Fun With Grammar--Lindsay Lohan Edition

After taking one look at this picture my friend pretty much summed it up when she said, "Try making that face without first face planting into a big, fat line of coke." I did, and you can't. For reasons that are pretty much summed up by the above photo, the Beverly Hills police issued a warrant for Lindsay Lohan's arrest today. Actually, it's related to her 2007 hit-and-run DUI arrest. Evidently, she failed to complete the terms of her sentence (Say No To Booze class, community service, etc.) and now she's big time fucked.

I take that back. I'm sure she'll pay a fine, press #1 on her speed dial and hit up her dealer on the way home from the court house, but in the mean time she decided to issue a statement through perezhilton.com, and for that I am eternally grateful. This is why people who spent their formative years learning to tap dance and survive solely on celery and Diet Red Bull hire publicists. Granted, Lindsay's career hasn't exactly been on an upswing lately, so maybe it came down to her spokesbitch or her besty (an 8-ball) and she chose the latter. Whatever the reason, she took it upon herself to defend her honor and, in the process, made the English language cry tears of shame and disbelief. Here's what she said:

"This warrant for my arrest is completely fabricated and its a horrendous lie. This will make me loose every single deal that I have right now. Its horrible."

Oh, Lindz, "its" vs. "it's" is a common enough mistake and we can almost let that one go, but let's be real. The "horrendous lie" is that you had any deal to "loose." Any 12-year-old with a used handycam and a dream would laugh you out of his mom's basement. (Sidenote: In middle school my friend Gerd and I would recreate entire episodes of Friends, but it came to blows over who had to play Ross. I said that she was a whiny little bitch, and therefore wouldn't have to dig very deep. She, in turn, pointed out that if that's how I wanted to play it, my utter lack of anything resembling tits disqualified me from playing any of the girls. Touche, bitch.)

The second I read this I called "BULLSHIT!" and the BHPD did the same, because they issued a response shortly thereafter that said,

"In response to media inquiries, [the] Beverly Hills Police Department is confirming a warrant was in fact issued for the arrest of Lindsay Lohan. The $50,000 warrant issued by the Beverly Hills Superior Court stems from a May 2007 arrest of Miss Lohan for DUI and hit-and-run. The circumstances leading to the issuance of the warrant by the court are not readily available at this time. It is our hope that Miss Lohan will surrender herself so that this matter will be resolved in a timely manner."

As my friend "Ann Coulter" would say, this bitch exists solely as a cautionary tale for others, and Miley Cyrus needs to take a long, hard look in the coke dusted crystal ball that is Lindsay Lohan's face, see her future, and have a serious conversation with herself. Otherwise, her bad trips are all going to involve Lindsay visiting to her like the Ghost of Piss Poor Decisions Past, and that shit would make anyone go straight out the window.

This post is slightly overdue. I started it last week, but one of my girls got dumped and there was whiskey involved. Then it snowed in Atlanta and there was more whiskey involved. Anyway, I figured good, old fashioned, populist outrage has a shelf-life of at least a week, right? So here we go:

At this point, waxing indignant about Wall Street welfare queens squandering money at a rate that all but ensures my grandchildren will be speaking Mandarin is as original as calling Lindsay Lohan a fake-lesbian-coke whore, but I can't help myself so please bare with me. TMZ, that bastion of investigative journalism, reported that Chicago-based bank, Northern Trust, gave an enthusiastic "fuck you" to all measures of common sense, decency, and shame by hosting an AIG inspired retreat for several hundred of its customers and employees. You know, the ones they hadn't already laid off.

According to a NYT article, Northern Trust "got $1.5 billion in bailout money and then laid off 450 workers, flew hundreds of clients and employees to Los Angeles last week and treated them to four days of posh hotel rooms, salmon and filet mignon dinners, music concerts, a PGA golf tournament at the Riviera Country Club with Mercedes shuttle rides and Tiffany swag bags." Are you throwing shit yet? Save some, because it gets better. On top of the untold millions it cost to sponsor the PGA event, they paid the band Chicago $100,000 to perform; then, apparently not satisfied with one geriatric talent show, ponied up to rent a private hangar at Santa Monica airport for a lavish dinner complete with a performance by Earth, Wind and Fire; and, finally, they rented out the House of Blues to the tune of $50,000 for an intimate concert with Sheryl Crow. Sheryl's spokesbitch declined to comment on how much she charges for federal government contract work.

There's a lot to love in this story, but my personal favorite is Northern Trust's apparent attempt to outdo Chris Brown for the title of "Weakest Fucking Excuse Ever." The bank issued a statement essentially arguing that it's all kosher because they hadn't asked the government for the money. I only got a B+ in Intro to Economics but, to me, that begs the question: THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU TAKE IT?! That is essentially the same excuse I tried with my mom when my 19-year-old ass got "pre-approved" for a Master Card and thought it would be a good idea to spend $2000 on an iPod, Smirnoff Green Apple Vodka (kill yourself, I was 19) and Seven jeans. "But, Mom, I didn't ask for the card, they just gave it to me! What did you want me to do?" Do you think that shit worked on Carla? Hell fucking no! After she got done chasing me with the rolling pin, she sat me down and had real talk about the fact that I had "champagne taste on a beer budget" and needed to get on over it with the quickness.

I'm a barely literate waitress, but even I can tell you that somewhere a bloated, no-count, probably corrupt oversight board aren't doing their motherfucking job. I refuse to believe that the country that gave us the Declaration of Independence, Google, and Kelly Clarkson cannot figure this shit out. And if we can't, then fuck all and let's everybody just buy some ammo and move to the compound, because I wouldn't trust people that incompetent to manage my local Dairy Queen, let alone put any number of them in a room with the red phone, or red button, or whatever the hell it is we're supposed to be afraid of this week. What these bitches need is the federal government version of Mama Carla. I nominate Donna Brazile. Obama should appoint her Deputy Secretary of Common Goddamn Sense and give her carte-blanche to lay down the financial pimp hand on anyone caught pulling this bullshit. Ask Anderson Cooper, baby doesn't play.

In short, I would like to offer Congress and the Obama Administration the sage wisdom my mother imparted to me: Tighten up that game. Quickly.

Booking Through Thursday (Even Though It's Saturday)

This week's Booking Through Thursday is hosted by my beautiful baby sister, BDiddy. I'm new to blogging and don't exactly know what the code of ethics is on this type of thing, but I can't let this kind of elegance fade into facebook obscurity.

Yet again, the Booking Through Thursday question is about as interesting as listening to people tell you what dream they had last night, but we'll roll with it.

How do you arrange your books on your shelves? Is it by author, by genre, or you just put it where it falls on?”

I don't arrange my books. This is partly because I'm lazy, and partly because I like searching for them and coming across books I'd forgotten about. I know, like you give a shit.

My sister only buys hardback books because she wants to display them in a big case in her living room "so people can be impressed by how smart I am." Unfortunately, she has yet to obtain a bookcase, so her first edition of Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea? is without a home. Recently, my mom orchestrated a massive overhaul of her apartment and, audibly concerned, called me when she made it to my sister's book collection, buried, as it was, under six feet of clean, unfolded clothing and Vernor's Gingerale cans.

Mama Dukes: Did you know your sister owns a book called Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch?

Me: I did! In fact, I gave it to her because it mentions the Clermont Lounge. You remember the Clermont Lounge, Mom. It's where Bean and Gonz bought her a lap dance from the 60-year-old stripper dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.

Mama Dukes: The one who stashed her tips in her fat rolls?

Me: The very one!

Mama Dukes: You two need help.

Homo You Didn't!

Do I have 666 tattooed on my forehead?

Here is a verbatim account of the conversation I just had with a drag queen who rolled up into the Hag House (a.k.a. the museum where I work):

Drag Queen: Hey, Sasha Fierce!

Me: Hey, girl!

DQ: I've lived in the neighborhood for 20 years and have never been here! Can you believe it?!

Me: [feigned shock and disbelief] No!

DQ: [removes sunglasses to reveal eyeliner and a penciled in beauty mark] I'm a diva, girl! A lot of people can't handle me because I love people and I just say what I think. You're a diva, too. [points at my outfit] Fierce.

[side note: I am wearing argyle and a headband. Decidedly not fierce, but I'll take it.]

DQ: Did you vote for Obama?

Me: Hell yes, bitch!

DQ: Do you know Jesus?

Me: [side-eye accompanied by the look I get when people ask me to do simple math] Not personally, no.

DQ: Are you Jewish?

Me: No.

DQ: Muslim?

Me: No.

DQ: Hindu?

Me: No.

DQ: Witch?

Me: Warmer.

DQ: Summer solstice! I can get down with that, sistafriend!

[side note: I'm not making this shit up.]

DQ: [said as she replaces sunglasses and sashays out the door] I like you. Have a magical day, honey, I'll come back and visit soon!

I love Midtown.

Please Don't Show Me That at This Point in Time

My fireside condo in hell is about to get a little toastier.

Because I work full-time hours for part-time pay at a non-profit, I also wait tables at an overpriced, red sauce Italian chain that shall remain nameless. This fact makes me want to club a baby seal, and I love baby seals. Occasionally I'll read where a celebrity said something like, "Oh, I used to wait tables. I loved it! I would probably still be doing it if I hadn't miraculously lost 40 lbs without working out and fallen on a Weinstein's dick." Invariably, reading something like this causes me to lay down my pimp hand on the unsuspecting magazine and scream, "Lying road whore! You wouldn't know which paring knife to kill yourself with if you had to deal with this bullshit!" A touch dramatic, I'll admit, but true.

I could devote this entire blog to the litany of things people do to make me go all Christian Bale, but I'll limit myself to what I consider the ass end of fuckery: the religious tract as tip. If you ever want to see someone not give a baker's fuck about losing her job, come to Atlanta, leave me 10% and a "million dollar bill" with scripture on it, and settle in for your verbal hoe slap. Unfortunately, most of the Bible thumping douches who pull this shit know to run out the door before their heathen server is wise to the situation, so rarely does the opportunity present itself to let them know that while they may have left the other half of my money in the collection plate, my place of worship (Tower Wine and Spirits) does not accept prayer as payment. Trust me, I've tried.

You can imagine my displeasure, then, at being told I'd done "a million dollar job" and handed a bill with Grover Cleveland on the front and the following message on the back:

The million-dollar question: Will you go to Heaven when you die? Here’s a quick test. Have you ever told a lie, stolen anything, or used God's name in vain? Jesus said, "Whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” Have you looked with lust? Will you be guilty on Judgment Day? If you have done those things, God sees you as a lying, thieving, blasphemous, adulterer at heart. The Bible warns that if you are guilty you will end up in Hell. God, who the Bible says is "rich in mercy," sent His Son to suffer and die on thecross for guilty sinners. We broke God's Law, but Jesus paid our fine. That means He can legally dismiss our case. He can commute our death sentence: "For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. "Then He rose from the dead and defeated death. Please, repent (turn from sin) today and God will grant everlasting life to all, who trust in Jesus, then read your Bible daily and obey it.

This is how I wanted to deal with that bitch when he handed me this piece of Bible-beating bullshit. I, however, am a lady--a tie wearing lady, but a lady no less--and instead screwed on my best fake smile and said, "Thanks! This will help me pay down my student loans!"

Now, I accepted long ago that if there is a hell, I will spend eternity pulling double shifts scrubbing Satan's commode with my own toothbrush. I've made peace with it. Also, I'm pretty sure my Grandma Jane is holding my place until I get there, so it'll be good times to chill with her again. The woman could pound Crown Royal like a sailor on leave and, although a season ticket holder, called the Tampa Bay Bucs the "Fuckaneers" for the ill-fated first two decades of their orange clad existence. We could hang out. Under no circumstances, however, do I need to be lectured by someone wearing a fanny pack and a knowing grin that screams "I'm going to get a hummer from a tranny in Midtown on my way home from Bible study."

Out of morbid curiosity I checked out the website where they peddle this crap, and the crazies are smarter than I thought, because they also have bills with various celebrities, including--no shit--Britney Spears and Madonna on them. This might just be me, but I would be much more open to Christ's love were it delivered by a woman who, in the course of a year, flashed her lady bits three times, shaved her head in public, and made Lindsay Lohan look like the poster girl for sober living. Now I'm confused, though. Is Britney supposed to be a cautionary tale, or an example of Christian piety? I hope it's the latter, because I have a way better shot at heaven than I thought if Britney's going to make the cut. Maybe then I could live out my life long dream of being one of her backup dancers! Peace out, bitches, I've got repenting to do!

Do yourself a favor and read the comments section of the site. Methinks some of these folks would be better off trading their King James edition for the Grammar Bible.

The Crackhead Chronicles, Volume I

There are moments when one is forced to stop and ask, "Where the fuck did it all go wrong?" I made the honor roll, attended an accredited university, have never employed the services of a wire hanger and a bucket of soapy water in the same afternoon. Hell, in 5th grade I was elected President of my elementary school in a landslide victory. I'm sure it helped that my mother, the David Axelrod of elementary school politics, recognized early that the path to victory was paved by the sure-fire combination of name recognition, Lisa Frank stickers and Thin Mints, but the point is that I had an auspicious start.

Had you asked the ten-year-old me if, 15 years later, she would be standing outside an establishment called "Mattress Barn" while a crackshit crazy, Family Dollar version of Dave Chapelle danced around her car rubbing his nipples and chanting, "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!" she would have turned on her Limited Too jelly heel and walked away insulted. And, yet, here we are.

Now, I make it a point not to frequent places with "barn" in the name--Dress Barn, Shoe Barn, Liquor Barn (OK, I love that one. It's like Charlie's Chocolate Factory to me)--but these are lean times, my friends, and Mattress Barn is what we're working with. Anyway, "Herp Peen," as my friend, Sarah, affectionately dubbed Dave Chapelle's short bus cousin, was supposed to be strapping my bargain basement, fell off the truck, used to have a dead body stuffed in it mattress to the roof of my car, thus saving me the $100 delivery fee. In all fairness, he did a fantastic job because it stayed put, and I drive worse than my token Asian friend, Bui, who, at 24, got her license and tore the bumper off her car within hours. But as Sarah pointed out, "I bet he knows how to hog-tie a bitch, too."

Quick question: Bui, is it difficult living the stereotype, or is it something for which your years of geisha-like sexual activities have prepared you?

Moving on. Everything was going as well as could be expected given our location, until he insisted Sarah get out of the car and asked if we had been on Jerry Springer. I, unable to resist, told him that while I hadn't had the pleasure, Sarah had, in fact, recently been on the show in an effort to establish the paternity of one of her many children. I couldn't help it. We had just come from the gym and bitch looked the part. Obviously encouraged, Herp Peen gave her the once over, put middle finger to nipple, and commenced bouncing up and down while singing "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" This went on for a solid 10 minutes.

There's a part of me that wants to believe I'm better than this and was truly offended by Herp Peen's untoward behavior. However, there is a much bigger part, the part that can quote the skank hookers from Rock of Love with the ease and reverence some people quote Shakespeare, that wants to go back and buy another mattress just to see what he'll bust out with next. The lesson I took away was this: You never know when the sweet baby Jesus is going to place one of the world's true gifts in front of you, and all you can do is thank Him, tip Herp Peen $5, and hose yourself down with bleach, because homeboy insisted on taking your hand and elegantly placing you back in the car before patting the windshield and resuming the "Jerry!" chorus as you drove off.

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.