Haifiveku

I miss Fred Burkle
That Oprah is a liar
Thongs don't feel so bad

The Queen Is Back

As you might know, I used to be obsessed with Lil' Kim. While this has faded over the years, I was excited to see what her new video had to offer. Not much, but that's okay. The song is terrible, but it's good for a few laughs. The video features her Dancing With The Stars partner Derek Hough looking faggier than ever. The beard does NOT serve to butch him up, in fact he's as gay as cum on a mustache. The video is also a Donaghy Estates-like ad for what I can only assume is a horrible new alcoholic beverage called Nuvo. Oh, here it is: the world's first sparkling liqueur. Good idea, that's just what the world has been lacking. Fuck those starving AIDS orphans with cleft palates, what we need is carbonated Amaretto. Maybe Jägermeister will get an upgrade next.

Some gems in the lyrics:

• HE WANNA EXPLORE ME LIKE THE INTERNET.
• HE A THUG SO I HIT HIM ON HIS GMAIL.

Those last two are borderline genius. Congratulations, middleaged white women who write pun-laden lyrics for hip-hop artists.

Ruse the.magazine Post

From http://www.rusemag.com/Pages/Music.Life/Entries/2009/4/26_041.html:



Yes, I'm aware that on the page in the link there is an error in the last sentence. I let them know, but it looks like it will be staying.








Real Housewives Console Me When All Else Fails
By Dan Trupin



In the midst of a turbulent economic crisis, I find comfort in only one thing. This singular source of hope keeps my chin up and my outlook hopeful. It's not Suze Orman; it's not God; and it's not lottery tickets. It's the Bravo television program The Real Housewives of NewYork City, or rather, it's the muses who populate the cast.

The show has proven that no one is immune to the current economic state: not even self-obsessed, status-hungry women. We all feel the crunch in different ways. In a recent episode, cast member Jill Zarin gave an interview to BBC, because they wanted opinions on the economy from, in Jill's words, “successful people who lived in Manhattan.” I believe the translation for that is “just how oblivious are these rich Americans?”

The reporter asked Jill to describe the financial crisis because it's so hard to see it from her fabulous apartment. She responded, “it's not hard to see here. It really isn't. Especially, you know, I feel it, and all of my friends feel it.” It's true! She's changing her spending habits just like us little people. For her birthday a few episodes earlier, she opted not to get jewelry this year due to cutbacks. She responsibly spent only $16,000 on a custom handbag, and her husband got her a measly Mercedes SUV. They're practically peasants.

Jill added, “it's become more difficult and challenging to get sponsors to just write checks [for charities].” This means trouble. What happens when the one seemingly effective method of easing the guilt of living a privileged life, or perhaps silencing critics, is put in jeopardy? Not to worry, these ladies have a lifetime of rationalizations under their designer belts.

With so much negativity and gloom in the atmosphere, apparently there is still a way to make a difference. According to Jill the answer is in the small things we do for others. For instance, she opens doors for people and holds the elevator for potential passengers. The random acts of kindness she does every day will most certainly save countless lives of suicidal investment bankers and depressed housewives. I expect her to receive a Nobel prize soon or at the very least, humanitarian of the year.

Because Jill is a saint, and I could never hope to come close to her philanthropic deeds, I must settle for simply NOT engaging in harmful or negative acts. These will count not only as sacrifices that I must make, but as promoting goodwill in a sad time. I promise not to laugh hysterically when I witness someone on the street trip into a run, pretending he meant to do it. I'm going to stop intentionally smoking cigarettes next to babies. I'll try to contain all my pee in the urinal when I use public restrooms. I'll stop sabotaging my brother's TiVo because when I was eight years old he told me I came from “a defective sperm.” Lastly, I'll cancel all those pornographic magazine subscriptions I ordered to be sent to a local priest at his church. I feel better already. If we all follow Jill Zarin's sage advice and do our part to improve humanity, we'll be out of this recession in no time.

Crocs = The Devil

I apologize to the two people who read this. I've recently been busy trying to become a functional member of society, and it's going. . . well. I'll be a real boy soon.

I keep getting emails from Amazon offering free shipping on Crocs. No. Do not want. Did not want when I first saw them and do not want now. Or ever. There is no offer so fantastic that could sway me. They could be made of Star Jones' excess skin, and I'd still pass them up, even though I could glean some of her DNA in the hopes that one day I could clone her, raise her as an assassin, make her hate her previous incarnation, and carry out my ultimate revenge. She knows what she did.

They're recyclable or something? If you want to buy yourself a piece of trashy pretension, go ahead, but do yourself a favor: do not wear them in public. Crocs, like pajamas and sweatpants, should be worn in the home only. Don't let them trick you with Uggs-style Crocs, or (JESUS) men's leather Crocs. They are to be a secret shame. Your filthy indulgence should be generally hidden from the world, much like your masturbatory habits. You can feel terrible after wearing them and swear you'll never do it again, but you'll soon find yourself staring at your closet where you've hidden them. "Just for the morning," you'll tell yourself. But they feel so great, it's like walking on a sea of boneless puppies. You could walk on lava and not know it. You'll wander outside in a trance-like state because you can't let this slice of heaven that is walking in Crocs go to waste in your home. You can't feel the bum's hand you crushed as you stepped down your stoop. Even the bumpy sharp terrain of the ruined but busy street outside your residence caresses your feet. You close your eyes to let the pedigasms happen, and BOOM! You're fucking dead. The driver of the truck that split open daydreaming head and ruptured all your internal organs was wearing Crocs, and he was so caught up in the rapture encasing his feet that he forgot to brake. Forget swine flu, forget nuclear war, forget gay people: Crocs are the Armageddon. They're going to kill everyone. All that will be left of this planet is the smell of brimstone and antimicrobial croslite.

*sigh*

A friend is taking some exercise dance class focusing on zumba? Whatever it is, I guess it's a thing people do, and it's not that strange. She was demonstrating one of the dances, doing country line dance movements, and said, "you know the one."
"Just because I'm white doesn't mean I know how to line dance. Do you know how to do the stanky legg?"

Then she started doing something else that resembled the macarena. She asked if I knew it.

"The blackarena?"

Trancient History

I worked an event yesterday at the local university campus for my job, and I noticed a funny poster. It was for a speaker event freaturing Katelynn and JD of the Real World: Brooklyn. Hmm. WTF, I thought. Who would want to see these two spectacular douche bags douche it up in person? It turns out that I wanted to witness the douche off. I figured so much ignorance and ridiculousness would be spewed, that I would regret it if I skipped out.



I arrived for the event a little early in order to make sure I had front row tickets to crazy. As I loitered in the lobby hoping I can still pass for a college-age student and trying not to look like a creepy older guy, I noticed an angel. She was an old tranny. Or as I now call her, a Trancient. She was thick and masculine and wore far too much makeup for her own good. Being the natural shit magnet that I am, she of course spoke to me from across the hallway. "Did you know Katelynn is a pre-op." Wrong. I had to correct her with, "I think she's post-op."

"Yes, just like me." Oh boy, transsexual and senescent, what a killer combo. I said, "oh, cool," and did my best to appear busy looking in my messenger bag for something that didn't exist. I noticed that she had a terribly manly walk in her pumps and inwardly chided myself for being judgmental to a fellow LGBT.



My trancient implied that she was pre-op, and I become uncomfortable. Not because of what she revealed though. When she said something that drew attention to what are generally considered private body parts, I couldn't help but wonder: what does she look like naked? It's the same when a woman talks about having had breast cancer. Thanks for the tit visual, grandma.



I surveyed the audience and was disappointed. A few gay guys, no on-sight dykes, and a sea of straight girls wearing stretch headbands and sweatpants. Youth of the nation, I ask, what the fuck is wrong with you? That is simply unacceptable! You don't wear sweatpants in public unless you're exercising. Get it together, kids. These were some sloppy ass looking bitches.



As JD and Katelynn made their way on stage to take their seats, I clapped. However I made sure to look into their eyes and glare disapprovingly, as if to let them know I was judging them.



Katelynn looked cute in her black patent leather slingbacks. She spoke for quite a while, but it was rather disappointing and provided me with few opportunities for digs. She made up words and misused others in her attempt at condescendingly addressing us. She talked about her transition, blah blah blah. She mentioned that she got her start in the advocacy world with a group called GLSTN. That's pronounced "glisten" as in "the head of his rock-hard cock glistened with precum." The word glisten will forever be ruined for me due to a penchant for fanfic erotica I had as a teenager.

Katelynn said she wanted to be a voice for her community because the average person doesn't have much exposure to trannies beyond Jerry Springer. Even then the trans individual is "sixty-five, wearing a little skirt, and not cute." I cringed in what I hoped would be an awkward moment for her because the trancient in the front row fit the description perfectly. One of her problems was that her speech was filled with many scripted jokes, and she mostly didn't take the time to look around her and tailor them to the environment. She and JD took a chartered bus to our little town from Chicago (big spenders, this MTV) and were worried on the way here. She said all the churches and gun stores she saw en route made her expect a scene from Mississippi Burning.

She said that she now understands sexism, because all of the sudden she's expected not to be able to drive, play sports, etc. Then she fucks herself by telling us that all men, even her when she was male, she experienced only happiness, sadness, and anger. Now that she takes hormones, her emotional world has been greatly expanded. Reverse sexism? Katelynn now groups all guys together as only experiencing three core emotions? Eat it, bitch.

Katelynn did bring up one good point. She asked what goes through girls' minds on a first date. "Is he really ballin' or is he frontin'? I wonder if he's really packing?" Then what are her thoughts on a first date? "Is this the person who's going to murder me? Am I the next Gwen Arajo?" Aw, sadface :( Super sadface :(((



As for JD. . . there's not much to say. I was never into him on the show, but he's cute in person. He seemed nice enough and personable, but his speech was terrible. He spoke for maybe ten minutes, telling pointless stories of his time in the house. He seemed to lack a message, and then as if realizing this, he told the crowd that his purpose was to spread Pedro's story. He asked us how many people saw the Pedro movie on MTV, and literally three people raised their hands. "It's amazing, all you guys should really see it." No. It's not amazing, it's not remarkable, it's not even tolerable. Helen Keller could tell you that. The commercials alone let us know how awful it was. The message and the story may have been moving, but when it's told through such horrible acting and writing, it's ruined. Way to go MTV, you took a big shit on a dead AIDS guy. I hope you're proud.

I just found out a friend of mine hates Pedro. What? She likes Puck and doesn't think he should have been kicked off. She said that Pedro was just selfish and wanted to be famous. Um, he was already basically dying of AIDS when he started filming and just seemed to want to spread awareness. She won't hear any of it.

At first I was pissed. You can't hate someone who has AIDS! That's not right. Or is it? It's right as long as you don't hate him because he has AIDS. This is what I've come to realize. I don't have to feel guilty for making fun of someone who belongs to the LGBT disenfranchised community. I don't have to ignore flaws out of some false obligation to others who struggle to be seen as equal. Equality means the same rights as everyone else, but it also means the same risks. I can make fun of that old tranny's age and poor strut, but I still respect her for having the balls to do what she does. Bless her artificially estrogenized heart. It's okay to hate for the right reasons.

Question

Let's imagine you're a struggling actor/waiter. You graduated with honors from Julliard only to move to L.A. and scrape by as a server, getting the occasional dinner theater gig. You can barely afford the acting classes you're taking, but you don't know how much longer your slowly dying dream will sustain your dedication to your craft. Then it happens! The chance of a lifetime you've been waiting for. You get offered the role of the male lead in a movie that might have a limited nationwide release. You play Katie Holmes' love interest, and the part calls for a TON of kissing. Do you take the part?

Yeah I Said It

First Jamie Foxx said this about Miley Cyrus:



I know it's because I'm an asshole, but I thought it was pretty funny. Anyway, I want to stand up for my bff Jaime. He really didn't mean to say the things that came out of his mouth. Especially that she should put some crack in her pipe. He really meant to say "she should put some pipe in her crack." Duh. Clearly he wasn't advocating drug use, just statutory rape. Jeez.

RHoNYplasty

Here we go. There was plenty to laugh at this week on the Real Housewives of New York. Let's start with the Zarin fabric event, eh? Jill claims that "retail is in [her] blood." She said that she's a "trained business woman," and she was lucky to meet Bobby because he had his retail business and she could get back into it. Translation: she was nothing on her own, but she recognized an opportunity to get paid a shit ton to appear busy.

Kelly attended the party with foreign boytoy Max. Brad got so drunk he was redder than Kelly's face, and he continued to shame my people. He told Alex "Kelly showed up with the most gorgeous guy in the world." Simon's head whipped around faster than Sienna Miller to married cock because of course the phrase "gorgeous guy" triggered his cocktail party effect. Brad hit on Max all night, and Kelly said "Max has so much confidence that he was just having a great time with it." Yeah, that, or his English isn't good enough to understand everything that tacky old faggot is gushing at him. Wipe yourself, Brad, you're leaving a snail trail.

Ramoner is still pushing this skincare line of products that she's apparently had for over a year that no one knew or cared about. "I've been using skin products religiously for twelve years!" If that's what she looks like with over a decade of meticulous care, then I'm really curious as to what she would look like au natural.



She actually said this: "I met a fabulous chemist, and together we developed this formula." Stop. No. Please don't even try to take credit for something you can't possibly do. What, did she say it should smell like vanilla bean asshole? That doesn't count. Somehow I don't see her in a white labcoat mixing chemicals and putting the product in little baby rabbits' eyes herself. Then again, you can get so many online degrees these days. I'm a certified lawyer and oncologist. Back to the point, she paid some desperate out of work chemist to make something she can put her filthy name on.

I just noticed the individual two-second intros Bravo shows when switching to a different woman. Alex, Jill, the Cuntess, and Ramoner are all with their kids and/or spouses, but then there's Bethenny. Poor sadeyes Bethenny is alone hugging her dog in her intro as if to say "he's all the man I need!" That shit has "undesirable" stamped all over it. She's trying to get the word out for her no-wheat no-dairy blah blah cupcakes and muffins. If none of that stuff is in them, what the fuck are they made of? She gets snarky about Silex going to the opening of an envelope, then she herself ends up at a deserted supermarket where NO ONE wants her crap. She claimed that she usually has hundreds of people waiting for a chance to meet her. LIES, woman. Just like your food. "Healthy" my ass, this bitch is selling lies.

The Douchess is still around. Yay. She gives some lame justification that she's writing (rather, having someone else write) her book not because it's an opportunity for notoriety and money, but because her countless (HA! Now she's COUNT-less) adoring fans are clamoring for it. By the way, she has a section on seduction. Ew. Please, please, I beg of you, do NOT buy her book. Luann feels "passionate" about the guy always paying for dates. Here's the thing: if he really liked her, he would have WANTED to pay. Bottom line: the guy who asked her to split the check thought she was a cunt.

Redface Bensimon is working on a "jewry" line. Just like lockjaw DeShawn, formerly of RHoAtlanta! She met with a designer, and had this to say : "He was making amazing collections for all these different people that have different personalities. He has me, Nicole Richie, Heidi Klum, Brittny and Lisa Gastineau. . ." Wow, that's a veritable who's-who of irrelevancy. "A lot of people wear my jewry: Christina Milian, um, Amanda Bynes, Whitney Houston, Reverend Run's wife. . ." See previous joke.

Bravo aired a short clip of Kelly during a commercial break, giving us a deep insight into her world. Apparently she runs in the street in front of taxis because that's something normal people do. I was praying for an accident. She runs like Phoebe from Friends. Are Friends references still appropriate? Do people get them?

Jill goes to buy a custom handbag for $16,000, saying, "considering the economy right now, I didn't think it was appropriate to spend a fortune of money on my birthday present." Right. She also got some Mercedes SUV that she bitched about until her husband agreed to get a different one that would work with iPhones and iPods.

Luann tells us, "I've almost finished writing my book. . ." Shes' not writing shit, but she's sticking to her story. She meets with her publishers, and they have a celebratory drink. One guy says, "nothing like champagne in the afternoon." Liquor whenever you want? No need to tell that to an American Indian. Zing!

Silex only appeared in the last ten minutes or so, and I can't decide if this is good or bad. Simon takes Alex to a jewry designer as a surprise for her birthday, and he says the guy "like me, is an ex-pat of Australia." As a general rule, I don't like anyone who refers to himself as an expatriate. That shit is only appropriate for Hemmingway and that dykey Gertrude Stein, and it died a long time ago.

Simon described Alex's face saying, "you know, Alex has quite a long, thin face." Oh, you mean like a horse. Then he got all pissy because the surprise of going home to celebrate with Bryce Dallas Howard and ChildToucher was ruined. He threw a fit like a 10-year-old girl who knows a few curse words. The kids greet them, blah blah blah, they gather around a kiddie table in a cramped dungeon and Simon tells the children to raise their glasses and say "chin chin" I understand that people do that in the UK, but here he just seems like a pretentious dickbag.

Next time on RHoNY: Kelly throws a Halloween party and doesn't bother to show up. Luann dresses as a slutty Land-o-Lakes squaw, and Alex is a school marm?

An Interview With Heidi Montag's Mother

Crested Twatte, CO


Darlene Egelhoff sits at her kitchen counter sipping, no, gulping what smells to be vodka from a large wine glass. She says happy hour has been starting earlier and earlier since her daughter has come under harsh criticism from the media and public. You might know her daughter, Heidi Montag of Laguna Beach, The Hills, and various vocal aberrations referred to as her music.

Schadenfreude: Good afternoon, Mrs. Egelhoff, how are you?

Darlene Egelhoff: Whatever, let's get this over with. I want to get paid, and I'm working on a good buzz here.

S: Okay, let's dive right in. What was Heidi like as a child?

DE: You have to understand she wasn't supposed to happen. The abortion didn't work. But then I saw her and fell in love.

S: Wow, I had no idea. So you didn't resent her very existence?

DE: No, not at first. We were inseparable for the longest time. I called her my little abortion that could.

S: That's adorable? Did she always have that insatiable craving for attention that we've all come to know and loathe?

DE: Oh yeah. As soon as she could walk, she was always dancing. Then came all the hurting herself and other people to keep the focus on her. It was never enough. I never got a break. Couldn't even watch my stories without being bothered.

S: And when did she first show interest in singing?

DE: I'll never forget it, she was six years old. I knew I had to do something.

S: What do you mean? Did you try to get her auditions or maybe lessons?

DE: Oh no, she sounded like a wood chipper full of kittens. What I mean is, I took her to Mexico for a "vacation," drugged her, and had her ovaries removed. Told them she had cancer in her ladyparts. Real cheap too, got myself some new tits out of the deal.

S: That sounds so cruel! How could you do that?

DE: Well, what I really wanted was to crush her little voicebox, but they wouldn't do that, even in Mexico. I learned enough Mexican to ask that, and that little doctora just gave me the evil eye and crossed herself.

S: Wow. You are unbelievable. I had more questions, but I think I'll be leaving now. Here's your gift certificate to Target.

DE: Oh please. Don't get all high and mighty with me, you little queer. That babymaker had to be shut DOWN. I'm a goddamn hero! Hey, where are you going? Wait! Don't you want to know about how I fucked Spencer??? He cries during sex and likes a pinky up his ass!