Use your words . . . NO NOT LIKE THAT!

Ladies, let’s talk fashion. Have you ever bought a boyfriend cardigan?

Wants to break up with her boyfriend, but can't fathom life without the cardigan

Wants to break up with her boyfriend, but can’t fathom life without the cardigan

What about boyfriend jeans?

We all did strange things back when we were Scientologists. Is her fly open?

We all did strange things back when we were Scientologists. Is her fly open?

What is your understanding of the “boyfriend” descriptor when it comes to women’s clothes? Mine is that it’s applied to an item that looks like you could have borrowed it from your boyfriend. Which is why I was confused when I came across this on Gilt:

I don't need to spend $200 on a boyfriend romper. My boyfriend died in a romping accident and left me all his rompers.

The Boyfriend Romper. Here’s a closer look:

Someone could use a praline-colored bra to wear under her praline boyfriend romper

Now, I don’t know much about relationships, but I can tell you this much: if your boyfriend wears a romper, then a serious talk is in order. Your boyfriend is either gay or a baby. The former is fine as long as everyone’s on the same page. If I had a gay boyfriend, then maybe someone would have gone with me to see this:

But nooooooooooo, my not-gay husband just CAN'T BE BOTHERED with flying to Vegas to see a washed-up teen idol desperately cling to fame by clumsily dancing in a tacky male strip show.

But nooooooooooo, my not-gay husband just CAN’T BE BOTHERED with flying to Vegas to see a washed-up teen idol desperately cling to fame by clumsily dancing in a tacky male strip show.

Dating a baby, however, is typically frowned upon. We adult women spent a lot of time and energy avoiding relationships with men who are emotionally babies. The last thing any of us needs is a boyfriend who is an actual baby.

So what does “boyfriend” mean in the context of the Boyfriend Romper? Nothing. It means nothing. It means that some junior product developer at Haute Hippie doesn’t understand that different words have different meanings, so she just throws them around at random. She’s also responsible for next season’s Sleeveless Hat and a Reversible Cowl-Neck Kimono that’s actually a pair of mismatched rain boots. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that a fashion house with a name like “Haute Hippie” is treating the English language with the same disdain that Paula Deen treats salad (and black people!).

What happens now that the Boyfriend Romper has successfully gutted the meaning the word boyfriend? Obviously we live in a world where boyfriend can mean whatever you want it to mean!

“Argh, I can’t find my pink boyfriend wedge sandals.”
“They’re right there where you left them, under the boyfriend table.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Sure, here you go.” [pulls out lighter and lights your cigarette]

“How’s your boyfriend?”
“Not great. He got myxomatosis and I had to have him put down. He was a rabbit.”

“What are you doing with my boyfriend?!”
“Avoiding identity theft by shredding my old credit card bills, since your boyfriend is literally this paper shredder.”

“Have you heard the hit Justin Bieber song ‘Boyfriend’?”
“Is that the one about the time he ran over a family of endangered baby sea turtles with his Ferrari and then had his bodyguard swat the ice cream cone out of a disabled toddler’s hand?”
“Yes.”

This is the future we face if people don’t stop treating words like the toppings bar at Pinkberry. It literally makes my head explode to think about it.

Lagging Behind the Kardashians and Hoping That None of Them Notices

Which of you trembles not that looks on me?

How do you pitch a reality show? I have an idea for a Keeping Up with the Kardashians spinoff. Busting Out with Bruce (working title) follows Bruce Jenner as he attempts to escape his life of bumbling in the backdrop of various Kardashians iterations.

In case you missed last weekend’s season premiere of Keeping Up, it focused on Kim whining about how the extensive renovations she has planned for her  new mansion won’t be done until her unborn baby girl is old enough to leak her own sex tape (fourteen). There was also a disgusting side plot about Kourtney and Scott’s sex life that is too awful to describe. At one point during a kitchen conversation, a cucumber gets shoved through one of those gummy peach rings and let’s just leave it at that.

More importantly, we watched as Bruce has his “helicopter friends” over for dinner, which annoys his wife, Kris. To be clear: these are friends that he gets together with to talk about radio-controlled toy helicopters, not friends who land actual helicopters on the front lawn. This isn’t The Bachelor. But Kris hates it because they get wine all over her wine glasses and food all over her food plates and poop all over her poop toilets. The next morning she tells Bruce that he needs a “man cave.” So he calls her bluff and rents a house in Malibu where he and his friends can talk about tiny helicopters and use kitchen implements for their intended purposes.

Bruce is having a grand old time, but Kris gets tired of not being able to keep an eye on him, so she shows up at his “getaway house,” as she calls it (FORESHADOWING), notes that he has a Frisbee on his kitchen counter, and orders him home. He complies.

Bruce Bounces (working title) Series Premiere

The inaugural episode of Bruce on the Loose (working title) takes place concurrently with the man cave storyline. Bruce, we learn, has had enough. He’s tired of being in exile in his own home and has decided to blow town for good. “I’ve been married to Kris for nearly a quarter century,” his voiceover tells us at the beginning of the episode, “and enough is enough.”

While the rest of the family is back in Calabasas demonstrating sex acts with vegetables and candy, Bruce paces the floor of his Malibu house, finally allotted the private time he needs to plot his escape. He gazes meaningfully at one of his miniature helicopters.

“And then it just came to me,” he says in a talking-head confessional interview. “I’m just going to run away. I’m an Olympic gold medalist for fuck’s sake.” We’ll have to bleep out the “fuck” because this is basic cable.

Does Bruce succeed in the first episode? Of course not. Then there would be only one episode. There have to be ten. Bruce fails because he runs 100 meters and then stops. “Well that didn’t work,” voiceovers Bruce. He returns to the man cave to work on a new plan when Kris shows up, remarks on the Frisbee (“It’s a DISCUS!” Bruce shouts in a confessional), and drags him home.

Episode Two

Another episode of Bruce and Bruce’s Bug-Out Bag Bolt to a Bunker (UK title) centers on Kim Kardashian’s backyard baby shower. Bruce politely mingles with the guests, including celebrity trainer Tracy Anderson and TV’s Maria Menounos, but his gaze is fixed upon the Jenner compound’s distant perimeter fence. How high could that fence possibly be? Bruce wonders to himself as he pretends to listen to inane semi-scripted conversation. Certainly not more than 4.8 meters. Bruce interrupts canceled reality TV’s Kimberly Stewart. “Excuse me, Sebastian Bach,” says Bruce. “I think I hear Kris calling me in the house.”

Moments later, Bruce reappears in the backyard with a long pole. He eyes the fence, says a prayer, and takes aim. But just as he’s about to launch himself to freedom, “YO BRUCE” booms a voice. It’s Kanye, and he’s wielding a near-empty bottle of rosé. “I’MA LET YOU FINISH,” he shouts, drawing the attention of the other partygoers, including Bravo’s NeNe Leakes and E!’s Giuliana Rancic, “BUT SERGEY BUBKA HAD ONE OF THE BEST POLE VAULTS OF ALL TIME!”

And then it’s too late. The whole party, including England’s Kelly Osbourne and some other part of England’s Scary Spice, is staring at him. This episode of Baluusu Jeneru vs. the Pig Monsters (Japanese title) ends with Bruce dejectedly returning to the house and reinstalling the pole in Kylie’s room where he found it. He uses the screwdriver that Kris doesn’t like him using to screw in screws.

Season Finale

In episode ten of Untitled Bruce Jenner Scripted Reality Project (final title), Bruce is still stuck in Calabasas and he’s running out of ideas. He’s tried running 400 meters. He’s tried running 1500 meters. Hell, he’s even tried long jumping to the Channel Islands. But every time he’s been foiled.

It’s time to confront Kris directly. “I decided to just tell her how I feel,” Bruce explains in a talking-head. “It’s just another hurdle in my life that I have to jump over, along with nine others over a course of 110 meters.”

INT. JENNER HOUSE KITCHEN – EVENING

BRUCE
Kris, can I talk to you for a minute?

KRIS
Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my sight?

BRUCE
It’s just that . . . I’ve been thinking . . .

KRIS
Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

BRUCE
Goddammit, don’t you understand that you are RUINING our children’s lives? They might not understand it now, but they are all going to turn out FUCKED UP. And it will be all your fault. You are a horrible, sorry excuse for a human being. You tattered, busted, broken down—

KRIS
Bruce.

BRUCE
Kris!

KRIS
Hm?

BRUCE
What were you going to say?

KRIS
Oh, nothing.

BRUCE
Fuck it, I’m going to bed.

INT. JENNER HOUSE MASTER BEDROOM – THE NEXT MORNING

KRIS
I had the most horrible nightmare last night.

BRUCE
Oh yeah?

KRIS
Kendall and Kylie both left for private liberal arts colleges in the Midwest. Kourtney broke up with Scott and decided to raise her children in an ashram in India. Khloé and Lamar told me they were committed to staying in LA and building the Kardashian brand, but I wasn’t really comforted by that.

BRUCE
What about Rob?

KRIS
Who’s Rob?

KIM enters.

KIM
Mom, I’ve decided to become Amish.

KRIS
NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

KIM
Mom, calm down.

KRIS
A sex tape! A sex tape! My kingdom for a sex tape!

BRUCE stabs KRIS in the face with a javelin.

KIM
Soooo, Kim and Kanye Take Central Pennsylvania is a no?

BREAKING: Plus-Sized Women Denied Access to Horrible Clothes That No One Should Be Wearing Anyway

Can't find the button to save this to my thinspo board on Pinterest

I don’t know why this is suddenly news again, but people seem to be buzzing this week about Abercrombie & Fitch opting not to carry women’s clothing in large sizes. A&F CEO Mike Jeffries makes no secret of the fact that the intentional absence of XL sizes is meant to cultivate a perception that the brand is exclusively for beautiful people.

This, just by the way, is Mike Jeffries:

Obviously gets his cosmetic procedures done in the same sweatshops that manufacture his clothes

“In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids,” Mike told Salon in an old-ass interview that people keep quoting this week. Judging by the quality of his plastic surgery, he probably can’t move his mouth anymore, so maybe 2006 was the last time he was able to give an interview.

He goes on: “Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.”

The ickiness of this high school version of exclusivity, where your social status is determined by how attractive you are and how much money your parents give you to blow at the mall, is palpable when you walk into one of their stores, which all blast techno music and smell like date rape. (Okay, I haven’t been into an Abercrombie store in about a decade, so maybe that accusation isn’t fair. They’ve probably kept up with the times and now blast dub step and smell like a fourteen-year-old boy screencapping your naked SnapChat.). The massive images of naked beautiful people leer down at you with the same expressions as the high school elite who at best would look right past you and at worst would decide to ruin your life for fun.

store

From their print ads to their pretty-people-only hiring policies to their unapologetically assholish CEO, Abercrombie’s message to their consumers comes down to this:  You’re cool because of the things you have but didn’t earn, and you should DEFINITELY lord that over everyone else. OWN that vapidness!

It takes an evil genius to corner a market by being the one willing to appeal to its worst qualities, but that’s not what’s going on here. Mike Jeffries didn’t build a company by tapping into the psyche of a Mean Girl. He did it by actually being Regina George trapped in the body of an old gay man.

I know, right?

I mean, I think someone may have literally tested the theory that if you cut off all her hair, she’d look  like a British man. Nope, it turns out. She looks like Jocelyn Wildenstein’s twin brother.

My point is that the lost member of The Plastics didn’t get to where he is by exploiting the teenage desire to latch onto any arbitrary signifier of coolness. He did it by being that teenager well into adulthood. He’s an elderly man who still says “dude” and doesn’t like to be around uglies. That jock who tripped you at graduation became wildly successful by NEVER CHANGING. In other words: We. Are. Fucked.

That said, if I go to my high school reunion and find that all the worst people now look like Mike Jeffries, then I guess there is some justice in this world. And we all know what happened to Regina George in the end.

What comes after the blues?

Are we complicit in the deaths of those who wrest their lethal pain into something beautiful for us to consume? Asking for a friend.

Bye Jason. Thanks for everything and I’m sorry.

“Quote Captain Badass,
‘I am setting your heart on fire
So when you leave me
I will burn on in your soul.’”

(Songwriter Jason Molina Dies at 39)

The ten best things to eat in the Mission

We live in an era of rising global temperatures, under a government that wages secret drone wars, and in a society that denies equal rights to citizens based on their sexual orientation rather than whether or not they watch Two and a Half Men. (You should not be allowed to get married and have a family if you watch Two and a Half Men. Just kidding! You should be sent to Guantanamo if you watch Two and a Half Men.)

So naturally the most hotly debated topics on any San Francisco media outlet are where to get the best burrito, $1 Pabst at Pop’s vs. $16 Manhattans at Hog and Rocks, and whether or not going to Tacolicious constitutes gentrification of the Mission/terrorism.

The very last thing this world needs is one more amateur food writer’s opinion on these matters, so HERE IS MINE! These are the ten best things to eat in the Mission. I don’t eat meat, so they happen to be vegetarian. Dietary restrictions aside, you won’t regret eating these (unless you’re vegan). Next week I’ll tell you all about why I quit Facebook and this hilarious thing I overheard on Muni.

10. Mike’s cheese dip from Tacolicious

Oh, you think Oakland is scary, you say? Fascinating. Should we get more salsa?

Photo from tacolicious.com

People love to hate Tacolicious because it’s the home for wayward Marina douchebags who needed a place to go after Medjool closed. But the food is too good to let the popped-collar crowd claim it all for themselves. Yes, I DO want another basket of chips, thank you, and no, I’m not leaving this bar stool soon.

Can’t we just eat some fucking tacos without having an argument about gentrification? No? Okay, well go ahead. I’m totally listening.

9. Spicy marinara pizza with pepperoncini and olives from Beretta

Looks delish and not AT ALL like a crime scene, Jennifer Y. Jesus, don't you have Instagram?

Terrible photo stolen from Jennifer Y on Yelp. Thanks for nothing, Jennifer Y!

There’s a lot of good pizza in the Mission, especially if you’re a fan of waiting two hours for a table. Beretta is no different, but at least they have great cocktails, so you can kill that two hours by waiting two hours to get the bartender’s attention.

As for the spicy marinara pizza, shell out the extra five bucks to get burrata on that fucker and it’s STILL cheaper than the cheapest pie at another Mission pizza joint that shall not be named. (Farina. It’s Farina. That fucking place is overpriced even by my standards and, as we’ve established, I’ll shell out eight bucks for glorified Cheez Whiz. Fuck Farina.)

8. Mexican chocolate soft-serve from Bi-Rite Creamery

Have I mentioned that I don't take photos of my food?

Artist’s rendering

The regular ice cream at Bi-Rite is delicious, but that line can get ridiculous. I don’t care if you serve ice cream topped with candied unicorn bacon; no ice cream is worth an hour of my time. And trust me, my time is worth very, very little. Also the vegetarian thing.

The soft-serve is just as delicious and conveniently dispensed at an express window that seldom accumulates a long line. With a hint of cinnamon and just enough chili to leave a little burn, the Mexican chocolate is pretty much what I imagine it’s like to have sex with Diego Luna. Is that racist? I hope not, because I was going for sexist.

7. Smoked trumpet mushroom Reuben from Wise Sons

When was the last time you thought about deviantART? The last time you cut yourself while listening to Fall Out Boy, probably

I couldn’t find a picture, so here’s a drawing from some kid’s deviantART page. Classic move, putting your smoking mushroom in tall grass so you don’t have to draw its feet.

I never really imagined getting excited about rye bread until I had this sandwich. Is it weird to order a sandwich on rye with a side of rye toast? Don’t answer that.

6. Vegetarian BBQ chicken sandwich from Rhea’s Deli

How's about you and I go to the park and make out? And then I eat you. Because things are getting weird, I guess

Vaguely decent photo stolen from Jennifer L on Yelp. At least she didn’t use a flash. Take note, Jennifer Y.

The Internet probably doesn’t need any more words about Rhea’s, right? Let’s talk about something else. Can you guys believe this new pope business? Richard Simmons was robbed.

5. An omelet from Foreign Cinema

One of the two best movies with "Dirty" and "Dancing" in the title

Unrelated image

Foreign Cinema’s brunch is always amazing, particularly whatever omelet they’re serving that day. Truffled potatoes? Spectacular. Champagne mushrooms and fines herbs? I don’t actually know what that is, but sure. Pears with pilsner and fontina? Uhh, okay, I guess I trust you guys to make that work. Weirdos.

And you might as well throw in a cocktail and one of their house-made fruit pop tarts because WHY NOT? You’re already spending $16 on an omelet. Obviously you’re no financial genius. MAKE IT RAIN [CHAMPAGNE COCKTAILS]!

4. Vegetarian Burrito from Taqueria Cancún

Can someone else please start reading Mary Worth so I don't feel so alone?

Burritos really don’t photograph well, so here’s a recent Mary Worth strip instead

I haven’t been to that many other taquerias in the Mission, because everything disappoints in comparison to Cancún. Farolito makes the second worst burrito I’ve ever had. (The worst was a truly terrible burrito I had in Antioch. How do you even get beans, rice, and cheese to taste that bad? That was the day I found out my mom had cancer and I still think the burrito was maybe the worst thing that happened to me that day.) And El Buen Sabor puts carrots in their burrito. What?

Cancún always delivers. One time I ate a Cancún breakfast burrito and then felt so good that I walked all the way to the top of Twin Peaks. But most times I eat a Cancún breakfast burrito and then just go back to sleep. Wait, maybe the Twin Peaks thing was a dream? Shit.

3. Potato langos from Bar Tartine

Maybe I should get my own deviantART page

Artist’s rendering

Sometimes I feel like my time would be better spent if I started a foundation that works to convince death row inmates that no, you do not want a bucket of KFC Original Recipe and a two-liter Coke for your last meal. You want whatever they’re making at Bar Tartine. I’m not sure how this project would advance the greater good, and the staff at Bar Tartine would probably get tired of stopping what they’re doing so they can make dinner for convicted serial killers, so I guess you could say I’m still working out the kinks.

A chewy, deep-fried potato flatbread with sour cream and dill, the langos is just one of many brain-explodingly good dishes at Bar Tartine. Last time I was there for lunch I had a pickled mushroom sandwich that was insane and a romaine salad with buttermilk dressing that was so good it made me want to cry. A fucking salad! I order salads so I can feel virtuous. This salad made me feel like I should punch a baby and then check into rehab.

2. Satan’s Philly Cheese-Fake from Bender’s

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED don't come stealing my copyrighted images, Getty

My own photo. Those iPhone food photography classes at the Learning Annex are really paying off!

Bender’s is the only place outside of Tijuana where I’ve seen a cook have to shoo a wandering dog out of the kitchen. I have no idea who they pay off to get away with so many obvious health code violations, but whatever. If I witnessed the chef use his bare foot to nudge a family of rats out of the dishwasher, I’d STILL go to Bender’s for the seitan cheesesteak because fuuuuuuuuuuuck. I don’t even know what seitan is. Is it meat? Probably. Whatever. Comes with tater tots.

1. Breakfast sandwich from Rosamunde

I love Rosamunde. They have outdoor seating and wine on tap. And I just think it was really nice of them to give Dick Butt a job as their mascot after his fall from superstar meme status. Maybe Ryan Gosling can work the register there after all the 14-year-old girls of Tumblr have moved on to something else. Actually that would be great.

But nothing is as great as their breakfast sandwich. Much more than the sum of its parts (ciabatta roll, hard-poached egg, melted cheddar, arugula, and country sausage that you can sub out for vegan apple sage), this sandwich is the perfect food and I hope to god no one ever tells me how many calories are in it. Because then I might feel bad about having it with fries. And a Stella. And a nap. And then who has the energy to go grocery shopping and make dinner after all that? Let’s just go to Bender’s.

Life Is Brutal

Heavens to Mary!

“You know, Tom, I never got a chance to properly thank you for helping me carry my Drugstore.com delivery up the stairs. Those value-packs of Depends aren’t really heavy so much as they are awkward.”

“Oh it was no problem, Mrs. Worth. Any time.”

“So this is your apartment, hmm? I haven’t been in 3B since Minnie Munroe died in it. My my that was a travesty.”

“Is that so?”

“I love what you’ve done with it. Did you paint the walls black yourself?”

“Yes, yes I did. Took me a couple days. Well . . . can I offer you a glass of water or anything?”

“Sorry, what’s that? I was just making a mental note to bring something up at the next Charterstone HOA meeting. So you didn’t use one of the condo board’s approved vendors for the paint job, eh?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Worth, but I’m still not well. If you don’t mind, think I’m going to lie down for a nap. Thanks again for the soup.”

“Please, Tom, call me Mary. Toby does, no matter how many times I tell her to stop coming to my house to exposit the beginning of every new storyline. And there’s no need to apologize. How rude of me to keep you. You get some rest and I’ll be on my way.”

“Thanks for understanding, Mary. I’ll put this soup in the fridge for now. Just have to make some room between the dry lime soda and the salmon squares . . .”

“Tom . . . “

“Yes Mary?”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Oh no, Mary, you’ve already done so much, what with the soup and th—OH GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR CLOTHES?”

“Tom.”

“Mary, please. I’m a sick man! Are those sock garters?”

“Tom, that’s exactly why I’m here! Don’t you see? I help people. It’s my calling. I helped the recently widowed John Dill win Santa Royale’s strangely well-attended cake decorating contest, and now he’s three thousand miles away in New York City. So presently I need someone else to help. A new . . . project, if you will.”

“But, but what about Dr. Corey?”

“Oh, Tom, Jeff just wants me to be happy. And nothing makes me happier than helping others. Except violently pruning my roses. Goddamn I can’t wait for spring. Anyway, you never come to the Charterstone pool parties. Why is that?”

“I . . . I just . . . is this a hallucination? How high is my fever right now? I need to sit down.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, you sit down. Tom, have you ever watched a show called Game of Thrones?

“What?”

“I need someone to explain this show to me. Is it about Canada? I’ve never quite understood Canada.”

“This is a nightmare.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about Canada.”

#yeswecanseco

Athlete, media personality, fashion icon

I’ve been a fan of Jose Canseco since I was a kid. And by that I mean that he was the cutest boy in my baseball card collection circa 1988, then he got traded to the Rangers and grew a mullet and I essentially forgot about him because even eight-year-old me disapproved of Texas. Also he was kind of a giant asshole.

My dad didn't approve, but I was always happy when he beat out Joe Montana for my husband in M.A.S.H.

But now, twenty-five years later, we’ve rekindled our romance. Because I no longer hold the fact that someone is a giant asshole against them. It takes all kinds, right? Without giant assholes, we wouldn’t have the Noel and Liam Gallagher Insult-a-Day Desk Calendar. (A quick Google search suggests that this doesn’t exist/the universe is a miserable fookin’ nipple.)

Also, Jose Canseco’s Twitter feed is comedy gold.

“What does Jose Canseco do on Twitter?” you probably aren’t wondering. Jose Canseco does EVERYTHING on Twitter. I’m pretty sure he thinks Twitter is his Palm Pilot.

Jose Canseco offers hugs on Twitter:

He issues threats:

This is probably more the result of a chemical imbalance than it is a display of emotional depth, but whatever. He also goes back and forth between begging someone to turn his tell-all book into a movie and apologizing to Mark McGwire for writing a tell-all book.

I know that I wrote that mean story / Believe when I say that I’m sorry / It truly hurts me / Knowing you’re angry / But if you know anyone who wants to produce a feature-length film based on my book, please have them email my agent at joemelendez@msn.com

He casts about for odd jobs:

He would like some brownies:

He questions his sexuality:

He does . . . this:

And . . . uh . . .

On the first day of 2013, he posted his ten New Year’s resolutions. Things started out pretty normal:

Sounds good! I’m sure she’d like that. Resolutions two and three were “get stronger and fitter” and “help people who are getting screwed wherever I can.” So far so good. Then things get a little more ambitious:

As something of a free agent myself, I completely understand resolving to be more proactive about networking. But Jose Canseco talking about returning to pro baseball as a player is like me talking about going back to fifth grade camp as a fifth grader. We’re both too old.

Okay, I guess there are other professional baseball leagues besides the MLB, so maybe this one isn’t so farfetched. Jose can go back to playing pro ball in the Dominican Winter Baseball League, and I will go back to camp as soon as someone opens a bar in the Mission called Camp.

What else ya got, JC?

Um . . .

Wait. Why are there two fives?

Because playing for both American and Canadian baseball teams makes you eligible to run for office in either country.

TWO great companies! Suck it, Rockefeller!

And I thought “post on my blog more” was a tall order.

Well, animal rights IS my favorite company/product.

Jesus. I would need performance-enhancing drugs to even set this many goals. I had to take a shot of creatine just to read them.

So will someone please give Jose Canseco a job? The dude is raring to go and works harder on his Twitter feed than most of us do at life. Give the man a goddamn reality show! Why would you watch Honey Boo Boo bid on abandoned storage lockers on the Jersey Shore when you could watch Jose MMA-fight his way to becoming Mayor of Toronto? THIS SHOW NEEDS TO EXIST (ALSO THE GALLAGHER BROTHERS CALENDAR THING). Please, if you can get Jose Canseco a TV show, email joemelendez@msn.com.

By the numbers

Widely regarded as the second best film in which Keanu Reeves plays a former Ohio State football star

I hate football. I’d like to boycott the NFL, but Stephen watches football religiously, so in order to avoid it completely, I’d have to get up off the couch. And the only thing I hate more than traumatic brain injury is getting up off the couch.

So I try to pay as little attention as possible when football is on, but two things keep me from completely tuning it out. One is that ninety percent of the announcing sounds like it could work equally well as the commentary track on a gay porn film. Someone’s always penetrating a hole or handling his balls or pounding a tight end. It’s very distracting to those of us with the maturity level of a thirteen-year-old boy.

The other is the ridiculous specificity of the statistics they spout off. Oh, this is only the third time Aaron Rodgers has thrown over 100 yards in the first half of a home game against the Vikings while the temperature was under 60 degrees, you say? FASCINATING. TO NO ONE.

Here are some football stats I’d actually like to know (and don’t tell me to Google it. I want to hear them come out of Al Michaels’ mouth):

The infamous Minnesota Vikings Love Boat scandal

The number of people who have been injured while showboating.

I love showboating, because funny dancing and offensive gestures are much more interesting than football. But sometimes all that chest-bumping and helmet-slapping and dick-wagging can get pretty violent. How many players have sustained a twisted ankle from doing the Electric Slide or pinched a nerve while kissing his guns? And do they still give the thumbs-up while being carried off the field with a hula injury? (By the way, my showboating move would be performing a hula that tells the story of how awesome I am. My personal ukulele player would travel with me to games, obviously.)

Gratuitous

Gatorade showers gone wrong.

I know about The Play, but if Stanford’s players had already dumped Gatorade on the coach when Cal stole the win, then that moment was surely overshadowed by the fact that several members of their marching band died on the field that day.

Has any coach been affected by premature exuberation, showered with yellow liquid only to suffer an upset in the last seconds of the game? Because that would be awesome.

I know! Let's design a mascot that embodies everything that is wrong with football and also America

How many people have shot their televisions while watching that annoying fucking Fox Sports robot?

I’m not some gun nut, but it’s not murder if you’re shooting a robot. Or a television. What I’m saying is that I really hate that robot.

You and me both, Pam. You and me both

How much does Pam Oliver get paid?

Because it’s obviously not enough to afford a decent wig.

I would see this movie in IMAX

How much better would Sex and the City 2 have been if they’d replaced Carrie Bradshaw with Terry Bradshaw?

Just kidding, I already know that one. A LOT BETTER.

What could I have accomplished today if I hadn’t spent it Photoshopping Sketchbook Expressing Terry Bradshaw’s face into a Sex and the City 2 poster?

Wait, no. I don’t want to know that one. No one tell me.

The athleticism displayed in this meltdown!

gif via bleacher report

life hack

Those of you who know me may find this hard to believe, but I would like to do something with my life. This last year was one of stasis for me, summed up neatly by a conversation I had on New Year’s Eve:

“This is the year I’m going to do something,” I said to my friend Liz. And as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew. “I said the exact same thing to you last New Year’s Eve, didn’t I?”

“Yup,” said Liz. Fuck.

So in the grand tradition of starting the year with impossible-to-achieve goals, 2013 is the year I’m going to do something FOR REALSIES THIS TIME. Anything. I’ll be damned before I have that conversation again. And I really don’t want to have to stay home next New Year’s Eve because Ryan Seacrest.

How hard can it be to do something? Other people manage to do stuff all the time. My problem is that I keep waiting around for an inspiration, an idea, or an insight worth writing about. But you don’t need any of that stuff start writing. Just look at the Bold Italic!

But: this fucking table.

Don't worry, I've put away the chocolates

I can’t write a Nobel Prize–winning epic novel at this mess of a table. If I tried to work in this chaos, I’d probably end up writing a screen adaptation of the novelization of Liz & Dick. Lindsay Lohan wouldn’t even star in it. And not just because Lindsay Lohan will be long dead by the time I finish my screen adaptation of the novelization of Liz & Dick.

So cleaning up is Step 1. Step 2: winning a Nobel Prize. Well, I guess Step 2 would be finding a dress to wear to the Nobel Prize award ceremony. And if we’re being real about this, Step 1 is stalling with this blog post because I haven’t actually started cleaning yet. See how a messy work environment brings you down?!

But for simplicity’s sake, let’s call cleaning the table Step 1. That would mean that Step 1.1 is, of course, fixing this broken dog toy that’s been sitting on the table for two weeks.

I can stop the bleeding, but I'm not sure you'll ever squeak again

Right? Pretty sure I read that in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. It’s in one of the appendices.

It's a miracle!

There. Done. I’ve accomplished something in 2013. Step 1.2 is figuring out what that key goes to. Because I have no idea. Maybe that’s a project for 2014.

2012 in review. Ha ha ha, just kidding

Consider this picture my foray into blogging about women's issues

I know I don’t update this blog very often, but every day a few of you still click over here to check up on me. Do you guys know that there are other things to read on the Internet? Have you been to dlisted? Shit’s hilarious.

Anyway, for your sake, I feel like I need to get that heinous picture of Guy Fieri off the top of this page. So here’s a pointless, rambling post about nothing. Because you deserve the best.

Christmassed out

Did everyone have a good Christmas? Mine was fine. My brother came up from San Diego to stay with us for a few days. It’s always great when we get to spend time playing iPhone games together in the same room instead of 500 miles apart. You don’t need to use the “nudge” feature in Scramble with Friends when you can just yell “PLAY YOUR TURN GODDAMNIT!” through the bathroom door.

Speaking of Christmas, I was picking up a plant for my grandma at Paxton Gate a few days before the holiday, and that place was a ZOO. And I’m not talking about all the dead animals (what kind of shitty Emily the Strange zoo would that be?). Apparently every single person in the Mission decided that the perfect holiday gift this year is a taxidermied mouse dressed in elaborate Victorian garb.

The utter preciousness of it all didn’t really hit me until I was standing in the mile-long line for checkout (which wound uncomfortably close to the Wall of Giant Disgusting Spiders) and watched as a homeless man walked in, looked around bemusedly, shook his head, and walked out. What must someone who has nothing think about a bunch of people spending absurd amounts of money on dead bugs dressed in business casual attire? I’m not kidding about that, by the way. They literally have grasshoppers and beetles set up in little display boxes wearing neckties and carrying briefcases like they’re headed to their jobs at an insurance agency. Ugh, San Francisco, sometimes I hate us so much.

Stop one on the Real World Season 7 tour

In less depressing news, earlier in December Stephen and I spent a weekend in Seattle. I’m not going to write a whole long thing about every place we got drunk at in Seattle, because do I look like Anthony Bourdain? (Answer: a little. Another answer: Montana. We got drunk at Montana and you should too.)

Seattle is surprisingly pleasant for a place that gets rained on 374 days a year. Also? It is weirdly clean. No human excrement on the sidewalk, no shattered glass, not even a coffee sleeve rolling in the gutter (quite a feat when you consider the ten million Starbucks on every corner). What’s your deal, Seattle? I know about the Gum Wall, but does that mean you have walls for all city refuse? Is there some alleyway in Ballard with everyone’s tattered grandpa cardigans from 1993 piled in the corner? Tell me your secret, because I would really like to hear about an alternative to San Francisco’s current waste program: Everyone Dump Your Spent Whippet Canisters and Used Heroin Needles in Front of Jessica’s House Right Before Her Family Comes Over for Thanksgiving.

On an administrative note, my new year’s resolution is to stop worrying about what to post here and just post more. 2013: the year of quantity over quality (“Quality?” — everyone.). Watch out, rest of the Internet! I’m coming for ya. Probably.