Rejected Us Weekly Fashion Police Jokes 13

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.



Jodie Sweetin (From Full House)

Rejected: A full rack beats a full house.

Rejected: The Not-So-Little Mermaid.

Natalie Imbruglia

Rejected: It's an apron that doubles as body armor.

Rejected: It's N-aussie-ating.

Adrienne Bailon

Accepted: I have underwear longer than these shorts.

Rejected: From Cheetah-licious to Cheetah-laughable.

Popcorn And A Movie

For years, I have been in a popcorn conundrum. Eating microwave popcorn makes me feel hungover, cooking Jiffy-Pop scares the crap out of me and buying movie popcorn requires a larger bank account than we currently have. I suppose I could purchase one of the hundreds of air poppers at my local Goodwill or pour some vegetable oil into a thick bottom skillet and cook it on the stove top but those two options seem soooooooo 1970's.

A few months ago, a friend changed my life when she gave me a few ears of popping corn. The directions were fairly simple: place the ear in a paper bag and microwave on high for 3-4 minutes. It was the best damn popcorn I've ever eaten! Plus, since the unpopped kernels stay on the ear, there's no chance of biting down and breaking a tooth as you search, in darkness, for the few remaining scraps in the bowl.

My friend isn't as taken with the popping ears as I am. So, I took another five ears from her snack drawer when I was over her house for dinner. (Technically, I didn't steal them because I announced to everybody that I was stealing them. There's a difference.)

So, last night, my husband and I made a big bowl of popcorn (with pepper butter) and sat down on the lounge chair (yes, two people on one lounge chair) to watch the movie he had rented. He thought "Raising Jeffrey Dahmer" was a documentary. Turns out it's a horror/exploitation film. We never even made it through the coming attractions.

Luckily, our local PBS affiliate was showing "The Thomas Crown Affair."

I have never seen the "Thomas Crown Affair" which is surprising since I have been a huge Steve McQueen fan since birth. But, I've also despised Faye Dunaway since I was in utero, so it's not surprising that I wanted to avoid seeing her hollow cheeks and pouty little mouth all over my Stevie.

It seems I wasn't missing much all these years. "The Thomas Crown Affair" is a ridiculous movie. Perhaps not Dana Carvey in "Master of Disguise" ridiculous but certainly not worthy of PBS on a Saturday night.

The famous chess scene-- considered by many to be one of the sexiest scenes ever captured on celluloid-- made us howl. Yes, we were moist, but only because we peed ourselves from laughing so hard.

In the post-movie wrap-up, host Patrick Stoner, aka the man with the bad toupee, said that the one-minute kissing scene took eight hours to shoot. That would explain why the spaghetti scene in "Lady And The Tramp" had more passion.

Here's a seven-minute chunk of the film. You may want to pop some popcorn. It seems like it goes on forever.

Humor-Blogs

Please take a moment and click on this humor-blogs link. I've really slipped in the rankings. Thank you.

Works Every Time

My hometown of Philadelphia is like that embarrassing relative who shows up drunk for the baby's christening yet still expects to be invited to the next family get together. At some point, all the loved ones just say, "That's it, I can't take it anymore. I'm changing my cell number and moving to New Jersey."

This time we-- I'm sorry, they-- have humiliated themselves on a national level with the latest addition to the city's disgusting and third-worldish murals program.

An ad for Colt 45 malt liquor, shows a group of cartoon characters partying with the words "Works Every Time" displayed above their drunken heads.



Of course, this wasn't put up by the city or by any community arts program. Believe it or not, it wasn't created by the Klan either. This is distasteful advertising pure and simple. But if the other stupid murals weren't plastered on every vacant building all over the city's decaying neighborhoods, it may have been noticed sooner.

The article goes on to say that Pabst Blue Ribbon-- the makers of everybody's favorite malt liquor, Colt 45-- could not be reached for comment. Well, come on, what are they going to say, "I'm sorry, we can't come to the phone right now. We're busy working on a Colt 45 ad for the Latino section of town that says, 'Impregnates Every Time' and one for the white-trash neighborhood that will read, 'Makes You Want To Punch Your Girlfriend Because These Freakin' Minorities Are Ruining The City Every Time.'"

Yes, Philadelphia is indeed the City of Brotherly Love. That's because we're all drunk.

Her Mother Didn't Raise Her Right

While grocery shopping this afternoon, my husband paid for our order with a debit card, requested twenty-dollars cash back and then left the machine without retrieving our money.

I sat in the car as he trotted back to the store minutes later after realizing his mistake.

The store employee informed him that the loot was already gone. Apparently, she had asked the woman standing behind us in line if the bill was hers and she said yes. She knew it wasn't hers but she said yes anyway. Bitch!

Now, I've kept found money in the past but never after having looked the owner of the money in the eyes. In fact, several months ago, I saw a man drop twenty dollars at a liquor store and I chased him out to the parking lot to give him his doe. So stunned was he by my honesty, that he told me to keep what I had found. I just laughed and said, "If I had wanted the money, I would have kept it outright and saved myself the workout."

Am I implying that I am a better person than the woman standing behind us at the store? You're damn right I am!

I don't really care about losing twenty bucks, but I do care that some dishonest person is now spending my hard-earned income. I just hope she got a traffic ticket on the way home for some sort of violation that results in at least a twenty dollar fine.

The Alec Baldwin Bad Father Of The Week Award...

... goes to...

Larry Birkhead!

Who, according to my friends at Us, spent 2,800 hundred dollars at an auction for skimpy clothes worn by Anna Nicole Smith during a Playboy shoot where the buxom model, ironically, posed naked.

For some inexplicable reason, he thought these items would make a nice "keepsake" for their daughter, Dannielynn.

"I have a lot of history I have to put together that she doesn't really know about," he told the Associated Press. "Playboy was such a big part of Anna's career.

What will he purchase next for the little girl's hopeless chest? The stripper pole Anna used in Houston as a young mother? The leftover post-sex barf bags that were no doubt in the bedroom Anna shared with her then octogenarian hubby? How about the drug paraphernalia she most likely shared with her oldest child? That last item would be a family history two-fer.

If he really wants to screw the kid up, he should just show her videotape of the court trial where bio-dad, bio-dad's boyfriend, Howard K. Stern and estranged, irate grandma all tried to convince a weepy judge that they had the child's best interest in mind. It'll be a nice lesson in "no-win situations."

Poor Dannielynn. She's destined in 16 years to be one of Hugh Hefner's girlfriends in "The New Girls Next Door."

The Death Of A Comedy Legend

To read about my humorous encounter with the late George Carlin, please go to SHECKYmagazine.com.

THREATCON Charlie

I don't know how I'm supposed to emotionally recover from a failed pregnancy when my hormone levels are at THREATCON Charlie. While I have passed out of the "crying all the time" phase, I have entered the "wanting to cry all the time" phase. A slight improvement, but still somewhat debilitating.

In the past, I would have slide-tackled my husband if he even dared suggest that my irrational behavior might be hormone related, but now I'm comforted by his amateur diagnosis. If my weepiness is not at least 50 percent physical, then my only conclusion is that I'm having a nervous breakdown.

My husband strongly suggested that I accompany him to his gig in Massachusetts this past Friday night. On most trips we split the driving but he was reluctant to let me behind the wheel. I can't blame him. I am pretty distracted these days. I probably would have been driving on the wrong side of the road wondering why everybody else was driving the wrong way. (One of my favorite jokes is about the wife who calls her husband and says, "Honey be careful. I saw on the news there's a guy driving the wrong way on the interstate." He says, "One guy? There's more like a hundred.")

I stayed behind at the hotel while he did his show. I spent a much needed six hours lying on the bed, channel surfing with my remote control hand propped up on a pillow. Except for the 45 minutes I dozed off, I watched the Daytime Emmy Awards, Martha Stewart Living, Croatia VS. Turkey soccer game, What Not To Wear, The Producers, Numb3rs, Glenn Beck interviewing Jeff Foxworthy and Breakfast Around the World.

The next day, we stopped off to see our niece and my husband's late sister's widower. (To us, he's still our brother-in-law.) It was nice to be with family. I was in a much better mood on the way home than I was on the way up.

Unfortunately, that night, I still couldn't sleep. I have always suffered from stress-induced insomnia but this bout has been particularly bad. Often, I'm awake until 5 AM or later... which is why I'm blogging now at 2:30.

Hopefully, my hormones will decrease to THREATCON Bravo and I'll manage to get some much needed rest. I hope it happens soon. Right now, we're spending a fortune on tissues.

Time-- And Marcia Cross-- Heals All Wounds

Ridiculous things always seem to happen to me at my darkest moments. This time I was in my doctor's office, sobbing uncontrollably, when the well-meaning nurse made a clumsy attempt to calm me down.

I was distraught and panicked because, after a lifetime of believing that I couldn't get pregnant, I suddenly discovered that I was. But I also knew that something was wrong. For several weeks prior to this visit, my symptoms had disappeared and I found myself losing the weight I had already gained.

At 42-years-old, I understood that my chance of a miscarriage was fifty percent. Factor in my husband's age, my past history with DES (diethylstilbestrol, which I was exposed to in utero) and a first time pregnancy in middle-age and the odds were stacked against us.

Besides, I was in shock... complete and utter shock. Thinking I was one thing and then finding out that I'm something else, knocked me off my foundation. I couldn't plan for the future, I was barely handling the reality of the present.

To say that I was frightened and confused would be the understatement of all eternity.

The entire OBGYN staff wanted me to see this turn of events as a miracle. But as I said through my tears, "Why do you want me to be happy, when I know you're going to tell me that it's already over?"

So, I was inconsolable. The nurse, however, wanted to console... I think. I'm not really sure what she was trying to accomplish. I just wanted the truth.

She said, "Plenty of woman have babies in their forties. That actress on "Desperate Housewives" just had twins at 44. What's her name?"

What's her name? I'm weeping openly, during one of the worst moments of my life and suddenly I'm playing the Live With Regis and Kelly trivia game? What's her name? I don't even watch the damn show! She actually asked me, "What's her name?"

Of course, I'm a nice person. So I tried to figure out which actress she was talking about. Terry Hatcher? Apparently not. I was given another clue... the red head. Oh, Marcia Cross. The answer is Marcia Cross.

As the words "Marcia Cross" came out of my mouth, I sat there blinking like a cat with wind blowing in his face. For a moment, I stopped crying. Was this woman a genius? Did she learn this technique at "How To Handle A Psycho Patient 101" or was she completely unaware of just how desperate I was at that moment?

I'm not pregnant anymore. The past few weeks have been like a bad dream.

Living my entire adult life as an infertile woman and then realizing I was pregnant at the same time I knew it was over all seems rather cruel. I feel like I've spent 20 years standing in line for a roller coaster and then screaming through the entire 60 second ride. And, no, I will never ride this coaster again.

I'm hoping that as time passes and the hormones leave my system, I'll start to feel better. Right now, I'm just incredibly sad and exhausted.

I suppose telling the Marcia Cross story is a good first step. Maybe someday it will actually make me laugh out loud.

Cyd Charisse Dead At Age 86

As a little girl, certain dancers made me want to strap on my tap shoes. Cyd Charisse made me realize I should stick to soccer.

In this clip with Gene Kelly from Singing In The Rain Cyd Charissed exudes sex appeal. In the second clip, with Fred Astaire from Band Wagon, she is all class.

People Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout My Best Comrade

Hey, Elian Gonzales, you just joined Cuba's Young Communist Party. What are you gonna do now? "Well, I'm not going to Disneyworld!"

Of course, he did visit Disneyworld back when he was living as a free American, but I bet the Castro Brothers will make sure he has much more fun now that he is a prisoner of his own government.

I hope former Attorney General, Janet Reno sent him a congratulations card. If she did, I know that Elian will be able to read the cute poem inside because college students in Che Guavera T-shirts, oversized/poorly dressed documentary film makers and Keith Olberman all have told us repeatedly that Cuba has a very high literacy rate.

But what good is an impressive literacy rate if you don't have the freedom to read what you want?

Elian's mother died for her son's freedom. Earlier this week, Commie dad wept as Elian pledged allegiance to the revolution.

If I were a television producer in Cuba, I would do pitch a show called "The Courtship of Elian's Father" to whatever network executive wasn't currently rotting in jail. Now that Fidel can no longer make six hour speeches, there's a lot of airtime to fill.

The show would have a great theme song. "People let me tell you we have so much fun. Whether we're talking man to man or whether we're talking commie to commie. 'Cause he's my best friend. La... la la... La la la."

Way to go, Bill Clinton!

The Tony's VS. The Celtics

I was probably one of the few people last night who switched back and forth between the The Tony Awards and the NBA Finals. Winner? Basketball, hands down, even if the Celtics did fail to close the deal. (There's no way Kobe & Co. will take two in Boston.)

Game Five was exciting, but Broadway's Biggest Night turned into Broadway's Biggest Bore. Can't any modern-day composer write a good song anymore? Where are all the showstoppers?

All the songs from the new musicals-- In the Heights, Xanadu, Young Frankenstein-- sounded like filler. In the old days, these tunes may have been used to move the story along, but they just would have been time-killers until the star or starlet took center stage and belted out the classic hit.

Even Sondheim's Sundays In The Park With George was excruciatingly dull. (And when did Mandy Patinkin turn into Grizzly Adams?)

When Patti LuPone sang "Everything's Comin' Up Roses" from the revival of Gyspy all the new composers and actors should have sneaked out the back of the theater, headed for the closest tavern and began drinking prodigious amounts of alcohol.

The modern plays didn't seem much better. The winner for best play, August: Osage County has a plot taken right from the Hack playbook. A drugged-up matriarch? Sisters with secrets? Exposing the dark side of a white Midwestern family? Gosh, I haven't seen these themes explored since the last play... and movie... and television series... and animated sitcom... about screwed up suburban white families.

Either New York is filled with the least hip artsy-types on the planet or I'm just an Old-school curmudgeon who would rather stay home and watch Turner Classic Movies or the finals of a major sporting event.

Sorry Broadway, but it's never a good sign when Whoopi Goldberg is one of the most talented people in the room.

Here's Patti LuPone putting everybody else to shame.

Father's Day

This 1966 photograph of my dad and me, perfectly illustrates what life is like as a father with young children: You desperately want to sleep, but your kids just won't let you.

This photograph also illustrates what it must be like to have a wife who would rather grab a camera than keep your kid away so you can get some rest. I'm guessing my mother was also desperate for sleep and resented each and every second of my dad's snoozing. (Chances are she actually said to me, "Go wake your daddy up.") But, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt by assuming that she just wanted to take advantage of a good photo op.

Sorry, dad. I hope you get to take an uninterrupted nap today.

Happy Father's Day.

The Vicksburg Quartet

Meet the Vicksburg Quartet! All six of them!

Now I know I'm not supposed to worry my pretty little head about math, but one of the few things I did retain from my schoolin' days is that a quartet has four members not six. Perhaps they didn't want to call themselves the Vicksburg Sextet because sextet has the word "sex" in it. They are religious, dontcha know.

Why didn't they just call themselves the Vicksburg Singers or the Vicksburg Brothers or, at the very least, The Jackson Five? (What the heck, if you're going to fudge the numbers, you might as well capitalize on confusion.)

The title of the album is "You'll Never Walk Alone." Yes, especially when the people walking with you can't count.

On the back of the cover is a note to their fans, "Dear Vicksburg Fan: Congratulations! You are now holding the best record the Vicksburg Quartet has ever recorded." Of course, that's because they added two more people! (I also like "Dear Vicksburg Fan" as if they know in their hearts that there can only be one.)

Nowhere on the album or cover does it state the year it was recorded. But, the wide-lapel, polyester, powder blue suits and satin-esque ties (why is the one guy wearing it like an ascot?) suggests a mid-1970's release. Of course, it could have been dropped in 2005. If they don't own a dictionary (how else do you explain the quartet debacle) they may not own a calendar either.

My Lovely Lady Humps

It's always a pleasant surprise when a seemingly humorless person displays an actual real-live sense of humor. Such is the case with Alanis Morisette and her slowed-down version of the already ridiculous Black Eyed Peas' song "My Humps." (Who can forget Will Ferrell singing the tune while on the treadmill in Blades of Glory?)

It may only be funny to folks who are already familiar with the original. Below is the Morisette spoof and then the Fergie driven "classic."

Proud To Be An American

More than 100,000,000 Americans are direct descendants of the men, women and children who entered this country through Ellis Island. Four of them-- my husband, my brother, my sister-in-law and myself-- decided to brave the record-breaking temperatures and visit this historic landmark today.

Ellis Island and the adjacent Liberty Island-- home of the green lady from France-- are an easy ferry ride away from either Battery Park in New York or Liberty Island in New Jersey. The fare is only 12 bucks and entrance to both Islands is free. Skip the nine-dollar chicken wrap and it's actually a cheap day.

The Ellis Island Museum is quite amazing. The buildings fell into disrepair after the facility shut down in the 1950's, but a staggering rehab project in the '80's restored the main building to its former turn-of-the-century glory.

The story of these immigrants in search of a better life is told through photographs, audio interviews, factoids and artifacts. The hardships they endured certainly made my complaining about the ticket line seem embarrassingly selfish.

Imagine spending ten days in steerage, crossing the Atlantic in clothes that were way too heavy for summer, being crammed into an un-airconditioned room with thousands of unbathed fellow travelers, some of whom were sick. If you were one of the unlucky ones who were detained, you slept on cots in dormitories with hundreds of others. In what must have been a practical joke, you were served stewed prunes and baked beans for dinner. I'm surprised the place wasn't called Smellis Island.

My husband, referring to the multi-ethnic crowd on our ferry ride, jokingly said (channelling The Guy Who Manages To Say The Worst Possible Thing), "You know, I would be enjoying all this a lot more if not for all these foreigners!" Sadly, I bet those same words have been spoken by people who were completely serious.

I wept quietly when I heard the stories of the offspring who were separated from their parents for months as they recovered in the children's ward from an infectious disease. But I laughed heartily as I read the story of the woman who, during a mental evaluation test, was asked the logic question, "Do you clean the stairs from the top to the bottom or the bottom to the top?" Her answer was priceless, "I didn't come to America to clean stairs."

I am grateful to my great-grandparents for making the journey and allowing me to be raised as an American. Today we made the trip in a brand new SUV with a cooler full of G2's and a box of Dunkin' Donuts munchkins. I'm sure they would be proud... or, at the very least, incredibly jealous.

Free Credit Report Madness

For the past two weeks, I have had those FreeCreditReport.com songs stuck in my head. They usually attack in the middle of the night, haunting me like a fevered nightmare.

I find myself, against my will, struggling at 4 AM to discern if it's the pirate version, the car or the one with the angry young lady that's playing in an evil loop over and over and over again in my half-asleep brain. It's maddening!

I now lunge for the remote and hit the mute button as soon as I hear that familiar first chord, otherwise I know I'm in for a night of hell.

If this keeps up, I'm going to have to go to Free Mental Health Report.com.

I suppose it could be worse. I could be singing "Viva Viagra."

Somebody on YouTube has posted this clip with all three songs. Go ahead, listen and see if you can sleep through the night.

2 For Iron Man, Please

My husband and I love movies, but we rarely watch them outside of our home because through our experiences we have found that movie theaters are filled with these horrible creatures called people.

But, we've been having a really bad week, so we decided to catch the 4:20 showing of Iron Man.

Apparently, the 4:20 show is the best one to see if you don't like the aforementioned humans. The place was as empty as Oprah's pool after she cannonballs.

Until the other couple came in. "Boooo," I wanted to yell. These two losers where ruining our private screening. How dare they.

The theater itself is fairly new, with stadium seating and a large row towards the front for disabled patrons. The two rows in front of this row have been removed so it's similar to the emergency exit row on an airplane. Except the single seats on the ends are labeled handicapped but the four seats in the center are not. So that's where we sat.

Five minutes after the main attraction began in walks a father, his young daughter and his son... who is in a wheelchair.

Naturally, we moved without being asked. The man took the seats and then thanked us twice, which made me kind of sad. The first thank you was just his way of being polite, but the second thank you indicated that he's not used to people doing the right thing. Although, there is something about movie theaters that make even civilized folks highly uncivilized.

So, the seven of us sat quietly-- thank goodness-- and watched the movie. Iron Man is the type of film that should be seen on a big screen. Sex and The City, for many reasons, is not. (No, that was not a Sarah Jessica Parker nose joke. Or a Kim Cattrall vagina joke.)

There's enough good acting, boom-booms and plausible implausibility to make this action flick fun for the entire two-plus hours.

Although, I think in the sequel-- oh and there will be a sequel-- Iron Man should have to fly to Hawaii to compete in the Iron Man Triathalon. Watching a guy in a titanium suit run a full marathon after swimming and biking all day would be worth the price of admission.

Drunkorexia

This story must be causing reporter woodies in local newsrooms all across America.

Swapping out a meal for a martini. It's a dangerous new trend for a growing number of young women who are exchanging calories, alcohol instead of food.

It's being called drunkorexia.

It's got everything. Skinny young girls and photogenic cocktails all wrapped up in a ridiculous fad.

Alcohol is known to be fattening and loaded with empty calories.

A cosmopolitan, the popular so called girl drink, can rack up 250 calories.

For the drunkorexic, it's a daily game of calorie trade-offs.

"Beer was like, you don't drink beer unless you like haven't eaten all day," said the anonymous student.

Drunkorexia? Seriously? It's called alcoholism! Yes, trading alcohol for food is called alcoholism.

Have you ever known an alcoholic to enjoy a hearty breakfast?

The real winner in all of this is the young man who no longer has to buy a woman dinner before he gets her drunk and into bed. In fact, if she's drinking on an empty stomach, he might get laid before nine.

Personally, I prefer wine with dinner instead of wine without dinner. In other words, I'll have my empty calories with a side of grub, please.

Can the stories about Beerlemia be far behind? "Woman who eat pizza and then drink beer to throw up." It's called college.

Vice-President Clinton?

Barack Obama is a damn fool if he picks Hillary Clinton to be his running mate. Bill and Hillary have had more "friends" die than Jonathan and Jennifer on "Hart To Hart." (Instead of naming his dog Buddy, President Clinton should have called him Freeway.) A woman with this type of bad luck shouldn't be one heart beat away from the presidency. It wouldn't just be political suicide for Oprahbama, it could be actual suicide.

Lots of folks in the political know are concerned that Obama might be assassinated by a right-wing, NRA-loving, angry white dude. Hell no! If Obama gets capped, it'll be by some crazed, ultra-radical feminist who has just read "The World According To Garp" for the 85th time and is furious that a woman has been relegated to the number two spot... again!

Personally, I think Obama should choose walking corpse and former Klan leader, Senator Robert Byrd from West Virginia. If nothing else, the Vice-Presidential debates would be hilarious. (It's worth waiting until the 1:00 mark in the clip below!)

Dead Woman Walking

This is Amy Winehouse's brain on drugs. Any questions?



What you're witnessing here is a collaboration. I'm pretty sure Winehouse didn't make it to Portugal on her own. (And, from the looks of things, she's not fully aware that she is in fact in Portugal.)

The people in her inner circle should be ashamed of themselves. Have her arrested or force her into rehab or just walk away completely... but don't slap a beehive wig on her head and send her out to perform. I think all the money-grubbing enablers in her life should be brought up on attempted murder charges. Now. Before the charges are for murder.

Perhaps they need her cash to pay for their own drugs.

Rejected Us Weekly Fashion Police Jokes 12

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.



Michelle Trachtenberg

Rejected: Butterflies are free... of fashion sense.

Rejected: Shrink-wrapped and ready to go!

Janet Jackson

Accepted: Janet's just on her way to meeting Yoda for brunch.

Rejected: "My name in Princess. Miss Leia if you're nasty."

Danity Kane's Aubrey O'Day

Rejected: What a stripper wears to a tap recital.

Rejected: It's hip...in Slovenia.