Cock Of Love Bus

Yes, it's that time again. The slutty ladies on the Rock of Love Bus have inspired me to share their antics. They all head to my hometown of Champaign, Illinois, but none of the episode really takes place their. Bret takes his buxom brood to an ice arena to square off against the University of Illinois women's hockey club. Emphasis on the S in Illinois, because that's how Bret ignorantly rolls. The arena is in Danville, Illinois, about 40 miles away. And the strip club he takes them to is also not in Champaign.

During the hockey challenge, one of the skanks, Melissa, falls and thinks she popped an implant. Later that night, the cameras caught her talking on a cell phone she's not supposed to have. Presumably she's speaking to her boyfriend/fiance/whatever and she's talking all sorts of shit about Bret's hair extensions and how old he looks. She says that she doesn't even like him as a person. Ha. The next morning she saw a doctor and found out her boob is leaking, and she tore tendons in her arm. Boo hoo. Then when Bret confronts her about the phone call, she straight up denies it all, saying she never even called anyone. If six bitches are telling you some other bitch did this and that, who are you going to believe? The six, right? Which is kind of scary, because it's generally true in situations like that the group is telling the truth and the individual is bullshitting. BUT a group could come together and decide whatever they want and accuse an individual. Sucky. Like the Salem witchcraft trial or those evil children against poor Michael Jackson.

That one bitch needs to stop talking. You know, that one. She takes every opportunity to say "I'm a retired model." Is that supposed to be impressive? You know what it means, honey? It means you USED to be pretty, but now you're too busted for people to want to look at you. You're not doing yourself any favors by constantly reminding people that at one point, long ago you were attractive. So was Cloris Leachman.

The alleged porn star Brittaney cause some shit this week. While she was out on the date with Bret, the other girls in her bus smelled something like piss emanating from her bunk. They investigated and found food stashed under her blankets. Not only that, but in Brittaney's stuff they found all the dirty socks the girls had just worn for the ice skating challenge. WTF, mate? I'm wondering what her deal is. Is she so hard up for money that she needs to steal socks? Does she have a foot fetish (holy shit, note to self: foot fetish post to come later)? Is she planning to sell them on Ebay? They showed her in a confessional interview defending her actions. She said she asked the people at the ice rink who provided the socks if she could have them "and they very much said yes." She seems like some day she's going to go bunnyboiler on some dude's unfortch ass.



At elimination, token black girl Natasha is wearing a pink bustier and I swear her areolae are showing without an image blurring. Yes, that is a proper pluralization of areola. Pronounced "air-ee-oh-lee," bitches. In the end, Sockstealer got the boot. Bret said he paid a lot of good money for the best European hair extensions. At least he can joke about it, because on my life his shit ain't real. It's acrylic like WHOA.

I Just Prefer To Win

I was thinking this morning about how I get super competitive for things that should be insignificant. In particular, any form of a game in which I am pitted against others. Monopoly never really counted because it was so boring that we always quit before anyone loses all his money. My in-town cousins, my brother, and I loved to play Pictionary. The teams were always me and Terese vs. Charlie and Peter. My team won 99% of the time, and we had fun doing it. Because we were so good, our enemies constantly tried to cheat, and though we mostly caught them, it still made us extremely angry. This quality transferred to years later when I would occasionally play with housemates in Chicago. Damn. Markers were thrown, chairs were kicked, blood was spilled. Those games got rough. When I win, I'm not unusually happy. It's because I retain this fucked up mentality from childhood that if I'm performing as I should, it should be perfect, and I punish myself for any fuckups. I lived with a girl who also got rather competitive over Pictionary. We were both the best players, so our friends usually kept us on separate teams. Though this was most fair, it ensured stupendous fights and days of seething silence.

Videogames seem to bring out the worst in people. My brother and I played games like Street Fighter II when we were little, and we constantly threw the controllers and yelled at each other. I always chose the agile little female characters. Then the best 2d fighting game EVER came out (Marvel Vs. Capcom 2) and I could choose three bitches with which to wail on my brother. Now we play Halo 3; and though it's a little better, and we try to laugh it off, there's some pissiness from time to time. I remember the Nintendo 64. We used to play 007: Goldeneye, Super Smash Brothers, and Mario Kart 64. They caused massive fights. At university my friends and I would play Mario Party on the Gamecube after nights of partying, and it was mostly fun, but there times when tension was palpable. Now when I catch myself getting worked up, I remind myself that I play videogames to have fun. The problem is I still think it's most fun when I obliterate another player and teabag the corpse.