wrong.

meet jimminycricketz

On 04.09.10, In technology, By medicalgohst

As an insomniac, I often have a difficult time coming up with new and exciting things to do between the hours of 2am and 6am. Sure I could watch Roseanne on TVLand, but I’ve seen every episode 100 times. Plus I’ve always felt like Darlene smelled like rotted Velveeta and it makes me nauseous. I could bake or cook but I don’t know how. And who cares to learn, really. I could start sketching out some plans for that meth lab I’ve always dreamed of running but I mean, how much planning does that really take? A trailer, some beakers and a fire extinguisher right? Easy speed-sy.

Anyway last night, my cloudy friends exhaustion, depression and insanity whispered to me, “You should make a fake match.com profile because it would be hilarious.” So I did! Meet JimminyCricketz! He will fuck you with a cigar. He also loves rump.

strawberry blonde- wrong.

On 03.29.10, In bullshit!, things that are wrong, ugly, wrong strangers, By medicalgohst

Hello, redheads? Breaking news alert for you: your hair is red. If you are particularly unlucky, your hair is orange. You know what your hair is not? Strawberry blonde. Do you know why? Because strawberry blonde is not a color. It is not a color, a shade, a hue or a tone. It is a sad figment of your imagination, like when Brooke Hogan says she’s big-boned, or when Kim Kardashian says she is “working” at a “job.”

Q: Strawberry blonde is a hair color that exists in nature.

A. True B. False

Correct Answer: A. True

I know right? I just said it wasn’t a color. Well technically, it is. Strawberry blonde is simply orange. It’s a euphemism, like sex worker is to hooker. Like domestic is to maid (or hooker). Like CEO is to idiot. Unless we’re going to start saying pumpkins are yellow, Big Bird is orange, and dicks are teal, orange-heads need to get real about what is growing atop their confused brains. People wouldn’t dare refer to their cooch hair as strawberry blonde. That sounds and is ridiculous. Stop acting like you too are part of the exclusive Scandinavian-born cult that apparently has more fun (and more STDs.) The only blonde characteristic you have is being dumb enough to think the rest of us can’t recognize one of the three major secondary colors. I mean let’s break it down.

1. The color wheel. I’m sure everyone has had at least a brief encounter or two with the color wheel. Maybe you mixed some paints together in pre-school and got upset because all of those pretty bright colors actually look like crackhead shits when they’re combined. And then your teacher was like, “Shut the fuck up, study this large circle of colors, and try again.” Or maybe you learned the first time your own blood mixed with your own piss and it all turned into a sad orange mess at the base of your toilet. Whatever it was, I think we all know the following basic facts:

a. Strawberries are red.
b. Blonde is yellow.
c. Red + Yellow = ORANGE.

It’s just science, folks. Or math. Or meteorology. It is definitely a fact. So strawberry blonde is orange. The end.

2. People vs. inanimate objects. Note the difference in appropriate adjectives. Blonde is a term that one would use to describe a person. Is the sun blonde? Is piss blonde? Are lemons blonde? ARE ASIANS BLONDE? (jk jk…ish) I mean shit is brown. Do you call your shit brunette? Auburn? Chestnut? Fuck no unless you have some major problems, coprophiliac. So when you eat an orange, is IT strawberry blonde? How about carrots or pumpkins or flames? “God, that killer explosion was such a dazzling shade of strawberry blonde.” Nope.

3. Don’t get so excited about euphemisms anyway. Still don’t think you’re an orange-head? Okay, I’d be more than happy to provide you with a few alternatives descriptions. How about Period blonde? Period jaundice? Apples with a touch of Hep-C? Skin inflammation blonde? Lobster piss? Those are all just about as accurate as your strawberry blonde.

Get real homiez.

fast-walking in small, enclosed spaces- wrong.

On 03.10.10, In inappropriate public behavior, morons, office trends, By medicalgohst

Imagine this. You are in an office that is, oh I don’t know, 300 square feet? I don’t absorb mathematical concepts very well unless there are slopes and intercepts involved, in which case I am pretty talented. What I’m saying is that this office is no bigger than the average master bedroom. Possibly a master bedroom and walk-in closet combined or something. This office is not the Mall of America.

Now let’s say you have some kind of “important” (lol) “management”(lalz) or “middle-management” (lolz) “job” (LOLZER) and have therefore been given your own private office within this larger (but still small) office space. Let’s say that your office door is in the middle of the main office, and the copy machine is at the end of the main office. We’ll estimate that it’s 20 feet away from you, on the diagonal. If you are great at math you will recognize that in this situation, a^2 + b^2=20 ft^2, but only if we are discussing a right triangle, which is not necessarily the case. This formula is called “Formula 40967233b That You Will Never Use Outside of a High School Classroom.” You should write it down immediately and then puke all over it.

Anyway, let’s say you are in your little office and you decide that for whatever reason, you must go make an appearance over by the copy machine. Maybe you need to copy something, or scan something, or press some buttons and drool. Who knows/cares? But whatever it is you have to do at the copy machine, I am 100% certain that getting there will in no way require you to power-walk, jet, speed-walk, jog, dart, sprint, run, or bolt. You especially don’t need to incorporate worried looks, heavy breathing/panting, sharp movements, or the dodging of imaginary obstacles during this 20 sq ft journey. People who do any of the above are the dumbest morons around. They are basically wearing flashing neon signs on their backs that say “I’m so fucking stupid and I totally don’t understand how to assimilate to an environment in which other people’s physical presence must be accounted for!”

First of all, where the fuck are you going? I mean what the fuck are you doing, really? I can pretty much guarantee that it will have no bearing on anyone’s past, present or future. I mean I’m not looking to get all philosophical about how everyone thinks their jobs are about 77777╥ times more important than they actually are, but that is definitely the case. Like oh, you better go scan that article in that you pretended to read in the New Yorker and then e-mail it to everyone in your office so you can try to make them think that you’re smart and cultured and literate and ignore the fact that they will all roll their eyes and delete delete delete it.

It should be obvious to everyone that the pure physics of trying to speed around a small space do not work out. If you are walking in a straight line, by the time you build up any sort of velocity you will already have smashed into a wall or a cabinet or another fucking person who for some odd reason was not expecting to have to defend against the middle-aged office manager version of Jackie Joyner Kersee (RIP!) on her way to the mini fridge. Smashing into walls or people may add to the fabricated sense of urgency/meaning that you are trying to create re: your existence, but you just end up looking like a baboon or a person with a major middle-ear issue.

If your brief journey involves rounding a corner, you will undoubtedly crash into either a.) whatever is on the other side of the corner or b.) the fucking corner. I know your life is crazy, print production manager. Things need to be mailed!! Where is Fed-Ex? Did someone review the terms and sign the Q7K form for the big Harper job? Who has time to not fly around a corner at 45mph while still talking over their shoulders and making sure to say things like “Over and out!” or “Thanks for briefing me on the status of this new crucial global project.” Oh whoops, looks like you mis-judged the depth of the wall by about a foot, but don’t worry, you looked super smooth peeling your face off the glass and pretending like it didn’t happen.

The worst of all, though is when these ‘tards actually speed-walk at you, especially if you happen to be sitting down. Imagine that someone is 5 feet away from you and all of a sudden makes an unannounced mad dash at your desk. If you have ever been on the receiving end of this kind of attack, then you will know it is probably the exact same feeling a little puppy has when two asshole toddlers come stampeding at his face, i.e. terror. The instinct is to duck, back away, cover your head-anything to prevent this disgusting co-worker/boss from touching you or breathing on you or god forbid falling on your lap. And like, think about it for a second. This person is sitting down. Backed against a wall. You are 5 feet away and standing up. You are more mobile. You will get there first. Escape routes for seated person are limited or nil. What is the fucking rush? Back off. Go away. I hate you.

quick survey- wrong/right pls respond/retweet

On 03.03.10, In right or wrong?, By medicalgohst

Hey so what do you think of this new idea? I just fear that traditionalism is 1 millimeter away from total extinction. By that I mean the internet and all things 2.0 and 3.0 have just taken over communication! Will I soon forget how to write? How embarrassing and wrong that would be.

So what do you think of this- maybe I should start scanning in my tweets and e-mails and things, that way I can deliver my messages through the now commonly accepted electronic means while still retaining some classic pre-1990 values? Also that way, people wouldn’t be able to easily copy and paste my brilliant thoughts and market them as their own. On the downside, IM’ing might take a lot longer and I could no longer communicate with people over like 60 i.e. people who I assume can’t open pdf attachments. (“What the hell is Adobe Acrobat??” etc)

Anyway here’s an example of my idea in action. Y/N?

http://twitter.com/medicalgohst/status/9943030769

Retro-modern!

**Update** Here is an example of an e-mail I wrote and could use as a template, let me know your opinion!

e-mail to my friend titled "Email1 on 030310 at 535pm.jpg"

**Final Update** Below are the results of this ultimately ill-fated attempt to combine traditional and electronic communication via the handwritten then scanned e-mail. I tried it out with a friend whose name I will withhold for privacy reasons and so as to not incriminate him/her as a participant in this really stupid experiment.

As you can see, things started off well:

My hopes were high!

Reality sets in.

I am back to typing.

Survey over. This is not a good idea. I lose.

the peach pit- wrong.

On 03.02.10, In bullshit!, television, things that are wrong, By medicalgohst

After like 18 or 20 intermittently painful years of fighting very fierce internal battles with myself, I’m going to hereby declare ala Paul Revere/the Constitution/Jury Duty that The Peach Pit is total bullshit. Oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about senior citizens, babies, immigrants, people who were homeless in the 90s? I’m talking about the popular Nat-owned diner in LA, CA wherein students from West Beverly High, including those named Brenda Walsh, Brandon Walsh, Dylan McKay, Kelly Taylor, Donna Martin (pre- and post-graduates!), Steve Sanders, David Silver, ETCETERA, went to hang out after school, at night, on weekends, to conduct interviews with tabloid journalists, to break up with each other, to cry after being stood up by their fathers while wearing sexy prosti dresses, to entertain beefcakey midwestern American boys while pretending to be French, ETCETERA. This all happened on a little show that some of us (those who can read/hear/talk/speak l’anglais) called Beverly Hills, 90210. AKA, the questionably/last/only unfathomably wonderful teenage soap-drama television show. UNFATHOMABLY WONDERFUL.

Note the 1950s exterior, we'll get to that in a sec.

Anyway, you could probably compare The Peach Pit to The Max aka the oft-frequented hangout for Saved By the Bell’s Bayside High students. (Sidenote 1: Yes, Tiffani Amber Thiessen appeared on both shows.) (Sidenote 2: Yes spellcheck red-underlines her full name.)(Sidenote 3: Your eyes may/may not deceive you, depending on what you thought, but the fact is that while T.A.T. has a very round, chipmunk-with-a-coke-bloat face, she was never actually overweight, or even chunky. You can tell by analyzing a decade of her midriff-bearing publicity photos, like I did.) Superficially, The Max and The Peach Pit seem like the same kind of deal. They were both diners with vinyl furniture and packed to capacity with Californian high school kids, unless one of the most important kids (i.e. Zack i.e. Brandon) needed to reserve it at apparently no charge for a private meeting/date/confrontation/dance-off.

Don’t be fooled. They are not so similar. Here are the reasons why I am willing to buy into The Max:

1. Those kids lived in Bayside, CA. That’s like, fake. Obviously it was supposed to be somewhere in southern California, but who knows what kind of town it was? Could have been some rural beach community 500 miles outside civilization and/or any kind of city life. Maybe they were living in some sort of surfing commune that was originally built by Mr. Belding and his wife in the 60s. Who knows? What I’m saying is that The Max could have easily been the coolest, hippest, raddest place around and so I can understand why they might want to hang out there.

2. Those kids were in high school for I think like 72 years. So even if it wasn’t the coolest, hippest, raddest place around, they were obviously too dumb to figure it out.

Like I said, it took me a good 74% of my life to decide that unlike The Max, The Peach Pit is pure bullshit. This isn’t the outcome I wanted, believe me. I didn’t arrive at this unfortunate conclusion without a lot of thought and some very detailed, well-researched pro/con, pos/neg, yes/no lists. You will read them now.

Reasons Why The Peach Pit is Bullshit:

1. These kids live in Beverly Hills, California. AKA Los Angeles California. You are telling me that despite all 1,000,000 other options for cuisine, clubs for partying, locales for break-ups, gathering spots for gossip, etc, they chose a 1950s-themed diner run by a borderline senior citizen that doesn’t sell any coke other than a-cola? Negative. I mean I grew up in a New Jersey town with like 7 diners to choose from, and I still made the 25 minute trek to NYC every weekend to avoid jukeboxes and meth head waitresses.

2. What teenager in the 1990s was super into 1950s music? None of them, that’s the answer! Like they were ever listening to Brown-Eyed Girl or Pretty Woman or wearing Poodle skirts. Never! They liked the hippity hop! I mean granted, David Silver’s music sounded like an autistic kid shrieking at a synthesized fire alarm, but it definitely bore no resemblance to Doo Wop. I mean a ditty from the ’50s is okay as a once a year novelty, but every night? Negative.

3. I repeat there were no drugs sold at The Peach Pit.

4. Everyone on that show was strongly anorexic. Definitely not eating fries or other intensely caloric diner foods on the regular.

5. Don’t you love how they gave Donna a learning disability to make up for Tori Spelling? (whoopsie, off topic but right?!?!?!?!)

6. The Peach Pit was in Pasadena! I mean you could tell that wasn’t BH. BH doesn’t have streets like that! Come ON. Give me a break. Like they really went to Pasadena after school everyday when there weren’t even going to be any speedballs waiting for them. Pls.

Reasons Why The Peach Pit Might Not Be Bullshit:

1. None.

This post was brought to you by the creepy weird gap in Shannen Doherty’s teeth.

mini backpacks- wrong.

On 02.28.10, In inappropriate public behavior, terrible fashion, wrong strangers, By medicalgohst

There is a type of lady that I hate more than all other types of ladies. Let’s face it, I find most people to be borderline intolerable, but there’s nothing worse than a pseudo-intellectual, bike-riding, musty-smelling, “I-eat-my-own-tomato-plants” spewing pretentious bitch. These are the middle-aged folks trekking around Ivy League college towns, buying organic vegetables and free range turkeys at Whole Foods, and campaigning to preserve the paper card-catalog Dewey Decimal systems because computers are evil. They are the parents of the most strongly average hipster kids around, who pretend to be proud of their sons for dropping out of the University of Indiana to pursue a career in splatter painting and growing potted marijuana plants. So unique!

Almost unanimously, all of the ladies I described above wear mini backpacks. They shun purses, tote bags, clutches, and any other kind of potentially attractive items in the luggage category, because hey, everyone knows that if you care about how things look then you are dumb! Looking attractive = low IQ! Not smelling like horse manure = not intellectual! Everyone knows that people who have time to shower only eat processed pork rinds and read The DaVinci Code and Clifford the Big Red Dog! These women think their mini backpacks represent some sort of streamlined practicality and disdain for the superficial. They are trying to pass along to you their VIP message: “My mini backpack can hold my ziplock baggie of pesticide free walnuts that I will need for a snack while riding my no-speed bike in circles around the 10ft by 10ft park, as well as my collection of paperback Ralph Waldo Emerson books, my Native American print wallet, eco-friendly water bottle, and nylon case of classical music CDs and NPR podcasts. What? I don’t have a cell phone. Haven’t you read the latest MIT study that proves they cause ear canal cancer and potentially thyroid AIDS? Oh you haven’t heard of thyroid AIDS? Well maybe you need to listen to more NPR…”

GROSS

The mini backpack is a special combination of pretentiousness, retardation, and butt fucking ugly. You look like you robbed a baby, okay? Are you 7? I mean, I didn’t think you were, since you have all of that long, weed-like, unbrushed gray hair that’s clearly communicating your strongly manufactured opinion that hair dye and other attempts at looking presentable are a waste of time. “I’m not going to dye my prematurely gray hair. That would be combatting nature, and I like to be one with nature. I believe my gray hair makes me look smart, well-read, and like I am concerned about humanitarian issues including Haiti, world peace, recycling, and orphans.” Could someone tell these people that brittle gray hair, a bullshit liberal arts degree in 1800s literature and a dwarfed piece of child’s luggage does not an intellectual make? If anything, you are fucking stupid for not being able to figure out how god damn fucking stupid you look.

Dirty fingernails are sexy! Almost as sexy as dirty feet! I'm so au natural!

Really, the mini backpack is one of the most aesthetically offensive ways to represent that “I’m too smart to give a shit about glamour” attitude. That attitude is vile. You can bet that anyone wearing a mini backpack has pubes down to her knees and no central air conditioning. “Antique origami-style Japanese fans work just as well when it’s 95 degrees and 100% humid!” Gross. GROSS. She probably wears deodorant made out of crushed cloves and paprika, that she bought for $52.99 at the health foods store.

Oh and FYI, mini backpacks are pretty unsafe. While you’re stopped in the doorway of the”Oats and Goats” Natural Food Store, engrossed in your Rosetta Stone “Learn Swedish and Be Mad Smart ASAP” CD, I can just reach in there and steal your wallet and your bike lock! (Granted, I’d need surgical gloves because as I mentioned earlier, you probably haven’t showered in a week.)

wrong, interrupted. (by reality TV)

On 02.18.10, In Upper East Side, bitches, celebrities, hookers, television, the countess, things that are wrong, wrong strangers, By medicalgohst

Look, all year round I’m a casual reality TV watcher. Hey Bravo, I see you. I watch those Orange County/Orange skin whores. I watch Loch JewNess Monster Patti Stanger and her millionaire hookers. I like to watch the flesh melt right off the bones of Rachel “Mosquito” Zoe. I like to cry at Intervention, make fun of the toilet baby mamas on Teen Mom, and I’ll even watch an episode of The Real World here and there. W/e, right? For 3/4 of the year I’m fine.

But I’m about to enter the eye of my personal reality TV storm. I’m currently flirting with disaster as Celebrity Rehab is well under way. I mean look- Dr. Drew is an elitist prick and I don’t get why he’d pay H-List celebrities $250,000 to kick their drug addiction on television. I mean any drug addict with a vague sense of math would figure out how to work his system and maybe make a living off continuing to do drugs. Because this is what I would do- I’d go on the show, get $250,000. Then I’d “relapse”, and Dr. Drew would ask to have me back! Because relapses are exciting TV! And I’d make another quarter mil. Then I’d do Sober House, then I’d relapse again, etc. I could make 1 million dollars off of VH1 in less than 2 years. And all I’d have to do is abuse a little valium. I already have worse problems than that. No big deal.

But this season of Celebrity Rehab is different because long time love of my life/Pete Burns’ identical twin Heidi Fleiss is in the house. I love her. She is breaking my heart every Thursday night. With the damn parrots and Death Valley and all of that. I mean here’s a signal that you’re not 100% okay- you live with 20+ parrots and 0- people. In a desert town that, because of you, has a larger population of parrots than it does people. I already wrote about how much I idolized her as a kid so I won’t go through that again. But watching her sad, sad, parrot-laden life just tears me up. Come on Heidi! Come on kitty kat! Get it together! Put the white trash crystal away. Give it to that turd hat Kari Ann. She deserves it anyway! You may have gradually custom-built your face for meth but she was already born with one! Ugh, it’s so tragic. And of course, only one week after Celebrity Rehab concludes, Sober House is all geared up to go. And Heidi is in the house. Ugh. Heartbreaking. I mean my first and only other childhood idol, Ms. June Pointer, already died a crackhead. I can’t go through it again Fleiss. Please get it together. DO IT FOR THE PARROTS.

And then of course, the first and forever #1 reality show love of my life, The Real Housewives of New York, is right around the corner. At the same time and on the same night as Sober House! My brain is going to be SO WACK after watching these two shows back to back on my DVR. I never liked the whole “Team” craze, but I mean TEAM BETHENNY hello? Why is everyone always fucking with Bethenny? Making her cry? I mean look at this trailer:

http://www.bravotv.com/the-real-housewives-of-new-york-city/videos/an-explosive-season

What the fuck happened to the Countess? She went from loony pill head to RAGING TRANNY BITCH. What the fuck is she singing about? Someone drag her out of that recording studio by her gigantic penis. And Jill Zarin you little 2 ball bitch. Friends with Kelly… really? Is Kelly even a person? I think she has a balloon animal for a brain. I’d rather be friends with a community of homosexual mothballs than be friends with Kelly Bensimon. Gross!

I guess I’m glad to see that both Alex and Ramona have really taken some long overdue but positive steps to correct their hairstyles. Kadooze to that. But overall, this upcoming season seems like the hottest hot mess, and then some. And unlike Dr. Drew’s bullshit, Real Housewives NY doesn’t make me sad, so much as it makes me angry, bitter, incensed, and irritated. So basically, I’m going to be an emotionally confused TV zombie until probably the beginning of summer. Like I am not already fucked up enough.

Listen, I don’t want to end this on a depressing note, so here are a few choice gifs I made from the Real Housewives NYC trailer. (If someone could take the second one and put it on a t-shirt and send it to my friend Megan, I would really appreciate it.)

Millionaire Matchmaker – wrong.

On 01.25.10, In bitches, celebrities, hookers, television, wrong strangers, By medicalgohst

Throughout my childhood and preteen years, I watched my friends pathetically obsess over silly toolbag celebrities. With each new issue of Tiger Beat, Teen Bop, and Behind the Scenes of New Kids on the Block, Volume 43, eight year old girls all across the lands known as Central New Jersey and the Bronx, New York were learning to rub one (or fifty two) out. I’d go over to these douchebag girls’ houses and find the walls of their rooms plastered with photos of Mark Paul Gosselar, Devon Sawa (LOL who the fuck, right?), Candace “Jesus Saves” Cameron, and other cardboard cut-out looking pop culture idiots. The combined star power of these boring sacks of vanilla celebrity jizz was -273 degrees Celsius. That’s right, 0 Kelvins. Absolute zero. At the time, I was eating like 15 pudding pops a day, all of which were hotter than these losers.

This is not to say I didn’t have my own celebrity preoccupations. Oh I had them. It’s just that by my third birthday, while most toddlers were still learning to wipe their asses and operate Velcro, I was pissing in toilets from here to Disneyworld, tying my silver high-top Converse shoelaces at record breaking rates, and launching my first independent study into the value of the badass. Sorry Soleil Moon Frye, your dog is cute but you’re as exciting as dentistry school. Sorry Uncle Jesse but your mullet-y rat tail and leather vest aren’t hiding the fact that you hug children and play a lame air guitar. I was looking for some real glamor, some real talent, some real drug abuse, some staying power. So for me, the 1980s were all about The Pointer Sisters. Crimped weaves 10 feet in the air, sequins, catchy pop tunes with covertly perverted sexual lyrics, crack cocaine. Those were some bitches I could plaster on my walls and admire. Even in 1985, a mere three years after my birth, I knew who to worship. I was picking celebs for the long term, and I still love those legends today. 400 year old Ruth Pointer could beat the shoulder-padded shit out of Lady Gaga with one high note and a pinky finger to the eye.

Well the 80s turned into the 90s and so came the summer of 1993. I was in a great mood.

1. I was the boxball champion at camp, thanks to my indefatigable move wherein I would quickly advance to the service square, spin around, and pelt the playground ball at my opponents’ knees, knocking them out of the game and onto the ground.

2. I was going into 5th grade and I was going to rule the school.

3. My friends and I had recently made our heinous camp counselor cry over some notes we wrote about her and hid in the bunk, like “Melanie is a bitch.” Come on, 10 year olds making 19 year olds weep? Talent.

Anyway, I got home from camp one day, watched my usual Designing Women/Amen television lineup, flipped to the evening news and saw this photo:

Heidi Fleiss, Hollywood Madam, arrested for hooker distribution and looking glam as shit. Cute and glam! The first bitch I ever saw rocking a Porsche. My new idol. I followed her case for the whole rest of the 1990s. I watched all the trial coverage. I asked my counselor what prostitution was, then I asked the 6th and 7th grade boys on the camp bus what sex was. I wanted a full understanding of the case. I thought about how if I wasn’t 10 years old and I could drive and wear adult size clothing, I’d get myself some power suits that were one size too big to make me look even skinnier, black pumps, and big black sunglasses. Damn I loved Heidi Fleiss. Still do. Parrots and Pahrump, Nevada laundromat, meth habit, and scrambled egg face. I never thought it was fair that she went to prison for so long! Why would anyone lock up glam like her in a federal prison? She should have been running life for god’s sake, or at least hosting a daytime talk show. When she finally went off to prison I was sad. Like physically sad, I’m 99.999999999% sure I cried. At this point, however, the trial had been going on for several years and I learned that my admiration for Madam Fleiss was not going to be accepted by society (i.e. my mom and my bland-as-whole-wheat-pasta, Jennie Garth-loving friends.) So I shut my face and tried to move on.

Anyway, I continue to hold onto this resentment. I am angry that this whole arrest/prison debacle has turned the most glamorous, powerful women ever into basically batshit crazy roadkill with seven cheeks and a 15-foot upper lip. Then one day in like 2008, I turned my TV to Bravo and caught a show called “The Millionaire Matchmaker.” Basically here’s what happens, a gigantic Jewish woman who is 7% human, 93% Abominable Snowman recruits a bunch of lame, ugly, usually Persian millionaires in Los Angeles into her “Millionaire’s Club” and sets them up with some poor women looking to fuck their way to the bank. Only she calls it a “relationship” and a “dating service” and a “matchmaking tradition”. I call it, “If Heidi Fleiss only had Bravo’s Andy Cohen on her side.”

Patti Stanger, Millionaire Matchmaker... What the fuck is this??

“Millionaire Matchmaker” is some bootleg Heidi Fleiss copycat shit, only no one’s going to federal prison because Andy Cohen probably fucked all of the closeted male FBI agents by now and Patti Stanger threatened to eat them for lunch if they messed with her. This show is basically a bunch of pseudo-rich people choosing a hooker from a pool of pre-screened hookers through an organization run by a Jewish broad. Sounds familiar! Why doesn’t someone arrest this Stangmatic Robot Transformer bitch and cancel her terrible program already! Is it because Patti Stanger tells the grown men and women in her club “No sex before monogamy!!” on television and the tard-watching viewers of America believe they’ll listen? Is it because she forces the men to rush their chosen hooker women through some bullshit 30-minute happy hour so they can go back to some vodka warehouse and take vodka showers and fuck in a pool of vodka? (Real episode.) He paid for her drinks first, it’s not prostitution!

Screw this show. I don’t get it. All Fleiss had to do was call her service a “Matchmaking” service and she would have been free and clear and not subject to lesbian prison rape? I’m probably going to write a letter to Bravo because I want to see who the hell Stanger had to threaten to blow over with her breath in order to get her business approved. This is bullshit. Heidi Fleiss is my American hero.

sex and the city – still wrong.

On 12.08.09, In Upper East Side, physical appearance, stereotypes, By medicalgohst

An Open Letter to all of the middle-aged, gradually shriveling-up women who, 9 years, 19 miscarriages, and 9,000 cosmos later, still think you are actually in Sex and the City:

YOU’RE NOT.

-medicalgohst

p.s. Your tacky blonde highlights do not make me think your pubes aren’t gray.

mistaking caffeine for crack cocaine and vice versa – wrong.

On 11.29.09, In bitches, inappropriate public behavior, morons, things that are wrong, wrong strangers, By medicalgohst

According to my calculations, caffeinated beverages and FDA approved foods do not currently contain any kind of the freebase cocaine product more commonly known as crack. Likewise, I have never seen an episode of COPS where the aging prostitute with shmeared blue eyeliner stains on her cheeks and one shoe was caught smoking cappuccino gas out of the suspicious looking (and smelling) pipe she’d been hiding in her vagina. While these two factoids may seem isolated, I’m here to tell you that they’ve helped me approach an important epiphany of which I’m about to share with you. Caffeine is not the same thing as crack. Crack is not the same thing as a caffeine.

Unless you are between the ages of Fetus and 2 months old, there is absolutely no excuse for you to spaz out like a crazed maniac with rabies after a cup of coffee. I don’t mean to deny that 17 cups of double espressos at 3am might impede a good night’s rest. I do mean to imply that any grown person who has a cup of coffee after lunch and immediately proceeds to act like somebody just shot a potent eight-ball up his/her asshole needs to actually have someone shoot a potent eight-ball up his/her asshole. I mean are you serious people? What kind of home did you grow up in? Was macaroni and cheese drugs too? Were you not allowed to wear your D.A.R.E. t-shirt because it was too risque? Did you take your first drink at age 42? Was it a wine spritzer? Was it Zima? One cup of coffee shouldn’t make you all jittery and unable to concentrate on anything. You shouldn’t have to sprawl out on a cold bathroom floor for thirty minutes to puke and/or sweat it out.

Every time I’m around one of these morons I feel like I am suddenly the lone grown up at the Babysitter’s Club sleepover of my nightmares. I imagine all these adult coffee-tards in flannel PJ sets that are covered in teddy bears (no offense to teddy bears), talking about zits and hickeys and giggling guiltily as they stuff their faces with the chocolate-peanut butter spread they found under someone’s mom’s bed. And then I picture me, sitting in the corner, holding a bottle of Grey Goose and staring at everyone in disgust and confused disbelief. “You can’t have vodka because COFFEE makes you JITTERY?” I yell to them, over and over again. “Kristy? Mary Anne? You won’t even TRY it? You had a Cappuccino and it raised your heartbeat to 239 bpm? What if I mix it with Gerber Baby Apricots or breast milk? What if I let you drink it right out of some lady’s tit?”

And then I’d probably end up knocking the bottle back alone and punching myself in the face repeatedly. This is what I get for attending a sleepover that doesn’t involve penetration, early morning horror, and a clandestine escape.

Just grow up people. Have a cup of coffee and then just sit still! Or shoot some crack in your eyelid, bug out, and try to swallow your own face! Stop getting these reactions twisted already. And remember this mantra next time you see me and your caffeinated beverage in the same room: “COFFEE ISN’T CRACK AND IF I ACT LIKE IT IS, I’LL SOON BE SHOT BY AN ANGRY JEW.”

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strawberry blonde- wrong.

fast-walking in small, enclosed spaces- wrong.

quick survey- wrong/right pls respond/retweet

the peach pit- wrong.

mini backpacks- wrong.

wrong, interrupted. (by reality TV)

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sex and the city – still wrong.

mistaking caffeine for crack cocaine and vice versa – wrong.

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