It's Raining Douchebags

As a rule, online dating freaks me the fuck out. While I know several perfectly normal, happy couples who met online, I am 100% certain I would end up in somebody's basement being told to put the lotion on the skin or else I'd get the hose again. Everyone's idea of a good time is different though, and to my girl, Bean, getting roofied and chained to some rando's radiator sounds like a perfectly good way to spend a Tuesday night. Thus, we were bored and hungover the other day and decided to sign her ass up for match.com. We should have known it was going to be a hot mess when her first profile was rejected, I assume because it's improper to list "hoodrat shit" as your sole interest. We were just trying to be honest, but I digress. I knew she would get some real gems, but nothing could have prepared me for the wonder that is b1980v. Did Auden come back to life and join match.com? Because this shit is pure poetry. Here's how b1980v lays down his tight game:

I would rather have a normal sized petite girl, as opposed to a 6 footer with what appears to be "pecs", but you did have some qualities that could redeem all the negatives, which is why I look forward to receiving an email reply.

To borrow a phrase from my favorite living writer (the queen from dlisted.com), beat me with a boiled horse dick, I'm at a loss. Leaving aside the fact that Bean is a PhD candidate and my friend most likely to end up on the cover of Vanity Fair, WHO FUCKING WRITES THAT!? You have to have the social skills of a retarded Nazi to think that's appropriate. I can only assume this recently crowned class B dungeon master was having an off day playing World of Warcraft and decided to try his hand at Internet hoerunning. Yes, I know I'm mixing geek insults, but you know homeboy has one hand on his Magic Cards and the other on his blowup doll at all times.

Hot tip of the day: Most well-bred ladies prefer to be emotionally invested before the verbal abuse starts, that way we have an excuse to dip into our "emergency" pharmacy and wonder where it all went wrong.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Start Your Fuckery

Well, that didn't take long.

The Caucus, a New York Times blog, reports that Sarah Palin unleashed her official PAC on Tuesday. According to the site, Nanna Palin "believes the Republican Party is at the threshold of an historic renaissance that will build a better future for all. Health care, education, and reform of government are among our key goals." She must have been smoking her son-in-law's mom's dankness, because I think I speak for the majority of Americans who tie their own shoes when I say, "Bitch, please!" Simmer down, Ann Coulter. I'm not saying Republicans can't/don't have promising policy positions, I'm just saying I have yet to hear Sarah Palin muster the brain power necessary to crib one, let alone come up with something on her own.

Real talk: If you and yours want to repopulate the earth with little mouth-breathing hillbillies, get on with your bad self. Just don't force me to listen to your holier-than-thou bullshit while you do it. My family are about two generations removed from the Kentucky Blue People, but I'd bet my collection of Nascar cards we would come out looking like the Kennedys if pitted against the Palins on Family Jeopardy.

In other news, The Caucus also reports that Our Country Deserves Better, another PAC devoted to Palin's desperate bid to remain relevant, convinced about 1000 people to set fire to perfectly good money. The PAC's stated purpose is to raise "a couple hundred thousand dollars" with the goal of airing a pro-Palin ad later this month. For that kind of money you could probably just buy your own train and wreck it howsoever you please, rather than wait for this intellectually bankrupt narcissist to do it for you. It's your call, though. Christ, if anyone reading this needs to unload cash that badly, post your email in the comments section and I'll send you the number of the new bank account I'll be starting: The Dumb Bitches Who Don't Know Whether to Shit or Stand Up and Are Now Paying for My Cocktails Fund. Trust, I'll put your money to better use.

My High Horse is Lonely

Every once in a while I'll have a month or year when I read A LOT and, consequently, feel very self-righteous and superior. Here's a typical conversation with me during one of these periods:

My roommate: Did you take out the garbage?
Me: No, did you read Madame Bovary? I didn't think so.

It just so happens that 2008 was one of those years, and I was feeling pretty amped on myself until The Guardian went and released the 1000 novels everyone must read: the definitive list. Now I feel like an illiterate fucktard who may or may not be missing a chromosome. Out of 1000 books I evidently must read, I have read exactly 49. 49! That's pitiful. And I went ahead and counted Lord of the Flies even though I'm pretty sure I only read the Spark Notes in 9th grade. Come to think of it, same goes for The Jungle. Dammit.

Best Thing I Heard All Day

OK, I didn't actually hear it, I read it, but I had more vodka tonics than hours of sleep last night so it's close enough for me. The Beast put out its 50 Most Loathsome People in America 2008 list and it's hilarious. I don't know who wrote this, but I'm pretty sure s/he's the love child of my boy from Dlisted.com and Rachel Maddow. No one else could charge, try and sentence everyone from Tila Tequila to John Updike with such equal, scathing enthusiasm. Here are just three of my favorites:

35. Dina Lohan

Charges: Fame isn’t the only thing that screws up child stars; it starts with self-obsessed, psychopathic parents living out their failed ambitions through their hapless offspring (Dina has been telling false stories of her days as a Rockette and Broadway actress for years). Her college-aged daughter may be a rehab veteran and serial drunk driver, but that’s no reason for mom not to televise the warping of daughter number two, a pre-rhinoplasty 14-year-old with no discernible talent or personality who calls the absent Lindsay her “role model,” and an 11-year-old boy whose future mugshot will no doubt become iconic. You may think your parents sucked, but at least they didn’t do it on TV.

Exhibit A: Rarely has a person’s life been so succinctly synopsized by real events as when Lohan’s house caught fire with her minor children alone inside while she was busy accepting—no shit—a “Mother of the Year” award.

Sentence: Age, ugliness, poverty, obscurity.

22. PUMAs

Charges: Redefining feminism as “supporting Hillary Clinton, whether she wants you to or not,” and “defending” that feminism by embodying negative stereotypes of women as irrational and scornful, there was no demographic more painfully dumb than aggrieved Hillary backers plotting to defeat Obama. Drunk on a dream of vengeance for their queen, this strange minority picked up every despicable, paranoid, racist talking point they could from the worst of the right wing, even complimenting Sean Hannity on his “fair and balanced” coverage of Obama. Desperately twisting words in a sad attempt to tar Obama as a sexist and willing to subject themselves and their country to a probable assault on reproductive rights in the name of spite, the PUMAs comported themselves with all the dignity and sense of a false rape accusation.

Exhibit A: It’s hard to choose, but nothing was more ridiculous this year than hearing an obscenely rich Hillary fundraiser named “Lady de Rothschild” describe Obama as “an elitist.”

Sentence: President Palin appoints Mullah Omar to Supreme Court.

21. Michelle Malkin

Charges: It’s a remarkable achievement in unconscious projection that the author of a book called Unhinged could lose her fucking marbles over a patterned scarf in a donut ad, but that’s what Michelle Malkin did when she sounded the nutbar clarion call and sicced her half-cocked league of masturbators on Rachel Ray and Dunkin Donuts for the flatly absurd notion that they were sending a message of solidarity with Palestinians. Right, Michelle—you just can’t sell donuts without joining the intifada these days. What did the nauseously spunky Ray do to incur the wrath of the Malkinoids? She wore a black and white scarf. A paisley scarf. A scarf that was clearly not a kaffiyeh, which, by the way, is just a hat that Arabs wear, not some universal symbol of jihad. In terms of completely false outrage, the only thing that rivaled this travesty of reason this year was the “lipstick on a pig” metaphor panic. But what puts this embarrassing sham over the top is that Dunkin Donuts actually apologized and pulled the ad, rather than try to explain to the fact-phobic horde that they were just blind, raging idiots with the collective brain-power of a lobotomized howler monkey.

Exhibit A: “If your neighbor's got an "Obama '08" bumper sticker or lawn sign, you might want to double-check your door locks at night.”

Sentence: Deported to China for wearing red T-shirt.

Personally, I would have thrown in the entire Hogan family somewhere near the top. Sentence: Living together in a hut, with a TV that cannot be turned off and only loops Brook Hogan's broke ass mall performances.

Booking Through Thursday

This week's Booking Through Thursday is hosted by Shawn "It's Not Gay If It's Tebow" Elms. Looking right, dude. I'm not in love with this week's question, but since I've been writing about Tool Academy and teabagging all week I thought I'd class it up a bit. So,

Since “Inspiration” is (or should be) the theme this week … what is your reading inspired by?

Usually I pick books based on suggestions from friends I know to have good taste, that way we can talk about them. Fascinating. Really, I just wanted an excuse to put that bitchin' 'stache up on blast. I think your rape van is double parked outside the Chuck-E-Cheese, homeslice.

God Bless America

So, the NYTimes Magazine ran their Inauguration Issue this past Sunday, and in it they profiled all of "Obama's People." Sounds good, right? Wrong. Most of the poor bastards look like they're getting their DUI pics snapped after a Beltway happy hour gone seriously awry. Don't you bitches know you're supposed to smile for that shit?

What the hell was the photographer thinking? I mean, maybe I get it. According to my own scientific calculations most of the country is roughly two months of economic fuckery away from fighting over roadkill in the streets, so perhaps the message is "we're all trying to be serious and businessy here." But to tell a girl she's getting photographed for the NYT Magazine, and then have it come out looking like she just got off the 3 am shift at the Waffle House just seems unnecessarily cruel. Hm...Waffle House. Focus!

See for yourself: http://www.nytimes.com/packages/html/magazine/2009-inauguration-gallery/index.html

All I'm saying is that if I were Christina D. Romer, Samantha Power or Ellen Moran, that photographer would have a libel suit on her hands.

The hot piece of dark chocolate sex pictured above, however, is more like it. Ladies, meet Reggie Love. I swear to Jesus, that's seriously his name. The 26-year-old Duke grad is President Obama's "Personal Aid" and I LOVE him (get it?). The picture here with "Dear Leader," as my token Republican friend likes to call Obama, does not do him justice. Somehow he convinced the glaucoma ridden NYT photographer not to salt his game, so follow the link to see the real deal.

This is what I think of when I picture an Obama administration. Is that racist? I mean hot, not black. Whatever. I just know that they can tax the government cheese out of my $17,000/year to pay White House salaries if this is any indication of how they plan to roll. Duke basketball and football? You have my attention, Obama administration. Ask not what your country can do for you--ask what you can do for your country. Right now I can tell you about 18 NSFW things I would like to do for my country involving this gentleman. HEEEYYY!!

And it gets better. Leaving aside the fact that he's 6'5" and an AID TO THE PRESIDENT, my favorite thing about Reggie is that while at Duke, he got so shitfaced at a frat party one evening that he passed out and got teabagged by some moron, who should probably be watching his back right now. Hot tip of the day: If you're going to teabag someone, don't make it a 6'5" football/basketball star with serious connections to the leader of the free world. Enjoy Guantanamo, fucker.

Reggie, if you're reading this, and I'm sure you are, CALL ME!

Read the teabagging story and see the pictures here: http://slog.thestranger.com/2008/05/the_alleged_teabagging_of_reggie_love

Barack Me Longtime

Could somebody dust off my soap box? 'Cause I'm about to get on it.

As one of our nation's many "underemployed" citizens, I was busy hooking myself to the tune of $10/hour ALL day, and only got to watch Obama's inaugural address a few minutes ago. When I finally sat down with the DVR and my best friend (read: $7 bottle of pinot noir), watching Obama's speech was a truly cathartic experience. After 8 soul-sucking years of tortured grammar and the cavalier invocation of doomsday histrionics, to be spoken to as an adult, by an adult, was disturbingly refreshing.

There were more than a few high points, but one of my personal favorites was Obama's call for "a new era of responsibility -- a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character than giving our all to a difficult task." That's real talk. OBAMA! OBAMA! OBAMA! I'm giddy.

Read the full text of his speech here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/20/us/politics/20text-obama.html?pagewanted=1

Also, be sure to check out Grandma Robinson next to Malia around the 11:15 mark. I'm pretty sure she's taking her afternoon siesta. It was colder than a witch's tit in a steel bra today, so I wouldn't blame her if she had a nip or seven of Beam with her coffee. That shit puts me straight to sleep too, Grams.

Finally, I'm not trying to bring down the high minded tone of this post, and therefore would like to add with ALL due respect, PEACE THE FUCK OUT, G-DUBS!

Best Thing I Heard All Day

"Trust. I will be dating one of these guys within three weeks."
-My dear friend Bean while watching Tool Academy.

Are you in the Atlanta area and in the market for your very own tool? There's an open casting call at Peachtree Tavern. Monday-Sunday, open-close. Bean will see you there. LOVE YOU, hoe!

A Case of the Mondays

I knew when I woke up and brushed the red wine stains off my teeth that today was special. I didn't know why, but I felt the call to a higher purpose. Could it be that it's Martin Luther King Jr. Day on the eve of Barack Obama's inauguration? Is it the cease fire in Gaza putting the extra spring in my step? Nope! It's Dolly Parton's birthday! In the slightly modified words of Westside Connection, I suggest everyone "bow down to a [bitch] that's greater than you." Homegirl turned 63 today and can still put on a better show than most of the worn out skanks 1/4 her age. Are your ears ringing, Miley Cyrus? Yes, I know she's your godmother. All the more reason to quit your fuckery and act right.

Moving on. I can personally attest to Dolly's continued dominance, because my roommate came through like a badass last year and got a table at her concert for my birthday. That's right, boys and girls, dreams really do come true. Obviously, my sister and I Bedazzled jean jackets that we had overnighted from Wal-Mart (the in-store selection was nothing compared to the "Women's Classic Trucker" we ended up sporting), drank a bottle of Kettle One and generously treated the uptight, old crustbags seated around us to some real Dolly enthusiasm. I'm not sure all of them entirely appreciated our table dancing rendition of "Two Doors Down," but it's not our fault if people don't have taste. The night had only one disappointment, which came when we realized Dolly had left the building quicker than my sister could bribe security with the promise of me flashing my fun bags.

In case you grew up under a rock and/or in a family with no values, here is one of my personal, lesser-known favorites. This song makes me want to pass out free cocktails and hugs on the street. Be sure to check out the little red-headed kid who can't even lip-sync properly. I was 3 when this shit came out, but given the chance I'm pretty sure I could have pulled it together better than half of these low-budget bitches. Dolly, though, is fierce as always. Enjoy!

Hollar!

My mom thinks I'm special and is certain I have "a voice." I'm not entirely sure I agree, but will say this for myself: I have an opinion on nearly everything from the Man Booker Prize to Britney's comeback, and can predict the outcome of any Vh1 reality show with almost 100% accuracy (I'm talking to you, Tool Academy). I've always inflicted my unsolicited and often unsubstantiated opinions on friends and family, but now thanks in equal part to my deeply rooted narcissism and the impossibly low standards of the Internet, I am free to unleash them on the world at large.

If anyone actually ends up reading this, which I really, really doubt, I welcome all of your comments, and invite you to call me out with abandon. Do you think "Party Tool" has a better shot than "Tiny Tool"? You're wrong, but let's hear why. Do you feel I use commas indiscriminately and without purpose? You're probably right (see: first sentence of this paragraph), so help a bitch out and tell me to tighten up my game.

The plan is to post on the daily, but I have two jobs and a drinking problem, so let's just play it by ear.