Friday, September 26, 2008

A-CHOO!!! And Now I'm Bored.

The least unattractive moment a person can have, is usually during a yawn or a sneeze. I'm sorry, but nothing spells turn-off like mucus flying through your nose and throat at hyperspeed, or getting a slow-motion display of tonsils and/or your uvula.

Alone, these two actions, though completely normal and necessary, are pretty unfavorable. But during sex, they are downright appalling, if not offensive.

However, there is some good news for all of you who have come to believe that your partner is either allergic to you, or extremely bored. While I cannot in full faith attest to the fact that they aren't allergic or bored, I can provide the following explanation.

(Note: if you really believe you are allergic to your partner/friend with benefits, I would consult a physician, and/or immediately leave town. If you are sincerely uninterested enough to yawn during sex, I would consult a toy store, and/or immediately leave town. Until then, you can use these completely viable biological excuses.)

Yawning and Sneezing

"These aren't painful or debilitating reactions to an orgasm, but they can cause your sex partner to feel confused or insulted. One possible explanation is that in the brain, the center for orgasms is close to the centers for yawning and sneezing, says Irwin Goldstein, MD, director of San Diego Sexual Medicine and the editor in chief of the Journal of Sexual Medicine, so one center could activate another. "If your partner yawns during sexual activity, it probably means that he or she is just sexually aroused," he says."

And for those nights when you want to fake a headache, these sparkling gems of medical diagnosis continue! Apparently, sometimes really great sex can be bad for your brain. Kids: this is your brain:

And this is your brain on sex:

"There's such a tremendous excitation of the nervous system and heavy-duty brain activity during orgasm, so it's no surprise that it could trigger a migraine for some people," says Dr. Goldstein."

Good to know, Dr. Goldstein. Good. To. Know.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008


Roy Lichtenstein. He made me happy today, that's all...

Mmmm...pop art.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Confessions of a Splenda-holic.

Since I was but a tiny lass, I've been under the impression that artificial sweeteners cause cancer, birth defects, and malevolence in general. I steered clear of all things 'diet,' and everything that even hinted at containing less than enough sugar to give me cavities. But somehow, the impressionable young adult in me fell into a torrid love affair with Splenda. The bright yellow packaging just spews happiness from it's consumer-friendly pores, along with the claim that is made from sugar, and is therefore, just as refined and awesome. I began to use Splenda like it was going out of style. Like the world was on fire, and Splenda was some sort of extinguisher. I found myself stashing emergency Splenda in my purse, the glove compartment of my car, snatching those few extra packets from Starbucks and hoping the baristas wouldn't catch on. I became an addict, but the worst part was, I had come to accept my addiction as a norm. That was, until today. The New York Times has burst my Splenda-sweetened bubble once and for all.

According to a study at Duke University (I choose to ignore the fact that it was financed by the Sugar Association...and yes, that is a real lobbying group for the natural-sugar industry), Splenda contributes to obesity, destroys 'good' intestinal bacteria and prevents prescription drugs from being absorbed.

McNeil Nutritionals, the company behind Splenda, cited that these findings were unsupported by the data presented, arguing that the sweetener will not cause weight gain and can indeed be included as part of a healthy diet.

Since 1999, Splenda has taken over almost two-thirds of the artificial sweetener market, pushing down table sugar’s market share, and making a worthy adversary for the Sugar Association.

The battle between Splenda, sugar, and it's artificial sweetener competitors has basically been a long list of lawsuits, settlements, accusations and rebuttals. Very boring, and very trivial. Personally, it all boils down to the age-old saying that if it's too good to be true, it probably is. And thus, I have chosen to go cold turkey, and sever the metaphorical ambilical cord that has joined Splenda and I for the past 3 years.

I literally handed my entire remaining supply of those delicious little white crystals of joy, to an unbiased party. I instructed said party to hide this supply where I would never find it, preferably in a place I can't reach (much like hiding cookies from a 5-year-old). My only fear is of a flashlight shining in my face at four in the morning as I lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, surrounded by empty yellow packets, eyes rolled into the back of my head as I cough up granules of fake sugar. I'm just hoping to avoid this dreadful relapse, I might have to start going to meetings and find myself a sponsor. But I plan to be Splenda-free from this day forward. The following, is an open letter:

Dear Splenda,

It's nothing personal, I really love you as a product, and I think that you're a great friend. It's not you, it's me. I have serious sugar issues that I need to address, and I'd rather not drag you into my toxic environment. Thank you for the good times. For the lattes, the iced teas, the Kool-Aid. Thank you for the smoothies and the Publix-brand sodas. But most of all, thank you for your love; and for giving me a little yellow happiness (that isn't my own urine) every single day. I will miss you, and you can never be replaced. I can only hope to one day make high-fructose corn syrup as happy as you have made me. Goodbye, Splenda. And good luck!

Your dearest friend,

L. Smith, Esq.

P.S. *tears and sadness*

Monday, September 22, 2008

Insomnia, Bad Movies, and Free Lobster...

At 3 o'clock in the morning, a person's base requirements for movies spiral down the drain. You stop being a critic because you are entirely too tired to invest enough energy to change the channel. You watch comedies with siamese twins, period pieces with silly costumes, or a good cop-bad cop, old cop-new cop (red cop-green cop black cop-jew cop) criminal heist gone wrong. If you're truly unlucky and/or temporarily paralyzed, you'll end up with some fairytale-esque teen flick where the ugly duckling becomes the prom queen, the studly quarterback realizes that popularity isn't everything, and we all vomit a little bit in our mouths.

Then 4 o'clock sidles quietly by, and you're plastered to the pillow; glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, and willing to watch anything with pretty colors. As long as it doesn't require too much serious brain activity. Accordingly, this is the dreadful hour that most cable channels air those movies that people went to see in the theater, and upon returning home, told you one of two things, depending on how much they liked you.

"It was pretty good, you should see it," said the person that despises you, secretly wishing you unexpected bankruptcy from paying to see too many horrible movies.

A true friend, however, told you the blatant truth. "Honestly, I'd rather blind myself, cut off my tongue, and go to a strip club on free lobster night, than see that movie again."

While I wouldn't rather maim myself than watch "I Think I Love My Wife" a second time, I'd highly consider a minor flesh wound, or a bad case of diarrhea. There are really only a few reasons (and by this I mean things that are completely absurd) to sit still long enough to make it through this waste of two hours:

*Chris Rock pretending to be an intellectual by wearing glasses, carrying a briefcase, and saying things like "hold my calls."

*The scantily clad and gorgeous Kerry Washington (Nikki Tru...nice name writers, very realistic) settling on a plethora of unacceptable men, i.e. an ex-con, some guy named 'Compassion,' a fat man, and Chris Rock.

*A 2-minute cameo by America's Next Top Model Eva Pigford. (In case you were worried that she had died. Where the hell has she been, anyway?)

*A womanizing and vulgar Steve Buscemi talking about cheating on his wife and having sex with interns (all while donning a reasonably outdated bluetooth headset).

*A Viagra joke that went on, literally and figuratively, for way too long.

All of these points considered, I laughed at Chris Rock getting high and dancing to 'Laffy Taffy.' That was the one and only time I laughed. And while it didn't completely deflect from the ridiculous plot, it did make up for the fact that the term 'nigga ears' was used twice.

By far the climax of this train wreck, was when Richard Cooper (Chris Rock) was reprimanded by his boss for missing an important meeting to do Nikki (Washington) a favor. The boss (Edward Herrmann) tells Cooper that he is on probation and then pauses, clears his throat, creates that air of grandfatherly expertise, and says:

"You know, you can lose a lot of money chasing women. But you will NEVER lose women, chasing money."

At first I thought: how clever, great insight grandpa. And then I slapped myself a few times, blinked, and was offended. Who (in the name of terrible movies everywhere!) said that this was an okay comment?

Damn you, Chris Rock, you can't even make a romantic comedy without being insulting! If it wasn't the notion of two beautiful women fighting over a scrawny nerd in a suit, the glorification of extramarital affairs, promiscuous interns, or comparing life to 'not getting hit by a bus,' then it had to be not so subtly implying that all women are gold diggers. For the love of late-night television, at this point, he is just making bad porn and infomercials look intriguing.

I should start taking sleeping pills.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Drastic Measures...

This, is a zebra.

This, is cake.

This, is a kid with a bazooka.

What do these three things have in common?

Well, folks, it all has to do with a little girl named Debbie.

Just look at her. That fashionably retro bonnet. Those prematurely groomed and arched eyebrows. The practical flannel shirt suggesting she's just another blue collar lumberjack. But perhaps we should find out what exactly Little Debbie has been up to all of these years.

You're not fooling anyone, Debbie. We know what you've been up to. You've been busy, Debbie. Busy working overtime, manufacturing the Devil's Snackcakes!

Yes, Zebra Cakes. They are moist, creme-filled, vanilla-iced, and apparently, they are pure evil.

They are my sugary, chocolate-striped kryptonite.

They are delicious. Perhaps a little too delicious.

It might be a little wrong to find this next story funny, but I do. Mostly because it's true. But, I said it when I was six, and I'll say it again: You just don't f*ck around with a girl's Zebra Cakes. You just don't do it.

"Girl, 9, Threatens To Kill Classmate Over Zebra Cakes

ORANGE COUNTY, Fla. -- Even the mother of the girl who was threatened said she can't get a copy of the note, but she did get to read it. In a police report she said another girl talked about having a gun and wanting to kill her daughter.

"The note said 'I have a gun and first I'm going to shoot you in the shoulder,'" said Cindy Landfair, mother of the girl who was threatened.

From one nine-year-old girl to another, the note continued. "...Then you're going to shoot me back with a bazooka, but you're gonna miss..."

Cindy Landfair said a note to her daughter from a classmate at Southwood Elementary School went too far. "...And then I'm going to shoot you back and kill you..." the note continued.

"I was shocked. I was terrified," Landfair said.

The girl's mother said it all started over snacks. Her daughter traded her 'zebra cakes' for a bag of chips. But when the other girl wanted both for herself, the mother said that's when she wrote the threatening note.

It happened during an after school program run by the YMCA. They suspended the girl who wrote the note, but Landfair said school officials won't tell her whether they've done the same and will only say they're handling the matter internally.

"I don't know anything at this point. The school is basically leaving me in the dark," Landfair added. Landfair, whose daughter has a different last name, said she may pull her kids out of the school even though authorities couldn't find a gun and don't believe there was a crime committed. When asked if she thought she was being an over-protective mother, Cindy Landfair responded. "Yes, I do, but I only have one daughter and she's not replaceable" she said.

School district administrators contacted the sheriff's office. The district said it's considering how the girl who wrote the note should be disciplined.

Copyright 2008 by All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed."

Wow. These crazy youngsters have so much to learn. First of all, there is no way to fit a bazooka in your backpack. But even if you could, come on, it's pretty hard to miss with a bazooka. And I'm fairly sure that the commotion of the shot would at least give you enough time to regain the upper hand. But most importantly, I think the lesson to be learned here, is the principle of the barter system. Only on Mars or in some alternate universe would receiving chips for zebra cakes be a fair trade. I don't blame this little girl for her irrational threats of violence, or for her ill-advised weapon of choice. I blame her for being being a terrible negotiator, and an easy mark.

Listen, kids. The only thing you trade cake for, is money. To buy more cake. It does not matter the brand, how hungry you are, if the chips are kettle-cooked, how nicely the person asks, or if you think you can take 'em during recess. Cake is your trump card, your golden ticket, your Full House (I'm talking poker, not Mary Kate and Ashley). Keep that in mind before you whip out your weapons of mass destruction. And DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT come between a woman and her snackcakes.

I'm telling you, that Little Debbie is one crafty, irresistable bitch.

Enjoy it while you got it, my sweet little siren.

If you're in the mood for motion sickness...

Yes, those are almonds...and No, they ARE NOT actually moving.

Seriously, they aren't moving, it's an optical illusion. Sick.

Thursday, September 18, 2008


There's a saying out there in this brutal, unpredictable world. They (and by they, I mean me and my personalities) say that you haven't really lived, unless you've been arrested. The fact that I am the only person that admittedly believes this statement, does not make it any less true. Some would call me an advocate of petty crime and misdemeanor, I prefer self-preservationist. Let's just say, it's much easier to justify the existence of an arrest record (however minor, or let's face it, stupid) if you already have one.

Going to jail is much like riding a rollercoaster at a crappy amusement park. You're thrown into a peeling plastic seat with no restraints, are subjected to pathetic, listless banter from the underpaid guy in a uniform, get slid and thrashed around for a few minutes, and once the car stops your neck hurts and you really wish you would have just stayed home. Eventually the food makes you sick, the crowd begins to get on your nerves, time slows to a crawl and crankiness evolves into thoughts of cold-blooded murder . You laugh a little, cry a lot, and when you leave, you get one of those souvenier photos. However, the police department often refers to these little keepsakes as mugshots.

Needless to say, if you are getting arrested, you are probably not in your best form. Chances are you are drunk, on drugs, just got beaten up, or are otherwise incapacitated or half-asleep. You are also either terrified, devastated, or outrageously pissed off. Let's be honest; it is not a pretty sight. Mugshots are not something you pose or prepare for, they just happen. No retouching, no re-takes, no red eye removal. Just you, an outdated camera, and an irritated police photographer.

It is in that very moment, as they line you up against the wall and instruct you to stare at the lens, that you have a decision to make. You have to say to yourself, "Self, one day you could be famous, or at least infamous. And Self, surely this picture will in one way or another reach the media and the general public. When that day comes, Self, do you want to be known as a badass? Or would you rather be remembered as a complete pussy?"

Yes, even famous people often find themselves faced with this life-altering decision. The following celebrity mugshots are just a few of my favorites.

Click. Flash. Whirrrrr...

I don't think it's possible for Michelle Rodriguez not to look badass. Even when faced with wearing an ankle bracelet. She also managed to keep a straight face when blaming her DUI on know, for her allergies.

Moms always told their sons to put on clean underwear to spare embarrassment in case of arrest or hospitalization. Apparently no one told Nick Nolte about also getting haircuts and NOT wearing Hawaiian shirts...ever.

Al Pacino's charges were dropped after he told authorities the gun he was carrying was for an audition. I haven't been on too many casting calls, but I'm pretty sure they don't require you to bring your own firearm. Freakin' coppers. They should have known not to mess with The Don. (And 21-year-old Pacino was cute, right?)

Excuse me, Kimora Lee, but unless Baby Phat is introducing a new line of prison-wear, there is no reason for that amount of happiness...or those bangs. It must really be great to know you have bail money.

Pee-Wee Herman...need I say more? Although in this picture, I'm not so sure I'd trust my kids in his playhouse. He looks much more like a serial killer than a pervert masturbating to porn in an x-rated theater. Either way, you have to love the irony...and the goatee.

If you decide to get whacked out on marijuana and Xanax, make sure to stay home, watch Half-Baked, and eat some Little Debbies (I prefer the zebra cakes). Just don't make like Andy Dick, who groped and exposed a 17-year-old girl and was then still too high to realize he shouldn't be smiling like a psychopath in his orange jumpsuit.

With a name like Rip Torn, you can't go around looking for trouble. Or just plain looking crazy. Call me cynical, but I think the tender age of 75 should be the cut-off for any kind of driving, as well as drunk-driving. Didn't he see Driving Miss Daisy? Get a chauffer.

Speaking of looking crazy...James Brown, everybody.

I don't even know who this is, but it's the best mugshot I've ever seen. It's the prison shot we should all live and hope for. Kudos unidentified caucasian female, kudos! And I have no doubt the arresting officer took care not to rustle her mohawk in the cruiser. They are so courteous, those policemen.

It's true, Larry King DID have those glasses in the 70's. He also passed bad checks. And had a thing for polka-dots.

George Clinton, I have no words. And my eyes hurt. I hope the cocaine you were holding is responsible for that dye job. I'm surprised the fashion police didn't nab him first.

I didn't know it was a practice for police to arrest deranged mannequins. And I honestly don't understand why anyone believes Michael Jackson would have to drug a child; they would probably simply pass out from fright. I know I did.

Jane Fonda is my personal favorite, and it isn't just because of the iconic fist of defiance. It has to be the fact that she was arrested for smuggling pills; charges that were dropped when they turned out to be vitamins. Now that's a hardened criminal if I've ever seen one (and I haven't).

"But I'm A Cheerleader!" No, Natasha Lyonne, it didn't get you out of gay-rehab and it didn't get you out of American Pie 2. Considering the police reports claim you went ballistic and threatened your neighbor's dog (I am absolutely against dog-threats), it's no wonder you have to smirk just a little.

Well, crime still doesn't pay, but at least it makes for some classic snapshots.

In the interest of my own amusement, and because I have yet to recover the original mugshots from my alleged arrest, I decided to recreate this golden moment in my life.

Pay your speeding tickets kids, and make sure your license is always up to date. Trust me, it'll save you a trip to the slammer, court costs, as well as the company of prostitutes and crackheads.

The following allegedly re-enacted photographs are based on an alleged event, involving alleged charges, represent no admission of alleged guilt, and may well be a complete fabrication for the sake of entertainment.

But if they are badass, then they must be real.

Book me, Danno.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Yes, I'm Easy...

Every once in a while I have to appreciate being able to laugh at something simple, like a little boy hitting his dad in the nuts with a wiffle ball. Or pretending to throw a stick and then hiding it behind my back as my dog runs off to fetch it in utter confusion. Or someone falling down (for any reason and in any circumstance). Right now, I'm completely in (unrequited) love with the Tide-To-Go commercials. Literally, every time I see one on TV, I laugh loud enough that I should be embarrassed. But I'm not. These things are hilarious, I don't care what anyone says. I have embraced my right to be easily entertained, and I am.

I would write more, but I think I may have peed a little whilst laughing. Again.

Seriously. Genius. Magic. Magical Genius, Tide, your marketing department deserves iphones.


Monday, September 15, 2008

Simple, obscene, but true.

Obviously, at this point, the nation is quite abuzz with the upcoming election and all that politico jazz. I'm not a fan of politics by any means, but I am an avid connoisseur of knowing what the hell I'm talking about (even if just for the sake of argument), especially in the face of ignorance, and also when I begin to fear that the outcome will eventually mess up my day. I have observed all of these red-faced politicians, campaigners, and supporters with their disdainful shaking fists and angry retorts. So I figure, why not pick up a newspaper and join in on the fun. And so I did. I think I've basically covered all of the non-sarcastic, non-cynical, completely serious and genuine, opinionated banter that I can stomach for the moment. Today, I simply want to send a message to all of those disenchanted, uninformed tantrum-throwers who feel the irrepressible need to rant about issues that they don't understand and defend/advocate people they know nothing about. Ahem...cue video please:

Thank you. Please remember America: Read a book, raise your kids, drink water, brush your teeth and wear deodorant! Now go Google something. The prosecution rests.

In an effort to keep my nose clean (hi mom!), I posted the censored version. For all of those expletives you and I love (they really hammer the point home, that's all), go here.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Snickers vs. Teddy.

Teddy Ruxpin is described as an animatronic talking bear. Frankly, anything characterized by the word 'animatronic' frightens me. It makes me think of crazy robots, specifically that creepy band from Chuck E. Cheese that plays during 'Pizza Time,' and always made me lose my appetite and/or cry a little. The pizza at Chuck E. Cheese was awesome, at least when I was 8, so you can trust that these mechanical muppet spawn were enough to potentially scar me emotionally or send me into pre-adolescent cardiac arrest.

Collectively, they are called Munch's Make Believe Band, and the members are an oversized chicken, a purple monster, a hound dog and an Italian pizza chef. They have enormous eyes, move like Frankenstein on acid, and their mouths open and close at all the wrong times (like a badly dubbed Kung Fu movie). If the people over at Chuck's place aren't trying to give small children a lifetime of nightmares, I have to seriously question their entertainment choices. And when the song is over, the least they could do is drop a curtain or close a door; not just allow these unfortunate kids (mouths all full of pizza and fun) to watch the characters go still, silent, and then sit there on display in quasi-death as the lights dim. Oh, the horror! The absolute horror!

But I digress.

As a kid of the fabulous 80's, of course I had a Teddy Ruxpin doll. For those that don't know, the original Teddy Ruxpin (who I will now refer to as T-Rux), was a stuffed bear with a cassette tape player built into his back, and he would read stories aloud. Being (...gulp...) animatronic, his eyes and mouth would also move as he told the story. This was all fine and dandy before I was introduced to Chuck E. Cheese, in fact, me and T-Rux had some great times together. We'd watch videos, eat pudding, take naps, and occasionally we'd just sit with a glass of kool-aid and chat about the good ol' days. Well, to make a long story short (although it really isn't a very long story at all), my friendship with T-Rux was dashed to pieces after I experienced the pure, unadulterated fear better known as Munch's Make-Believe Band. I hid him somewhere in the dark, endless abyss of the basement (without so much as a map or a compass), never to be seen or heard from again. Well, my mom found him eventually, but let's just say at that point the magic was gone.

And so I discovered early that 'animatronic' just wasn't the way to go. In desperate need for a new partner-in-crime, I called up my faithful friend-bear, Snickers. He was the first stuffed animal I'd owned (from my early infant days), and after betraying him for my short-lived, illicit affair with T-Rux, I decided I should probably stick to my roots. We talked things over, discussed my infidelity, and ultimately I blamed my actions on the naievity of youth and the ruthless distractions of consumer marketing. Snickers understood. He forgave me, we hugged it out, and we've been inseparable ever since. Snickers is my homeboy.

He's my wing-man.

My sexless, inanimate lover.

Snickers is my rock.

Hmm. I know that I initially had a reason for telling this sad and pitiful tale. A reason which would not have left me looking like a disturbed adult woman who still sleeps with her teddy bear. That reason was undoubtedly sensible and appropriate. But that reason has now escaped me, and I am disturbed, so go figure.

Don't take your kids to Chuck E. Cheese. But if you have to, eat your pizza outside.

And yes, I am still afraid of robots. Sorry Transformers, you guys can't all be trusted. Just look at the Decepticons.