys."
This back and forth continued until Sunday afternoon when he took the time to read the back of the tube. The words "control your frizz" made him suspicious.
Turns out he spent two days rubbing hair conditioner on his hands...and face...and cell phone. I didn't even want to know where else it was applied. (At one point, he proclaimed that, "It's like Armor All for personal communication devices!")
So, it appears my husband isn't gay after all. He's not even a metrosexual. He's just a big dopey guy who doesn't know the difference between hand lotion and hair conditioner.
Knock, knock. Who's there? Jay Leno's lawyer. Jay Leno's lawyer who? Jay Leno's lawyer's gonna sue your ass.
It's so rare that I have some sort of connection-- tenuous or otherwise-- to a semi-major new story. In this case, my jokes have appeared in some of the books at the heart of the Jay Leno/Judy Brown lawsuit.
Here's a breakdown of how it played out: Jay Leno sued Judy Brown accusing her of using some of his jokes, without his permission, for some of her many books. Jay Leno won.
I actually gave Judy Brown permission to use a few of my jokes for her book, The Funny Pages. I was a tad upset, however, when she used those same jokes for other books without my permission.
I didn't sue.
Here are my jokes that appeared in Judy Brown's 2002 book.
Page 3: The biggest marketing disaster in history was Campbell's Soup for One. They might as well have called it Cream of Loser Soup. "Open can. Add tears."
Page 26: Women breast-feeding in public always defend themselves by saying, "It's a beautiful thing." Yeah, so is sex, but I've never done it in the middle of Denny's. Although that would be a Grand Slam Breakfast.
Page 64: Single women, date a lot of guys before you get married. I had what I called my series of Time/Life Boyfriends. I examined them for fourteen days, kept the ones I wanted, and hung on to the free gifts.
Page 154: The only perfect man is Mr. Ed. He's hung like a horse and he can hold a conversation.
Page 211: Cosmopolitan magazine says that a man reaches his sexual peak at eighteen, but a woman doesn't reach hers until thirty-five. Of course, we're not talking age, we're talking minutes.
Today, class, we are going to learn the incorrect and correct way of laughing.
I was not aware that there was an incorrect way of laughing, but according to the Joyce Lee Method of Scientific Facial Exercises, guffawing the wrong way will leave you wrinkled and hideous. OK, those are my words, not hers, but you get the point.
Until today, I thought "maniacal" was the only incorrect way of laughing. Silly me.
Please turn to page 169 in your text.
INCORRECT WAY of laughing
As in photo-- do not wrinkle your nose when you smile or laugh.
CORRECT WAY of laughing
Laugh or smile back toward lobes of ears, as in photo.
Do not laugh up toward your temples, causing lines to form around your eyes.
Do not squint when you laugh or smile, as this again causes lines around your eyes.
This chick really knows how to take the fun out of laughing. What the hell does "laugh up toward your temples" even mean? It sounds like something a person would say if English was a second language. "He so funny, I laugh up toward my temples."
I have been a Top Cop for Us Weekly's Fashion Police since 2001. (Why do men always call it "U.S." Weekly even when they see it spelled with a big "U" and a small "s"?)
Some weeks many of my jokes are published while other weeks I have to settle for just one or two. Below is a partial list of comments that never made it to the newsstand.
Note: The ones marked "Accepted" are my comments that got in. The ones marked "Rejected" are the ones that didn't.
Minka Kelly
Accepted: This Friday Night Lights star just scored a fashion touchdown.
Rejected: What men want nurses to look like.
Drew Barrymore
Accepted: Modeling the Girl Scout uniforms for 2008.
Rejected: Representing the Kingdom of Slob-ovia...
Victoria Beckham
Accepted: Um, where does she plug it in when she goes out?
Rejected: Chernobyl has a gift shop?
Lucy Lui
Rejected: Not-So-Good 'N Plenty.
Rejected: From Charlie's Angels to the Andrew Sisters.
I think Simon spoke for all of us tonight when he said to one particularly crazed contestant, "You are rude and deluded."
That pretty much sums up 3/4 of the Idol auditioners and at least 1/4 of the population under the age of 24.
For the last decade, I have been told repeatedly that today's youth has a self-esteem problem. I agree but for different reasons. Most kids have too damn much self-esteem, not too little.
American Idol fascinates me because you can always tell that the really bad singers have never before been told that they are really bad singers. They seem genuinely surprised by the news.
Where are their parents? Telling a child, "If you can dream it, you can be it" borders on abuse if your kid has no talent. You might as well put a giant "Kick Me" sign on his back. Honesty isn't always cruel and pain isn't always debilitating.
It's interesting that the song used at the end of the show was "No" by They Might Be Giants. I'm fairly certain it's from their children's album. I'm a big They Might Be Giants fan but, since I don't have kids, I refused to buy the CD made just for the tykes.
I'm not sure of the song's message but perhaps some of the Idol contestants should have heard the word "no" more often in their formative years. It would have saved Simon a lot of trouble.
Why do freaky men always have long fingernails? Only yogi masters who drink their own urine should have long fingernails. Every other guy either needs to buy a nail clipper or develop a highly annoying and unsanitary nail biting habit. OK, maybe vampires can have long fingernails...and effeminate folk guitarists who wear mandals with socks can have long fingernails...but nobody else! Ick. It just creeps me out.
For those of you who are interested in good music (If you are interested in good music then why are you watching American Idol, eh?) the song played during the closing montage was "New Shoes" by Scottish wee-one Paolo Nutini.
Nutini, who just turned 21 earlier this month-- now he can legally drink during his American tour-- is the same age as most of the Idol contestants. If he were on the show, however, he would kick all their little and not-so-little Idol asses.
This boy can rock. My husband and I saw him perform last September at the TLA in Philadelphia and he just blew us away although, we couldn't understand a word the lad said in between songs.
We drove past our old apartment earlier today and saw our former toilet out on the curb.
We had lived at the same residence for 10 years before we were kicked out 12 months ago to make way for a 55+ community. (My husband is old but, in this case, he wasn't old enough.)
Ten years is a long time to spend with a toilet. I suppose you could say we have history with that commode.
I couldn't help but reminisce. I remembered when I had food poisoning and, for the first time, experienced simultaneous multi-port ejection. I remembered the time hubby sat on that very toilet during a bout with an intestinal virus and yelled, "I'm dying!" My response gave birth to a catch phrase we still use to this day. "Are you really dying? Or do you just think you're dying?"
I remembered the countless arguments over whose turn it was to clean the damn thing. "I cleaned it the last two times." "Oh, so we're keeping count now?" "Hell, yes we are!"
Ah, good times.
I've seen many curbed toilets in my lifetime, yet I never once stopped to think about what that particular chamber pot meant to its owners? Was it used to potty train the kids? Did the oldest son pray to the Porcelain God the first time he broke into dad's liquor cabinet? How many books and magazines were read in the ecoli-brary? It's amazing how a filthy appliance can put life into perspective.
It makes me want to rescue our old toilet from the sanitation workers and perhaps turn it into a lovely planter like the trashy people do down south. At the very least, I'm tempted to sit on it one last time just to have my picture taken...fully clothed, of course. (FYI: We cleaned it thoroughly before we moved.)
Maybe we should just stop driving by the old place. I shudder to think what we'll see next.
Here's the Barenaked Ladies singing the song I get stuck in my head each time we cruise past 412 White Horse Pike.
My husband and I have been sleeping on the same California King-sized bed since 1988. It is the first and only bed we've ever purchased together as a couple. I suppose we could have bought a traditional King-size bed, but, since we were living in California at the time, it only seemed right to buy a bed with the same name. Perhaps if we had we been living in the Twin Cities we would have bought matching 1950's sitcom twin beds or a Queen had we been residing in San Francisco.
It's become painfully obvious lately that acquiring a new bed must be put on our to-do list. At the very least, we need a new boxspring. The boxspring on my side is now making a "Thunggggg" noise when I roll over. Apparently, I roll over quite frequently. It's like a musician playing a stand-up bass is living under our bed and the only note his knows is E.
We can tell by the little research we've done that buying a new bed will not be as easy as we had hoped. Bed salesmen have become the used car salesmen of home furnishing.
To me, a bed is a bed. A bed doesn't have a system as I've been told. It's either Poppa Bear hard, Momma bear soft or Baby bear "just right." That's it.
I do know, however, that I will never purchase a Tempur-Pedic bed. I've had the misfortune of sleeping on one in a Raleigh, NC, hotel room and, while it may not have been the worst night sleep of my life, it is definitely in the top 10.
Your bed should make stress go away.
Imagine a place where stress is relieved and the pressures of the day seem to just melt away. Unlike traditional mattresses that can create pressure, our unique Swedish TEMPUR® material actually absorbs pressure as it gently cradles your entire body. Imagine feeling cushioned, enveloped-- almost weightless-- in your own personal place of relaxation.
Gently cradles your entire body? Maybe if you weigh 80 pounds. For those of us with larger than normal backsides, the Tempur-Pedic mattress causes an ass crater from which a middle-aged woman with a full bladder cannot escape. I needed a Sherpa to guide me to the bathroom.
I had to fling myself out of the hole just to change positions. I did not wake up feeling fully relaxed. I was as sore as if I had completed my first triathlon.
This past weekend my well-meaning husband almost bought me a Tempur-Pedic pillow. I said to him, "Are you kidding? The second biggest part of me is my head!" If you think the ass crater was bad, just imagine the hole my head would make.
I am deeply saddened by the news of Suzanne Pleshette's passing. She had been battling lung cancer while mourning the loss of her husband, Tom Poston. I saw an interview with her recently and she seemed to have lost her fighting spirit. I feared the worst.
When I was little I wanted to grow up to be Suzanne Pleshette. At the very least, I wanted to meet her. Sadly, I will never get the chance.
Suzanne Pleshette's husky voice and impeccable comedic timing made her one of the greatest actresses in sitcom history. I don't think she ever really got the full recognition she deserved. Perhaps, in her death, she will be appreciated through retrospectives.
My mother and I shared a crush on the future Bond when he was still only earning TV money as Remington Steele. Then his wife died of cancer which, in a sick twisted way, made him even more appealing. (Any woman will tell you that being a widower makes a man oddly attractive.)
The bloom fell off the rose briefly when he rebounded and married a hot young reporter. (Marrying a beauty twelve years his junior just made him seem so...typical.)
But now that hot young reporter is chubtastic and, apparently, that's just the way he likes her!
According to the UK Daily Mail Brosnan loves his wife's curves. It seems Bond, James Bond likes his wife fat, real fat.
Good for him! Good for her! Good for 43-year-old women everywhere!
We watched the original "310 To Yuma" followed by the 2007 remake earlier this evening. I wasn't sure I would be able to enjoy the Glenn Ford version once my husband noticed that a young Richard Jaeckel bore a striking resemblance to my Aunt Fran. I kept expecting the gunslinger to call people "hon" or offer them a glass or Irish Cream.
The two movies share the same title, basic script outline and some identical dialogue, but that's about where the similarities end. In the modern adaptation the villains are meaner, the wounds are bloodier and the language is saltier. And, as with all current redos, the actors are younger, better looking and, in some cases, more effeminate than the original cast. The worst looking guy in the modern film was Peter Fonda...and he's still quite hunky for a octogenarian.
Personally, I liked Van Heflin in the role of Dan more than Christian Bale. He didn't need an extensive back story to convey his pathetic plight. He managed to do it with carefully crafted expression and a really bad haircut.
Both films, however, do share a certain implausibility that's hard to overcome. I think I'll read the original Elmore Leonard story on which the movies were based to see which one was more faithful to the text.
All I do know is that having been to Yuma once in my life, the only way I'll return is on a train, in handcuffs amid a hail of gunfire.
Because I am a childless 42-year-old woman, most people assume that I have had several abortions. Why else would I be a childless 42-year-old woman?
The answer, if you must know, is none. No abortions. Zero. Nada. Zip. The only morning after pill I've ever taken is extra strength Tylenol.
I feel fortunate it's a decision I never had to make. For me-- but, sadly, not for all women-- the choice would have been gut-wrenching. (I can't even choose between Original or Extra Crispy at Kentucky Fried Chicken, so ordinary choices for me are gut-wrenching.)
I had no idea that back in the '80's, when many of my contemporaries were apparently ending their pregnancies, that abortion was all the rage. According to a recent study from the Guttmacher Institute, the only folks who didn't love the '80's were fetuses.
In the early 1980s, nearly 1 in 3 pregnant women chose abortion. The most recent data show that proportion is closer to 1 in 5.
I'm not technically a Pro-Lifer, but 1 in 3 sounds frighteningly high and 1 in 5 doesn't sound much better. In an age where you can get birth control pills at Walmart, shouldn't that number be 1 in 1000?
I suppose I look at abortion a little differently because I almost wasn't born. My dear departed mother once admitted to me that she was not initially happy about her pregnancy. Then, one day, she started to miscarry. The doctor told her she could either lose the baby-- which is what she claimed she wanted-- or take medication (diethylstilbestrol or DES) and save me. She took the drugs and here I am. I was born seven years prior to Roe V. Wade. I'm not sure what choice my mother would have made earlier in her pregnancy had legal abortion been an option.
So, while I may not have completely bought into the idea that life begins at conception, I do know that if the process is allowed to continue, out pops a baby who one day grows up to be a blogger by day and a standup comic by night.
I wonder what this country would be like if all those now-twentysomethings would have been born? The abortion rate would probably be back to 1 in 3.
Who knew that way back in 1958 there were enough women racing sports cars that one of their own could write a book about them? According to author and race car driver, Evelyn Mull, sixty-one licensed women competed in SCCA (Sports Car Club of America) events while an equal number participated unofficially.
Apparently, women could race all across this great land of ours except for Indianapolis. I wonder is Danika Patrick ever thinks about that little factoid as she's qualifying for the 500?
From the introduction to the book:
"I race sports cars."
When I made this simple statement recently at a dinner party, there was an uneasy silence, very embarrassing. Then my husband John cleared the air with, "It's true, and she's a good driver."
"But you don't seem like the type," someone else said.
I often hear this remark and resent it furiously! If I played tournament bridge or a good game of tennis, no eyebrows would be raised. But when I say I'm a race driver, it's just as though I'd said, "I eat children."
Pictured above is Suzy Dietrich. All these gals--and yes, since it's 1958 I'll call them gals--had oh-so-groovy names: Beulah Bailey, Doc Hoppe, June Roy, Toni Cappiello, Audrey King, and, my personal favorite Pinkie Windridge. They also had great sunglasses and mod hairdos to match their fabulous monikers.
As a woman of the 2000's, it tickles me how often husbands are mentioned throughout the text. In fact, many of the drivers are simply identified by their married names: Mrs. Bill (Patsy) Randall, Mrs. Paul (Marion) Fisk and Mrs. Ben (Carmela) Martin.
And the drivers refer to their husbands frequently as well. "My husband and I do all our own repair work and a lot of maintenance on other driver's cars." "I did it because my husband raced and was having so much fun." "My husband is a doctor and he thinks one driver in the family is enough."
Of course, you know some of the drivers just had to be lesbians. I think the caption on the above photo is code.
Gal of many interests--mechanic, chemist, marksman, race driver. Started in June 1954. Races an MG. Unmarried.
The award goes to Paul the ball park landscaper who, when trying to describe how happy he was that Simon wasn't down on him, actually said, "Simon goes down on just about everybody."
The producers must have high-fived each other after that little statement. That there's your TV gold.
I was so excited when American Idol returned tonight for its seventh season, yet so disappointed when the Philadelphia auditions didn't feature many singers from my hometown. I think the Ben Franklin impersonator and the Mae West transvestite may have been the only Philadelphians to actually appear on the broadcast. Everybody else lived in Oregon, Connecticut, Illinois and at least one or two were from a galaxy far, far away.
One of the oddest auditioners in Episode One hailed from Allentown, Pennsylvania, which is approximately 60 miles northwest of the City of Brotherly Love. Her singing wasn't atrocious, but it was her post-rejection antics that get my vote as "Best of the Worst."
According to the Janice Joplin-meets-Doodlebots wannabe, now that her singing career seems to have been sidelined by that (insert expletive here) Simon, she will now "go into actressing." That's right, she actually used the word "actressing." You see, sometimes good can come out of adversity. Through her anger and tears, she managed to create my new favorite word: actressing. If I use it three times-- and I believe I've already managed to do it in one paragraph-- it will be mine.
She also said that Simon had chutzpah, although she pronounced it "hoospa." This struck me as odd considering her last name is Cohen. Apparently, not only is she a bad singer and a bad English speaker but she is also a very bad Jew.
After much cursing, finger-giving and fully-clothed mooning, Miss Congeniality announced to America that she was--and I couldn't make this up-- "leaving with her dignity." Perhaps she would have fared better had she actually arrived with her dignity.
I'm so glad Idol is back. I no longer have to imagine what the Jerry Springer show would be like with karaoke.
I cried last night for two hours over something I wasn't really all that upset about. We were supposed to go to a party when, at the last minute, my husband said he didn't want to attend. This sent me spiraling downward in much the same way a toddler becomes inconsolable when his peas touch his mashed potatoes.
I felt bad for my husband. Good men don't like to see their wives cry especially when they are not even sure why it's happening. He had the same look of bewilderment, panic and fear that a good woman gets when she overflows a toilet at her favorite restaurant.
I've had a rough couple of weeks, ending with a 14-day bout with the flu. Emotionally, I'm run down. But, I am also one of those people who is brave is the face of adversity and then falls apart once the situation is back to normal. Many women admittedly cry during PMS. I'm more inclined to fall apart because of PTS or Post Traumatic Stress.
It's happened to me in the past. I remember once, after a particularly bad month, weeping on the boardwalk in Ocean City, New Jersey, because my piece of pizza wasn't very good. Another time, I burst into tears at a Waffle House when the waitress gave me sausage instead of bacon.
I may sound crazy but, trust me when I tell you I'm the person you want around during a crisis. I'm just not the person you want to be around once the crisis has abated. But, it you are in my presence, just make sure you have lots of tissues and a previously opened bottle of red wine nearby.
I've never understood why hospitals charge their patients for television. It's really kind of cruel.
In a hospital, a television is no longer a luxury...it's a necessity. You need a TV to make you forget about how awful and lonely you feel. You need a TV to give you a sense of time. You need a TV to drown out the horrendous moaning coming from the strange old person in the adjacent bed. If a hospital is going to charge for television, they might as well just charge for food and medicine. Oh wait, they do charge for food and medicine. Well, then if they're going to charge for television the least they could do is include HBO.
My best friend has been in the hospital since Thursday after having a particularly icky surgical procedure. She's being treated at one of the best hospitals in the country. It's so good, in fact, that free television comes with every room. There's just one problem, only four stations are offered: The Weather Channel, CNN Headline News, Fit TV and ABC Family.
Can you think of four worse stations for a person in a hospital bed to be stuck watching?
The Weather Channel: Do you really need to know the snowfall amounts in Denver when you're hopped up on Percocet and Vicodin in New Jersey? Being reminded that you live in a world with its own weather system only makes you resentful of the patient with the window bed.
Headline News: The same news report over and over again, every half-hour with just enough detail to leave you frustrated and unfulfilled. The Ticking Clock Channel would be more relaxing.
Fit TV: Gosh, nothing would make me feel better about my ill health than watching the fake tan brigade do lunges to techno music or old people--who should feel worse than me--doing yoga on the beach. It would make me want to throw a fit.
ABC Family: Gilmore Girl fans must be elated. The rest of us just get stuck watching the Gilmore Girls because we can't stand the beeping from that stupid machine at the foot of the bed. And why oh why would you pick a station with "family" in the title when all of the patients are already depressed about being away from their own families?
My friend eventually sprang for the eight-dollar-a-day deluxe television package. I suppose that was the hospital's sinister plan all along. Offer free TV, but make it so undesirable that people will fork over the extra cash for decent cable.
I hope she comes home soon so she can watch her own television.
We just finished watching the Will Ferrell movie "Stranger Than Fiction." It was yet another Hollywood film that was done a disservice by being marketed as a broad comedy. Certainly it was amusing, but only in a "Being John Malkovich"-- "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" sort of way. For the record, I liked all three films immensely.
What we thought was strange-- or at the very least, stranger than fiction-- is that Office Worker #4 (TJ Jagodoski) and Office Worker #5 (Peter Grosz) are the same two actors who appear on those very funny Sonic commercials together. Do they always get cast as a team or is it merely a coincidence? Strange, huh?
It's tragic watching great talent be destroyed by drugs and alcohol.
In the late 1908's and early 1990's, Christopher Bowman was the one to beat on the international men's figure skating circuit. I was a huge fan. But then the rumors started about his off-ice behavior.
My husband concluded that Will Ferrell's character in "Blades of Glory" was loosely based on Bowman's antics. It was a life filled with prostitutes, drug deals and seedy motels. He drew his last breath in one of those seedy motels on Thursday.
Here is Bowman competing in the 1991 US National Championships.
Laughter is the best medicine, unless you have chest congestion and GERD (Gastro Esophageal Reflux Disease), then laughter is your worst enemy.
I couldn't figure out why I was having GERD symptoms during my battle with the flu since I wasn't eating any food. Then my husband watched me have a coughing fit and realized the violent stomach action was causing my acid reflux.
It appears a GERD stomach likes stillness. When I was first diagnosed, I was told not to jog then quickly discovered that sit-ups were out of the question as well. I was upset about the running but oh-so-happy that I finally had an excuse not to do crunches. No rock hard abs for me, no sirree! A squishy torso was a medical necessity! Joy!
So, for the last two weeks, I have been trying to avoid laughing because laughing leads to coughing and coughing leads to GERD.
For some people, this would be an easy task. But, I'm a standup comic...who is married to a standup comic. We can't get through a funeral without trying to make each other crack up. It's just the way we operate.
My husband's method for making me laugh during our co-illness, was to wait for when I was at my most vulnerable--head two inches from a bowl of chicken soup or lying on the bathroom floor-- and then, doing his best Frasier Crane, would say, "My, you're looking lovely today." It got me every time...laughter, coughing, GERD.
He doesn't have GERD, but I did make him laugh then cough so hard he pulled a muscle. We were all smelly and feverish, lying side by side on the bed when I turned to him and said, "So, do you want to have sex?" A more insecure woman would have been hurt by his almost cruel aversion to the idea, but I was just grateful he didn't call my bluff and take me up on the offer.
Sex during the flu would have certainly lead to laughing, coughing, GERD and more laughing...plus a few pulled muscles.
Apparently, the only thing funnier than a cone on a dog is a wig on a cat. The folks at Kitty Wig have come up with the perfect-- or is that purrfect-- gift for that hard to shop for cat on your shopping list.
I can't figure out how they manage to keep the wig on without the aid of tranquilizers or Super Glue. It's obvious from their copy that the brains behind Kitty Wig understand both the ridiculousness and the appeal of their product.
Blonde is a magical mix of bashful and brazen. Fern shows off the many moods of a natural blonde: sweet yet catty, smart yet batty -- where life is alluring and coy. Now all she needs is a bikini and a Swedish accent.
Blonde sets off your kitty’s eyes and makes your kitty look tan.
It makes me wish I had a cat just so I could go all Dolly Parton on his furry little ass.
We've uploaded a second segment of the nearly famous Skene Home Movies.
(Scroll down for "Hot Fun In The Summertime.")
Choosing another four minute clip wasn't easy. We decided on this one because we love the song. It's Mel Torme's "Christmas Was Made For Children" and we listened to it quite frequently during this past holiday.
I am also partial to any sequence that features my mother. She passed away over 20 years ago, so seeing us together is always fun for me.
Yes, that's me as a toddler. Yes, I eventually did learn to rollerskate.
"Party Perfect" is a 1959 Co-Ed Magazine book based on their popular monthly feature of the same name. The goal of "Party Perfect" is to teach your average teenage girl to be the "hostess with the mostest."
I love this book. Not only does it have groovy graphics and disgusting recipes for Peanut Butter Dipsies (peanut butter, eggs, relish and bacon), Hot Buttered Soup (tomato soup, cinnamon and cloves) and Bouillon on the Rocks (no explanation needed) but it also has an author with one of the more unfortunate names in publishing history...Gay Head. I kid you not. The author's name is Gay Head. Is there anything funnier than Gay Head teaching kids how to have fun in the rumpus room? (I am soooooooooo immature!)
It's tough to choose my favorite party idea, but it might just be the United Nations Get-Together.
Want to try a party with an international flavor? Make it a United Nations party, so you can borrow foods, decorations, costumes, and entertainment from the whole world. The theme is one of the purposes of the U.N. itself-- to establish friendly relations with other peoples through understanding.
That's right kids, invite all of your white friends over and serve them French bread and Italian spaghetti in order to establish friendly relations with other peoples. Of course, you could just invite over your black and hispanic friends but, wait, you don't have any black and hispanic friends. It is 1959, after all.
I do have to admire any book that can get a teenage boy to show up for a party wearing a suit. These days you can't even get a grown man to wear a tie to a funeral.
Although, the party ideas seem squaresville by today's standards, I sort of long for the innocence of days past. One of the more depressing hours on television is MTV's My Super Sweet 16 -- which says a lot considering it is a half-hour show. On a recent episode, our hostess with the mostest made her entrance wearing a red bustier, singing "Lady Marmalade." I don't think anywhere in "Party Perfect" did Gay Head recommend kicking off the festivities by acting like a whore.
(Where are the mothers? I'm reminded of the scene in "Pretty Baby" where Susan Sarandon allows Brooke Shields to be paraded around on a silver platter in the hopes of attracting a high bidder.)
Perhaps Gay Head had the right idea. Put on a fancy party dress, whip up a batch of Deviled Ham Missles and dance to the latest hit record. Only this time around, don't be afraid (and I'm saying this in a hushed tone) to invite over some "brown people."
I have been a Top Cop for Us Weekly's Fashion Police since 2001. (Why do men always call it "U.S." Weekly even when they see it spelled with a big "U" and a small "s"?)
Some weeks many of my jokes are published while other weeks I have to settle for just one or two. Below is a partial list of comments that never made it to the newsstand.
Note: The ones marked "Accepted" are my comments that got in. The ones marked "Rejected" are the ones that didn't.
Kate Walsh
Accepted: This little black dress makes a big statement.
Rejected: She makes men's privates practice.
Mischa Barton
Accepted: From The O.C. to Little House on the Prairie.
Rejected: It's Howdy Doody's sister, Dowdy Doody.
Kerry Washington
Rejected: Who is her desinger? Roy G Biv?
Rejected: What Liberace really wanted to wear.
Paris Hilton
Accepted: One of the creatures at the heavy-petting zoo?
Rejected:Mutual of Omaha's Girls Gone Wild Kingdom.
Iowa Caucus winner Barack Obama scored big with the ladies last night but not in a Bill Clinton kind of way. Obama got their votes. Votes, many say, should have gone to Hillary Clinton.
Since the Hillary campaign machine first fired up its engine, talking heads in newsrooms all across the country wrongly assumed that Democratic female voters would automatically support one of their own for President. I'm not sure what type of data they used in their analysis but, in reaching their conclusions, they obviously didn't consider "Cute Guy Syndrome."
"Cute Guy Syndrome" is an embarrassing phenomenon in which a seemingly rational woman will toss her BFF under a bus for a cute guy
This morning, Hillary has Greyhound tire tracks across her back.
The Obama campaign understands "Cute Guy Syndrome." The talk of Obama's "good looks" started long before he declared his candidacy. The "Obama is handsome" chants began during his book tour. This was no accident.
Convince enough women who are susceptible to hype that Barack is dreamy and you've got yourself the next President of the United States.
There's just one problem: Barack Obama isn't handsome. He's not even good-looking by politician standards. With a little special effects make-up, he could be a character on Battlestar Galactica.
Do not accuse me of being racist for criticizing an African-American male. If I was really racist, I would have given him a Joe Biden-esque compliment and said he was clean and articulate. Also, do not accuse me of having bad taste in men or, more specifically, bad taste in black men. Shemar Moore (pictured) is handsome. Blair Underwood is handsome. That idiot ex-husband of Halle Berry-- the one who cheated on her-- is handsome. Barack Obama looks like a Muppet.
Hillary Clinton was also bested by other cute guy, John Edwards. The Edwards campaign understands "Cute Guy Syndrome" as well. It's the only thing that explains his attention to grooming.
Male voters are usually not as vulnerable to the aesthetic hoopla. If they were, we would have had a Hooter's Girl as Vice-President long ago. At the very least, porn star Mary Carey would be Governor of California instead of Arnold Schwarzenneger.
For the record, I am not a supporter of Hillary Clinton. I would never give my vote to a fellow female merely because she's a fellow female. I would also never give my vote to a man just because he has a cute smile. I'm one of those weirdos who actually cares about the issues.
If it were up to me, all the candidates would have to wear bags over their heads until the big reveal on Election Night. Of course, we'd run the risk of having the Unknown Comic as leader of the free world, but that's a chance I'm willing to take.
On New Year's Day, Philadelphians do one of two things: Watch the Mummer's Parade or do everything possible to avoid watching the Mummer's Parade. In our house, we do both.
Since we were incapacitated by influenza this year, I finally won the Mummer's viewing battle. We watched...or at least I watched. My husband stayed at a safe distance and made the occasional snide comment. It's amazing how every January 1, we suddenly turn into James Carville and Mary Matalin.
It's difficult to explain the Mummers to a non-Philadelphian. Essentially, a bunch of working stiffs, dress up in sequins and put on a 10-hour parade. It's as if the Teamsters borrowed costumes from all the Broadway musicals and walked the New York City Marathon.
The Parade consists of four parts: Comics, Fancy, Fancy Brigade and, my favorite, String Band.
To give you an idea of how some of those 10-plus hours are filled, here's a You Tube clip of the Ferko String Band performing in the 2007 parade.
We're in the staring, coughing, head-throbbing, moaning phase. We're desperately trying to force ourselves to eat. Man cannot live on crackers alone.
You don't realize how much energy it takes to keep yourself and your surroundings clean until you don't have the energy it takes to keep yourself and your surroundings clean. If we're not better in a few days, I fear we will be wallowing in our own filth. We might as well get 30 cats.
Nothing will kill the romance of an afternoon in bed quite like his and hers 102 degree fevers.
In the 23 years we've been together, this is only the second time we been ill simultaneously. Normally, the well one does a very good job of taking care of the not-so-well one but when both spouses are sick, it becomes every man for himself. I'm grateful to my brother for delivering chicken soup and Gatorade. We weren't capable of taking care of ourselves let alone each other.
Our fevers broke briefly on Monday so we were able to shower and change the sheets. This was necessary because our bedroom started to smell like tomato sauce that had been left on the stove overnight. An hour later we were back up to 101.
I'm still feverish but my husband's temp seems to be down. We're just hoping we can get through the day without coughing up hideous gray matter.
Of course, my husband lost seven pounds and I didn't lose one.
I'm going to try to shower. I look as bad as I feel. Although I seem to have invented a new hairstyle. I call it my James Traficant up-do.
My New Year's Resolution? I will get a flu shot in 2008.
I have been a professional standup comic since 1985. I am the editor and co-founder of the WWW's most beloved magazine about standup comedy, SHECKYmagazine I am also the co-author of The Comedy Bible: The Complete Resource For Aspiring Comedians.
Here are my jokes that appeared in Judy Brown's 2002 book.
