Karisa Tells All

The Top 6 Worst Offenses in Christmas Lyric Writing

2011-12-12T11:46:00.000-06:00

There's nothing I love more than dwelling on the worst parts of each holiday. There's just something so festive about pointing out those holiday black sheep that don't seem to fit in with the warm/fuzzy parts. Sure, hot cocoa by the fire while grandpa reads Twas the Night Before Christmas is idyllic and classic, but grandma getting run over by a reindeer is just so much more realistic. This year I've realized that there are actually a bunch of messed up Christmas songs out there, and I'm not even talking about really obscure songs like Uncle Johnny's Glass Eye. I all but guarantee you've heard the following horrifying song lyrics before.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus:

There's something so bizarre about a child peeping on his mom and jolly ol' Saint Nick. Why is his mom cheating on his dad? Why would she choose a fat, red-suited man with cookie crumbs in his beard to do it with? Why does mommy "tickle Santa Clause/Underneath his beard so snowy white?" And why does the child think it would be "a laugh" if daddy had discovered them?? The only thing that could possibly make these lyrics worse is hearing Michael Jackson's childhood voice shouting "I did see Mama kissing Santa Claus! You gotta believe me!"

Santa Baby:

In the same vein, any song that involves the phrases "Santa baby," "Santa honey," or the worst offender, "Santa cutie," is creepy in my book. There's just nothing sexy about a man who looks like Rip Van Winkle. There's a reason children always cry when they sit on his lap. Thinking about someone flirting with him in exchange for a duplex and checks makes me really regret ever sitting on his lecherous lap.

Do They Know It's Christmas:

This seems to be the absolute worst execution of a fund-raiser in history. Bringing awareness to a famine by pointing out that the famine-struck may not even know about the amazing time all of us rich folk are having? I'm not so sure they would know that it's Christmas time, considering they're not part of Western civilization and all. Someone should tell Bono that there are other cultures in the world. And that he sounds like an ass singing "Tonight thank God it's them/instead of you." And that U2 sucks.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town:

"He sees you when you're sleeping/He knows when you're awake." Much has already been said about how effing scary this is. When I was a kid and believed in Santa Claus, it scared the shit out of me. If he sees me sleeping, does he also see me peeing? If he knows when I'm awake, does he also know when I'm picking a wedgie? If he truly knows if I've been bad or good...why did he keep bringing me presents?

Christmas Shoes:

Very few things annoy me more than unnecessarily sad movies and songs. This little gem is unfortunately both a movie and a song, and it may very well be an email chain letter as well. Besides the fact that it's unnecessarily sad, it just doesn't make sense that you would spend you life savings on a pair of hideous shoes to put on a woman who won't be able to wear them for more than a few hours. Also what happened to Rob Lowe? He used to be hot.

Any song by Regis Philbin:

Why does he have a Christmas album? Why does he sing? Why does he look the same as he did 15 years ago?

This is just a small sampling of the horrifying song lyrics I jovially sing along to when I have The Lite turned on. Which is to say, all the damn time. Which songs am I missing?

How Even I Couldn't Ruin The Proposal

2011-05-18T22:03:00.005-05:00

No, I'm not talking about the vehicle through which Betty White revitalized her career. I'm talking about the event that turned this guy into my fian-SAY. The Proposal actually took place almost 2 months ago, but it took me this long to wrap my mind around the glorious flurry of emotions. Which is to say, I was too lazy to write. And I’ve had writer’s block since February 8th, apparently.

Here’s how that shiz went down. I drove up to Milwaukee—the land of beer, cheese, and the bronze Fonz—to visit by boyf one weekend, like I often do. We were planning on taking a mini trip up to Cedarburg—the land of wool, old people, and more wool—the next day.

As I was getting ready to go to sleep Friday night at around 11 PM (what can I say—I’m old. I’m practically a dad), the boyf announced that he’d be waking me up early in the morning.

“Exactly how early?” I questioned. I’m a details person and, let’s face it, the wool could wait. He told me 5 AM.

“What?!” as if I didn’t realize the world even existed at such an ungodly hour. Then he told me he’d made surprise breakfast reservations for us, so we had to get there on time.

“Food! Well, okay then.” And just like that, he was able to convince me to get up at 5 AM. Easy as pie—and it damn well better be a la mode.

The next morning as we were driving to “Cedarburg,” he popped in a mixed CD he’d made for the occasion. Love song after love song after meaningful song after beautiful ballad played, and I sang along loudly and annoyingly, the prospect of food on the very near horizon keeping my spirits high.

When he got off the highway downtown and pulled into a parking lot near the lake, I got confused. “What’s this? This isn’t Cedarburg. Where’s the restaurant? Why’d you bring mini muffins in the car?” (To be honest, I still don’t know why he brought mini muffins. This has plagued me for the past 2 months.)

He told me we were going to watch the sunrise. This was my REAL surprise. I have to admit, I was slightly disappointed to not be going to breakfast, but then I realized that no self-respecting restaurant would be open before the sun was up anyway. I had to admit defeat—I’d been duped. Watching the sunrise sounded beautiful and wonderful and romantic, and it was something I’d been wanting to do for a while, but I was never able to drag my lazy rear out of bed in time.

“Great!” I said. “We’ve got a great view from here too.” But he informed me that we’d be watching it up close, from outside the car. Might I add that it was March in Milwaukee, by the lake, and it was indeed snowing?

This is what the Milwaukee lakefront sunrise would have looked like if it hadn't been SNOWING.

After hemming and hawing and forcing him to get the itchy-scratchy emergency blanket from his trunk, I agreed to walk to the shore with him. The 100 feet we walked was the coldest walk of my life (not true at all, actually), and the whole time I kept begging him to let us watch the majesty of the friggin sunrise from the warmth of his car.

“Boyf, I realize how romantic and wonderful this gesture is, so can we just watch from the car and I’ll still give you boyfriend points for the effort?” I begged. He insisted that we just stand there for a little while. Then he started saying nice things to me—things I can’t repeat here because they made my insides melt and my knees shake and my eyes water, and that would make me lose all my street cred—and before I knew it, he was down on one knee and there was some bling on my finger. I interrupted him, as usual, to say yes, and followed that up with “can we go back to the car now?”

When we got back to the car, my fian-SAY and I watched the sun come up and immediately disappear behind some clouds, while the veritable blizzard raged all around us. And we ate mini muffins.

Top 5 Things To Love About Guilty Pleasures

2011-02-08T21:02:00.005-06:00

I sat down on the couch just now with a laptop in one hand, a remote control in the other, and a glass of Carlo Rossi dangling precariously from my teef. Basically, it’s my ideal night. I scrolled through the DVR in search of a Carlo Rossi worthy show, and realized I didn’t have anything recorded that I would feel comfortable admitting to watching. Every show I watch has to meet 3 criteria: it must be a reality show, the stars of the show must have significantly worse lives than me, and every character must be impossibly unlikable.

Right now, I’m watching a woman with an unidentifiable, vaguely East coast accent yell at her lipless hoe-bag daughter for being too hung over to care for her child. Teen Mom just reminds me of all of the opportunities for motherhood that I squandered when I was a teen.

So why is it that I waste my life away watching the most unfortunate people in America get rich off their inadequacies? Why are guilty pleasures so alluring? And why am incapable of enjoying a TV show that has any sort of cinematic integrity? Why am I asking so many rhetorical questions?

Top 5 Things To Love About Guilty Pleasures

I spend all day thinking—what should I wear to work, when should I eat my morning granola bar, boxers or briefs—so it’s nice to shut the ol’ gray matter down for the evening. (Even with my brain on snooze, I’m still smarter than the unitards gallivanting across the boob tube anyway.)
The way I see it, there are 3 types of people in the world: those who can’t stand crappy television, music, food, etc., those who watch and enjoy guilty pleasures “ironically,” and those who are too dumb to know the meaning of “ironically” and are vying for a spot on next season’s “So You Think You Can Talk with a Southern Accent.” Two of these 3 types of people are miserable, so I choose the group that is content. Unfortunately, that means I must do things “ironically.”
Observing Snooki’s oddly misshapen weeble bod writhe across a beer-soaked dance floor makes me feel so much better about myself. Listening to the incomprehensible mumbling of the hillbilly baby daddies on 16 and Pregnant, watching the girls on Bridalplasty fight for boob jobs, and seeing which high-heeled hoe gets a rose just makes my life look like the bomb.com.
Reality show producers are somehow even more genius than legitimate television executives, because they find a way to make anything interesting, even people fighting over abandoned storage units. And who would have thought I’d enjoy watching some sweaty guy gorge himself on briske t?
It seems so wrong, but it feels so right.

How I Know I'm Becoming an A-dult

2011-01-12T22:08:00.008-06:00

This week I realized I’m an adult. That’s pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable, in order to make it sound even more mature. Although I was told by approximately 3 relatives at my bro’s wedding this weekend that I look like a 12-year-old, I am suddenly being treated as a full-grown a-dult. Don’t believe me? Read on.

Someone asked me how my day was today and I literally said, “ugh, the traffic was terrible.” Now that I don’t have important things to worry about like what to wear to the dance and how I’m going to sleep my way to an A in Bio, I find myself complaining about the menial drudgery of the bourgeoisie, which is to say, traffic. Also gas prices and the increase in income tax (seriously what’s up with that?)

This is child's play compared to my commute.

A friend told me she’d gone to bed at 9:00 a few nights ago and I was insanely jealous. Like, jealous enough to stay up all night thinking about how lucky she was. I tried to get to bed earlier the next night, but I somehow got distracted doing such responsible chores as flossing my teef, making my lunch for the next day, and organizing my cozy sock collection.

Here's a little cozy sock pr0n for your private enjoyment.

I’m going on a business trip in a few weeks, which includes a company dinner, expense reports, business cards, and “networking.” I was told to dress appropriately and wear comfortable shoes, and when mentally packing my suitcase, I realized that everything I own is both appropriate and, yes, even comfortable now.

After I get home from work every night, all I want to do is kick the cat, light up my pipe, and tell my wife to call me daddy. Unfortunately, I have neither a cat nor a pipe nor a wife, and dinner just doesn’t make itself. I rinse my dishes before they go into the dishwasher and I like it. I’ve even accepted the fact that nothing thrills me or satisfies me more than watching food remnants get washed from a plate.

Here's some more domestic pr0n for you. You're welcome.

I’ve taken up scrapbooking and sewing. I have yet to make a tea cozy or use the phrase “it’s your day” in a scrapbook layout, but I have stooped low enough to call it a “layout,” and I have contemplated making a tea cozy. The only thing that’s stopping me is the fact that I don’t drink tea (yet). Perhaps I should start since I’m an a-dult now.

Don't you wish I'd made a birthday card for you? It is your day, after all.

I’m watching the news right now. Tom Skilling is babbling about cold fronts and wind chills, and all I can think about is how it’ll affect my commute (see bullet 1).

Speaking of things that a-dults ingest, who would have thought I’d drink coffee and wine, and eat sushi and even, dare I admit it, feta cheese? I actually care about trans fats and hypertension and juice from a bottle instead of a box. I’ve yet to try wine from a box, but I fear my venture into adulthood will prohibit this. I really missed the Franzia boat, unfortunately.

Not pictured: adults

There was an after party after my bro’s wedding this weekend, and I had to be figuratively dragged there. The call of my warm, cozy bed was so tempting. I managed to spend a sober hour at the after party, grimacing superiorly at all of the drunkies, before succumbing to the sweet slumber of middle age back at the hotel. Speaking of sweet slumber, my cozy sock collection is calling out to me.

5 of My Biggest Fears that are Coming True

2010-11-15T22:11:00.006-06:00

I know Halloween is over, but my life and the general world is actually becoming scarier and scarier post-All Hallows Eve. Every day a new terrifying thing happens to me, such as losing the remote control or running out of diet Pepsi. And in addition to those travails, my biggest fears IN LIFE are getting closer and closer to coming true with ever uneasy breath I take. Here are a few of the scariest things I can think of, all of which are threatening to overtake the world.

That Paris Hilton will stop being in the news on a regular basis.

This is the side of Paris we’re not seeing enough of lately.

You know the last time our beloved Paris did anything newsworthy? August. Where once I couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing her (mostly because I was turning it on with the express purpose of watching "The Simple Life"), I now can’t even remember what she looks like. Yesterday I read an entire issue of US Weekly that literally had zero mentions of her. The last time she was featured on Perez Hilton was nearly a month ago, under the headline “Paris Hilton Is Done With Partying!” I am ashamed to live in a world where Paris does not play a bigger role in the news. Shame on you, America.

That I will die without ever seeing someone slip on a banana peel.

They tried to make her slip on a banana peel and she said no, no, no. And then she slipped on it. How the HELL did I miss this story?

Every day that goes by is yet another missed opportunity. I’m not getting any younger, people! While slipping on a banana peel is as common in cartoons and slapstick comedies as eating hamburgers is in David Hasselhoff’s life, I have never actually seen it happen IRL. You’d think the combination of the frequency with which bananas are consumed in this country coupled with the coefficient of friction of banana-peel-on-linoleum would affect the incidence of this highly comedic scenario. I even eat a banana at work nearly every day in hopes that this will be the day. If I’m on my death bed and still haven’t seen this happen, whoever is lovingly clutching my hand, waiting for the will to be released, better friggin orchestrate a banana peel accident, at the very friggin least.

That I will become one of those people who can’t figure out technology.

I even spew unidentified bits when I’m shaking my threatening fist at the teev.

My job in college mostly consisted of asking people “Is it plugged in? Did you turn it on? Try restarting it” and then smiling modestly when they praised me for being a technological genius and helping them fix their computer/VCR/projector. I used to mock these idiots, but I fear that I’m following in their dinosaurish footsteps. We got this new-fangled TV that came with a separate cable box (who knows why this is even necessary?) and every time I press the “all on” button on the remote—because of course there aren’t buttons on the actual TV anymore—the TV goes on but the cable box doesn’t, or vice versa. Then I stand there jabbing at random buttons, cursing Sony, wishing for a simpler time. It is the most annoying thing in the world and it makes me miss the good old days, before television had been invented.

That I do the white man overbite in da club.

I can’t believe there’s a site called “Lolbamas.”

This isn’t coming true—it came true. I dance like an uncoordinated, suburban, white male. I dance like Billy Crystal in "When Harry Met Sally." I undo all of the orthodontic magic my parents paid for back in ’03 every time a good Gaga song comes on. I even do the weird, erratic arm movements to accompany the toothy display. Luckily, as I mentioned in my banana peel fear, I’m not getting any younger. Hopefully I will soon reach an age where I am either expected to never dance again or it is at least understood that I would be bad at it.

That I will start to like Josh Groban.

He completely ruined "O Holy Night" for me. Thank God for Mariah.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I have bad taste in nearly everything. I think SJP is pretty. I own knock-off moon boots. I can’t get enough of "Secret Life of the American Teenager". But my bad taste is exceptionally badd (that means badd to the bone) when it comes to music. I heard a Susan Boyle song the other day—and I liked it. I broke down and put a Justin Bieber song on my workout playlist. I even stopped changing the station when Taylor Swift songs come on the air. The next logical step is Josh Groban, and that is an anxiety that haunts me in the loneliest hours of the night.

How to Have a Horrifying Halloween

2010-10-26T22:34:00.005-05:00

Okay, I get that everybody loves Halloween. What’s not to love? If you’re a kid you get to dress up as something totally disgusting and creepy, eat all the candy you want, and egg Mr. Wilson’s house. If you’re an adult, you get to dress up as something totally disgusting and slutty, drink all the Halloween cocktails you want and…well, that’s about it. But I like talking about the bad sides of stuff. So you can use this guide to determine what not to do this Halloween, or if you’re a sadist, you can follow my advice exactly.

Eat the Most Horrifying Candy:

Candy corn looks so innocent and colorful, but what they don’t tell you is that it tastes like ASS. And don’t even get me started on those little pumpkin things. WHAT THE HECK?

I’ll personally be out in full forces with the best of the 12-year-olds this Halloween night, so I’ll have easy access to every variety of candy. But even if you’d rather sit at home listening to the Monster Mash, you’ll probably indulge in some sort of Halloween candy that will plunge you into a tunnel of despair so deep that only more candy or perhaps a bowl of ice cream could cure it. If you’d like to have a truly horrifying Halloween, make sure you eat extra Tootsie Rolls, Necco Wafers, and Fun Dip. Check out this article on the Top Ten Worst Halloween Candies for more tips.

Wear a Horrifying Costume:

You truly haven’t lived until you’ve done a keg stand dressed as Big Bird.

Try to restrain yourself from buying a bed intruder costume (it’s a daily struggle for me as well) or a Snooki wig or even last year’s Kate Gosselin costume on clearance. If you want to have a truly horrifying Halloween, you’ll need to slut it up a little bit more. And no, your kindergarten French maid costume and your slutty clown costume from ’08 are not going to cut it. I’m talking slutty AND scary, like, say a Sassy Cookie Monster or an “I’ll-Tickle-You-There Elmo.”

Stay Home and Wallow in Self Pity:

SJP was lookin fly, even in ’93! Okay fine, she does look like a foot.

If you wanna go truly horrifying this Halloween, I suggest your park your La-Z-Boy near your front window and settle in for a long night of Hocus Pocus and Halloweentown II: Kalabar's Revenge, all the while staring down the little brats who audaciously ring your bell. Might I also suggest you fill a bowl with candy and cradle it lovingly as your eat every last morsel during your G-rated Halloween marathon, never bothering to get up off your Ms. Fat Booty to answer the door.

Or Have a Sad Night on the Town:

This picture never ceases to amuse me. I haven’t been sad since I first discovered it last April.

If your life in general is already horrifying enough that you’ve already seen both Hocus Pocus and Halloweentown this year, then I suggest you go out. Make sure you wear one of the aforementioned horrifying costumes and spend the night bumpin’ and grindin’ to "The Monster Mash," "Thriller," and the Ghostbusters song. For added horror, why not chat up a hottie wearing a chicken suit or a banana costume. And if you really want to go to the extreme, dance with both a chicken AND a banana, then let them brawl with each other over your true love and devotion, because remember: there is nothing funnier IN THE WORLD than a man in a chicken suit fighting with a man in a banana costume.

Guest Post: Something Special from Wisconsin Weighs In

2010-10-16T09:41:00.006-05:00

Some people weren't too pleased about my treatment of cheese heads earlier. The ol bf's roommate, a native of the land of cheese, was riled up enough to write back a Wisconsin style rebuttal. If you want to read more of his Wisconsinish witticisms, make sure you check out his blog, Cream City MSTP, about the trials and tribulations of becoming a double doctor.

*******************************************************************************************************

A few weeks ago, I was asked to serve as the inaugural first quasi-annual guest blog post author guy of KTA, a title I have been secretly pining for quite some time.

For those who aren't aware, KTA provides a valuable niche service, in that it informs and offers opinions on the happenings in pop culture. I often catch myself wondering why there aren't more blogs to handle this, but then I rationalize that it must be because the author does such a great job. [ed. note: you rationalized correctly.]

The blog is miraculous. Hence, you can understand the shot that was taken at the great state of Wisconsin, an assault I will be spending the majority of my time addressing in a new segment I am hereby dubbing

Raman Kutty's Inaugural First Quasi-Annual "Wisconsin is Better Than You Bitches" Guest Blog Post.

I'm sorry but You asked for this.

1. Wisconsin. The University.
The best party on the planet has been draping Badgers in cardinal and white since 1848 and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. How much better is Wisconsin than you, you ask?

Sorry, your silly little school ain't crazy enough for me.

2. It's both size AND how you use it.
Chicagoans, for some Godforsaken reason, are enamored with their hot dogs. I do not understand this (although I do suspect Penis Envy). What, you put a pickle on it and now it's the shit? No, it's not. Allow me to explain:

While you southerners were getting all excited about your franks, the Germans of Wisconsin were working hard on something far better: the Bratwurst. The comparison between the two goes something along the lines of a Mickey Avalon song. The Brat is "mine" and the hotdog is, well, "yours".

Also, it's what you do with it. Chicagoans are all about sitting around eating it or doing whatever it is they do. I'll let you in on a secret: tailgating. No one does it better than Wisconsin. It is something that ties our entire state together. Hunters and PETA, Gays and Evangelicals, Kanye and Taylor Swift...they all can get together for a good ol' fashioned tailgate. Additionally, there is always one happening. See: Green Bay Packers, Milwaukee Brewers, UW-Madison sports, fishing, etc. Throw in a game of bags and a brewski or two and it's pure magic.

Oh boy, look at THAT.

Further, ketchup goes on a hot dog. Kraut and mustard go on a brat. Please accept this so we can move on. [ed. note: for the record, ketchup does not go on a hot dog.]

3. Even your criminals suck.
Most notorious Illinois criminals? Al Capone, Blagojevic...blah blah blah. All of them didn't really do anything novel, they ran gangs, sold senate seats, etc. Hell, even I've done that, and I'm a med student. Whatever. Ed Gein made lampshades out of PEOPLE (in all fairness, it really did bring the room together). Jeffy Dahmer? Google it.

4. Chris lives here.
Not that i feel this is a terribly important point, but you can't argue it and like him at the same time.

5. Illinois is a wasteland.
You know this. I know this. Proof? You FIBS love to complain about how awful the state is, yet we're overwhelmed just counting the cash after you leave every summer. If Illinois is so effin great, go vacation there. You know this isn't true and that's why you're hanging out in the Dells, Waupaca, the north woods - essentially all over this great state (much to my personal dismay). The sooner you admit to your inferiority, the better off we will all be. [ed. note: did you really just cite THE DELLS when arguing why Wisconsin is better???]

But what do I care? I mean, this additional tax base only helped to pay my cover fee to the greatest party on earth (see #1). Thanks!

6 (BONUS!) Population statistics.
Coasties are native to your state. They are not to Wisconsin. It's atrocious and I strongly suggest you do something about it. Wisco: Coastie free. Game, set match.

I will, however, concede that we do often smoke more than we eat. I've gone through a pack just writing this damn post, and with the prices we pay for cigs these days, it's no surprise that us poor huddled Wisconsinite masses choose smokes over food. You would too if you were as poor, uneducated and useless as we are.

So, that concludes Raman Kutty's Inagural First Quasi-Annual "Wisconsin is Better Than You Bitches" Guest Blog Post. With that out of the way, I can serve as a KTA-Tell-All and fill you in on a piece of news that has been bugging me for some time now.

Brett Favre.

Ok, so here's the deal: let's rewind to early 2008. Brett retires. Well, no not really. Ok yeah he did. No, he's coming back, but going to the Jets. Anyway, while playing for the Jets, Deanna let him off the leash just long enough to meet the fine Ms. Jenn Sterger of FSU fame. Apparently she wasn't much into him, but being the fierce competitor he is, he went for her anyway. Fast forward to 2010: news breaks that Bretty texted pictures of Little Brett to Sterger. October 2010: alleged pictures released on the website Deadspin.

A few observations, if I may (and I will, con mucho gusto):

1. Seriously? What was your thought process here, Brett? "Well, she wasn't a big fan of my insane career and southern personality...think Brett, think....GOT IT! DICK PIC!" In the words of Ed Lover, "C'mon SON!" Getthefeckoutofherewiththatshitbrett.

2. Ineffective and moronic decisions aside, has this ever worked? I'm not the right person to ask here, but I feel that if a lady got that in her inbox, there's little reason for her to feel compelled to make a move on it. After all, she knows it's there...whatever.

3. People are arguing that it's not actually Brett, instead some impostor who was messing with a) Brett Favre b) Jenn Sterger c) the Jets and d) the American public. That's stupid. And I can prove it's not true. Here's how:
Ever been in a locker room before? For those of you that have not, towels are...optional. In other words, there's an offensive line or two who have seen Little Bretty plenty (and I'm not insinuating that he sexted them too...though that would be RICH beyond words). I have yet to hear anyone step up and say, yeah, I've seen the real thing, those pics ain't the real deal. Granted, it may raise a few eyebrows, but for a bunch of guys who get paid to take shots to the head to protect him, a shallow homoerotic accusation is to be taken in stride.

4. As a future clinician, it would be well to discuss the effect this is having on Brett's game. After all, that's the point of a guest writer, right? Anyway, if you missed the Monday night game this week, you either a) missed nothing (aka, are from Minnesota and therefore are a moron) or b) missed a meltdown. Brett was shaky, uncoordinated and generally not himself - that is, until the 4th quarter where he got it together and threw a game-ending INT, true to his usual form. This isn't surprising as these symptoms are indicative of Stergeritis; look for a forthcoming case report in JAMA next month, authored by none other than yours truly. Unfortunately, the prognosis is grim and will eventually lead to liquidation of 50% of his assets, amongst other malignancies. Undoubtedly, bed rest is the best course of action, as the patient is historically sensitive to vicodin.

That's all for now folks. Check back here for more pithy posts, and moreover, check out creamcitymstp.blogspot.com for the perspective of a not-so-soon-to-be MD/PhD. Peace, Love and screw the Bears.

Made: Decoupaged Wall Art

2010-10-14T20:30:00.010-05:00

FaveCrafts is hosting its first blog hop today so I decided to post another installment of the “crap I’ve made” series. See previous installments here, here, here, here, and here. I’ve been redoing my room pretty much all summer, and one of my first projects after painting the walls was to decoupage some wooden plaques to hang on the walls. I got the idea from Better Homes and Garden s. Of course theirs looks better, but that’s mostly because my photo-taking skills are practically nonexistent.

I started with wooden plaques of various shapes and sizes from Michael’s and painted them with the same stuff I used for the walls. I don’t know if they make paint specifically for using with wooden plaques, but the wall paint sufficed. Then I traced the plaque shapes onto pieces of 12x12 scrapbook paper and cut out the shapes.

I used Mod Podge and a sponge brush and coated the top of each plaque before placing the paper shapes on top. Then I added another layer of Mod Podge on top of the paper to seal it down. This is what decoupaging is, in case you’ve ever wondered.

The paper got wrinkly when it got wet from the glue, but it smoothed out when it dried, and it got all shiny and cool looking.

I made a bunch of different ones with different papers, arranged them how I liked, and hung them on the wall.

I’m linking up here:

This is not a test. Actually, it is.

2010-10-09T10:43:00.006-05:00

I think my blog is broken. The last post, which was amazing BTW, never made it into the feed. Speaking of that, you should subscribe to my RSS feed. There's a little box to the left (to the left) that'll help you out with that. Maybe I shouldn't have admitted that it was broken before soliciting subscribers...But I'm sure it's going to work now.

And while you're at it, like me on Facebook.

The People of a Pink Floyd Concert

2010-10-02T17:43:00.007-05:00

You’ve all been to that blog called People of Walmart, right? There are all these different varieties and subcategories of Walmart denizens, documented efficiently and conveniently in one spot. Well, I think the same should happen for Pink Floyd concert goers. If you know anything about life, you know the types of people you would expect to see at a Pink Floyd concert. As someone who attended a Roger Waters concert in Chicago last week, I can safely assure you that the clientele was exactly as you would expect.

Type 1: Moms who want to remind themselves and everyone else that they used to be cool

Is it just me, or does every mom have this hair?

Before stretch marks, mom jeans, Martha Stewart hair, mini-vans, and dirty dishes took over their lives, these women were groovy. They dated garage band musicians, sometimes stayed out past 10 o’clock, and participated in Vietnam War protesting lite. Pink Floyd reminds them of their glory days when the government was not to be trusted and recreational drug use was something to “experiment” with, instead of something to “just say no” to. These moms have even been known to say “I used to be cool, ya know,” to their kids. “I used to groove to Floyd! I listened to that music before you were even a twinkle in the milk man’s eye!” At the concert last week, these moms wore an alarming combination of high-waisted, pleated, tapered jeans and Floyd t-shirts they’d probably purchased at Kohls for the occasion. They showed up in groups or with their reluctant, republican husbands and, for a minute, remembered what they used to live for before procreation ruined their chances at a halfway decent life.

Type 2: High school boys who feel that Pink Floyd lyrics really get what they’re going through

Don't even try to understand him. He is misunderstood.

High school boys of this variety (usually the offspring of the aforementioned moms) can be identified by their long hair and Dark Side of the Moon t-shirts, which they wear through the halls of “that hell-hole” of a high school they attend. Despite the strong anti-Apple undertones in last week’s concert, they are never seen without ear buds blasting Floyd loud enough that posers can hear and be jealous that they’re not cool enough to like Pink Floyd music. They carve anarchy symbols into the desks at school, oblivious to any and all political science theories about the effectiveness of anarchy, never having paid attention in government class. All these boys know about government is that it’s bad. They can’t tell what’s better, anarchy or communism, but either one has to be better than what we’ve got. These high school boys express their love of Floyd and their superiority for liking their music through status updates filled with obscure lyrics. If you haven’t heard of a song they quote and you’re stupid enough to ask “what does this mean?” they’ll respond with “You’ve never heard this song before…?” The kiss of death.

Type 3: Alternative/Hipster Guys

You know what, dude? You both have the same hair, so STFU.

If I had a dollar for every guy I saw at this concert with ironic facial hair and jeans that bordered on jeggings territory, I’d have about enough money to pay for a ticket to that concert. These guys are cool mostly because they’re not you. Their M.O. is similar to that of the high school boys’, in that no one understands their plight save for a few aging British rockers whose lyrics really speak to them. The difference is that the high school boys are mainly terrified of uncool people, whereas the hipsters are more concerned with the intellectual degradation of society. I mean, at least Pink Floyd songs talk about real world issues unlike that damn Justin Beiber, they’ll argue. Not that they’ve ever heard any of his songs…That’s his name, right? Bieber? They wouldn’t know because they’re too busy making sure to avoid modern day pop culture. See How to Be Cool.

Type 4: Ex-sorority girls and other beautiful types

You know that time Paris Hilton dated "punk" "rocker" Benji Madden? It's the same concept.

They heard it was cool to like Pink Floyd. They lived through high school, observing all the cool shaggy-haired hotties carving miscellaneous political messages into the desks, and then they dated a few hipsters whose blatant disdain for their Miley Cyrus affinity only turned them on more. In order to attract more v-neck-wearing, mustache-waxing douchebags, these girls have to be proactive and seek out these rarest roses in their natural habitat. And when asked what they like most about Pink Floyd, their response is invariable “their music is, like, so deep and so meaningful. And I just love all the fireworks and stuff!”

Type 5: Middle aged people who smoke more than they eat and probably drove down from Wisconsin

This is what lives in Wisconsin, in case you've never been.

Sorry to throw my neighboring Midwesterners under the bus, but it’s true. You’re all poorly dressed with 80s hair and bad teeth. These people have scary, scratchy voices from literally decades of puffing on cigs, and they use these voices to their advantages when verbally abusing their children and forcing them to fetch another can of beer for them. If I had liked Pink Floyd back in the 70s, I would much rather have become a member of the mom-jeans mafia than this scary group. Since I live in Illinois and not Wisconsin, I’m guessing that I would have gotten my wish. Oh, by the way, it wasn’t cigarettes they were smoking at the concert last week.

Did you like Pink Floyd back in the day? Do you own a Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt? (if so, get out)

Stupid Crap “Recording Artists” Do

2010-09-14T22:18:00.003-05:00

I don’t know what’s more of a euphemism, calling the likes of Jason Derulo a recording artist or calling him a musician. On the one hand, “recording artist” reeks a little of “custodial engineer.” Can we just call a spade a spade and admit that “Jason Derulo” and “artist” should never be used in the same sentence again? On the other hand, “musician” implies that the person creates music, not that the person cranks out some flat notes that get auto-tuned.

My long commutes to and from work mean a lot of radio-listening time, and I seem to be attracted to the worst possible music. Like, music that’s so bad it offends me that it considers itself music (I’m gonna go ahead and cite Jason Derulo again). Through my hours and hours of masochistic “music” consumption, I’ve noticed a trend in the music industry—namely, recording artists do a lot of stupid crap.

Saying Their Own Name
I hate to keep mentioning Jason Derulo, especially since I’ve never even wiki-ed him, but what the heck is wrong with him? Every song he does starts with “Jason Deruuuulo!”

Just watch/listen to the first 6 seconds of this video to hear what I’m talking about. Feel free to turn it off after that; I know I did.

Other offenders of this gaffe are the Backstreet Boys, India.Arie, and Mike Jones.

Again, only watch the first 10 seconds. What kind of a name is Mike Jones anyway? If you're going to say your name in a song, it better not be Mike Jones! That's the name of an uncle or something.

Rhyming a Word with Itself
I already ripped JT a new one for rhyming “errors” with “areas,” but at least he tried. Kid Rock, on the other hand, does not try. One day he’s brawling in a waffle house, and the very next he’s rhyming “thing” with “thing.” In his song “All Summer Long,” in which he defiles both “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Werewolves of London,” he croons the lines: “While we were trying different things/We were smoking funny things.” And he expects us not to notice that it’s the same word? (Admittedly, I didn’t notice until I’d heard the song a couple hundred times, but still.) He also expects us not to question what kinds of things he’s smoking? How many different things are there to smoke? I can only think of like five things, and that’s including oregano.

Making Random Sounds to Avoid Writing Actual Lyrics
I have to give my homie Lauren credit for this one, as she’s the original whistle-blower. But what is it about hip-hop songs and what sounds like a group of thugs standing in a cluster shouting “Eyyyyy!”?

I decided that the country music version of this idiocy is the “Yeeaaahhh-eeeee!”

Do yourself a huge favor and don’t watch this whole video. I did, and I regret it immensely. Just skip to the end (around 3:52) to hear it. Also check out 1:11 for a good laugh.

County singers also like to say random crap like “Grab me another beer, Mama,” and “I’ll cut a rug!” when there’s a musical interlude.

Singing about Being Famous
There’s nothing inherently wrong with this. I mean, you should write what you know, right? That is, if you’re actually writing your own music, which these “recording artists” sure as hell aren’t. Britney Spears’s “Piece of Me” comes to mind, where she waxes poetic about being “Miss American Dream since I was 17” and having “Pictures of my derriere in the magazine.” And don’t even get me started on Reba McIntyre’s “Turn on the Radio.” The title itself is too much for me. She spends the entire song talking about how you can hear her on the radio or some crap, a fact that is painfully obvious to me seeing as I can’t turn on the radio without hearing this awful song.

What other stupid crap do “recording artists” try to pull?

4 Trends I Guarantee You'll Regret

2010-08-22T14:03:00.012-05:00

There was once a time when I thought pairing a sweater vest with coordinating stirrup leggings would make me a better person. I distinctly recall telling someone that I thought the coolest way to dress was to tie a flannel shirt around your waist over a white t-shirt.

Courtney Love was always who I turned to for fashionspiration.

Throughout the 90s, no hair accessory aisle at Walgreens went unsearched in my quest for butterfly hair clips, and when I finally curated an adequate collection, I had no qualms about wearing them to school, to the mall, on holidays, even at church. I mixed sparkly clips with metallic clips and mini clips, and even butterfly clips that were shaped like dragon flies (is nothing sacred anymore?). All the while I thought “I am cool because of my sweater vest/stirrup pants/butterfly clips.”

The faux corn rows really helped bring butterfly clips to the mainstream.

If you’re a decent human being, I’m sure you realize the irony in the fact that I was, indeed, cool in spite of my fashion decisions, not because of them. Why do we regret buying into stupid trends but continue to follow them even as we cringe at our past self’s forage into high-heeled gym shoes (and by “we” I supposed I mean me)? I started thinking about what terrible trends I could possibly be following right now that will humiliate me in future years. Unfortunately, I came up with quite a few.

1. Big Hair:

I craved this kind of poof symmetry!

I attempted the bangs poof for most of high school and college, though I never seemed to get it quite right. I think that makes me worse though because that’s like saying “I tried to make my jeans look acid washed but I even failed at that.” I already told you I’ve worn bump-its in public and also done (less guidette) variations on the Snooki (although mostly in the privacy of my own dorm. Let’s not get too upset here).

2. Leggings:

She'll regret this.

I regret wearing them in the 90s, so why am I wearing them now? In fact, why am I wearing them while I point and laugh at pictures of my childhood self wearing them? Sure, there’s no stirrup in sight, but they’re still leggings for God’s sake. Thankfully I never wore leggings in place of pants and I never wore metallic leggings or jeggings. But there’s still time…

3. Enormous Hair Accessories:

Why can’t I find one this size anywhere? I sense a DIY project…

Every time I put a giant bow, flower, or other monstrosity in my hair, I just know that my children will laugh at pictures of me wearing it. Yet I wear them anyway, and I still feel like I’m a better person for it. I learned nothing from Butterfly Clipgate.

4. Gladiator Sandals:

Just try to resist their allure! You will FAIL.

I tried really hard not to like these. They’re unflattering, uncomfortable, weird-tan-line-inducing, man repellents. I don’t even think they’re pretty or cute or pleasing to the eye. And yet, somewhere along the way, I decided I needed some. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve never worn sandal boots or Goliath straps all over my feet. But I did break down and buy these. Give it a few years and I’ll regret that purchase more than I regret passing on the opportunity to see BSB in concert.

I conducted some scientific research into the matter, and here is a summation of the results, in case you're interested:

The Rise and Fall of the Gladiator Sandal (OR, How Terrible Trends Happen)

What trends do you regret wearing in public? What trends are you wearing right now that you're already ashamed of?

The Worst Commenters on the Entire Internet. Ever.

2010-08-10T22:28:00.007-05:00

Remember back in the day when we could spew whatever hateful sludge we wanted on the internet without worrying that anyone would ever find us? I used to write all kinds of messed up stuff—posting message board threads on Neopets asking if anyone was interested in “secks,” and then verbally abusing anyone who took the bait, answering m/f/18/ca when I was asked a/s/l, sending vitriolic (yet very articulate) hate email to the bonsai kitty guy…

But now that there are cyberbullying laws in effect, and I’m aware of things like IP addresses, analytics software, and the myriad other ways that the internet is basically just like that movie Sliver, I’ve toned down my spamming, trolling, idiotic ways. And perhaps a decade of alleged maturity has played a part as well.

However, just because I am no long personally contributing to the degradation of the internet (unless you count the detriments of this blog), it doesn’t mean there isn’t a veritable cornucopia of unitards out there picking up where I left off. So where do the worst of the worst go to rear their ugly, dare I say fugly, keyboards?

YouTube

YouTube commenters were voted the #1 worst thing on the internet in a recent Buzzfeed poll. Not the worst commenters; the worst thing. On the entire internet. This coming from people who have experienced Goatse (I’m not linking to that), Chris Crocker, and Myspace. Incidentally, the same people who voted in this poll are the people who leave those horrifyingly ungrammatical, unreasonably spiteful comments on people’s innocent Double Rainbow videos. All you have to do to fit in with the YouTube crowd is to say “OMGGG” and “lol” a lot, and also accuse everyone of being gay and mistake the word “your” for “you’re.” Every. Single. Time.

IMDB

It seems that the worst Twilight, Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter et al. fans are all active members of the IMDB message boards. Usually they argue about which emaciated heartthrob was heartthrobier, Edward vs. Jacob vs. Cedric Diggory vs. Frodo Baggins, etc. Or a Twihard will skip over to the HP forum to announce all of the reasons why Stephenie Meyer’s writing is superior to J. K. Rowling’s. IMDB shippers also like to play stupid message board games like “which two characters would be best/worst together” and “who would win in a fight, Gandalf or Ganondorf?” The worst part? Every IMDB commenter has a signature set up with quotes from their favorite fantasy flicks and lot’s of swirly patterns made out of punctuation marks.

I'm sorry.

Cracked.com

I think the same people who read Cracked are the ones who spend their Saturday nights clicking through YouTube and typing their way to hypertension. These people are ruthless, chastising every hilarious article for just not being hilarious enough, not being misogynist enough, or not including enough dick jokes or cleavage shots. God help the female columnist who innocently contributes an article only to receive comments such as “This is why women belong in the kitchen” and “your gay.”

Typical Cracked commenter. It's a shame they hate women so much because...yowza.

Perez Hilton

The first hundred or so comments are just people saying “FIRST!” because they mistakenly believe they are the first person to post a comment. But, as the rules of mathematics annoyingly dictate, only one of them is actually first, and every single one of them ends up looking like an assy idiot. The rest of the comments just say “what a whore” or “I love you Perez!” or “*******Check out these pix of hot local girls I found! Click HERE********” Surprisingly, the “what a whore” comments are the only ones that mean…anything.

But seriously. What a whore.

I know all of my readers are going to overzealously type angry comments about all the internet nooks and crannies I neglected to mention. So enlighten me. What websites that you frequent have even worse comments than these?

The Awkward Person's Survival Guide to Awkward Situations: Part 2

2010-07-11T23:06:00.007-05:00

My shoe made a fart sound at work last week so I was reminded of my first installment of the Awkward Person’s Survival Guide. Upon re-examination, I realized there were a lot more awkward situations I’ve been involved with since publishing the first that I should probably publish a Part 2 in case any of my readers were having awkward encounters with no clue how to deal with them. Read on to discover how all of your so-called awkward situations can be resolved!

Coining an inadvertent portmanteau
The situation: You’re talking to someone whom you need to impress—your boss, your stalkee, your neighbor’s shih tzu—and you start stumbling over your words. It takes too much mental capacity psyching yourself up to complete a full, grammatical sentence that you don’t have any brain power left to utter real words. Your boss says “fix this thing you completely effed up and have it on my desk in 20 minutes” and you reply with “Arkay. I mean Oright. I mean…”

Aaron Samuels—making mean girls say “grool” since 2004.

The solution: Say “see what I did there? I mashed ‘okay’ and ‘alright’ together! And I’m chock full of these clever witticisms should you ever need me!” It’s always good to make an awkward situation seem intentional so people don’t know how awkward you indeed really are. Plus, this way you end up looking clever, unlike the complete unitard you are for not being able to talk right, ya gork. I mean deek.

Falling prey to the cell phone delay
The situation: When you’re talking on a cell phone, you have to expect a certain amount of silence in between conversational turns due to the mysterious cell phone delay (which probably only exists so the cell phone providers can use up all of our anytime minutes!) But the detriments to my life are not limited to my overage charges; the cell phone delay also makes for some awkward situations, such as when your friend tells you her dog died and you don’t hear it until you’re done announcing your extreme need for a Whopper Jr. She thinks your burger lust is in lieu of condolences; you think she’s trying to one-up your horrible cravings with her own sob story.

…and tearing them apart.

The solution: Tell her you’re very sorry about her loss, and that your can totes relate because you truly miss your childhood pal, Whopper Jr. the pit bull. What a great companion ol’ Woppy was, you should say, and how much you wouldn’t give to have him again, with his cute little snout and his razor sharp teeth. And yes, you’d like fries with that.

Getting stuck behind a slow mover
The situation: You’re walking down the hall, the sidewalk, the aisle at the furry convention—wherever. The person in front of you is taking his time, checking his cell phone, gazing at his own reflection in every window he passes, stopping at every booth to grab a free plushy. You try to pass him on the left, but he suddenly darts left (slowly, but suddenly). Then you try to dart right but his furry senses are strong and he slides on over. You decide to go for broke and squeeze past him, but he steps over just as you’re passing and now you’re pinned between his heaving body and the cold, hard wall. He apologizes and you scurry away.

I keep telling people that motorcyclists are entitled to a full lane. This guy leaves you no choice.

The solution: Next time you’re trying to pass a phlegmatic pedestrian just announce your intentions right off the bat. Yell “WIDE LOAD COMING THROUGH,” and you can bet he’ll get out of the way, or at least turn around to see just how wide the load really is. Or you could take it up a notch and actually McGyver some sort of widening apparatus to wear such that you will actually be wide enough to take out any meandering moron who dares walk in front of you.

Typing in the wrong instant message box
The situation: You’re simultaneously chatting with, say, your grandma and your one night stand from last weekend. You accidentally send “That lip-bleaching stuff you suggested worked really great, thanks!” to the one-night stand and “I’m wearing those sexxxy Spanx you like” to your grandma. Both reply with “WTF?”

Too sexy, too sexy!

The solution: You can send the same recovery message to both: “Sorry my hamster just escaped from her cage and ran across the keyboard!” I guarantee they’ll buy it. This actually happened to me once, except it was my full-grown Labrador instead of a hamster, and those exact sentences appeared. So I know this excuse is legit.

Stopping at a red light next to a douchelord
The situation: You commit a moving violation and some douchelord blows out his horn while trying to tell you what he thinks of you, and then he lets his middle finger pick up where the ineffectual horn left off. Or maybe you’re the douchelord and you’ve just given someone the finger, or worse—you accidentally made eye contact with another driver while yelling the lyrics to Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” Now you’ve pulled up next to the guy at a red light. And there’s a train passing in front of you. A freight train.

“I am beautiful. No matter what you say!”

The solution: Keep eye contact with the douche and keep doing whatever it was you were doing before—belting out the song, flipping the bird, committing a moving violation, or whatever. It’s like playing chicken with your eyes; pretty soon he’ll have to look away and he’ll be the only one who feels awkward.

What other awkward encounters have you had?

P.S. Now you can follow me on Twitter! And become a fan of me on Facebook!

5 Annoying Things Everyone Does During the Fireworks

2010-07-03T23:48:00.006-05:00

1. Oohing and Aahing ironically
I get it—it’s fun to laugh at the idiots who are actually in awe of the fireworks year after year. But it’s hard to actually hear the idiots oohing and ahhing when there are so many people doing so ironically. It’s gotten to the point where the only oohing and ahhing going on is from these would-be comedians, so there’s no one left to make fun of.

2. Describing what each type of firework looks like
Yes, they look like sperm when they’re being launched, and yes, they look like spiders after they’ve exploded. Say it once and move on. Plus, it’s not like they’ve made any major pyrotechnic advances recently, so there can’t possibly be new fireworks that you haven’t seen before.

3. Picking a favorite type of firework
No one cares which one you like best. And if you insist on telling us, you only need to tell us you like the “swirly ones with the colors and the loud bang” once, not each time they shoot one of those off.

4. Saying “Okay folks, that’s the show!” every time there’s a lull
Sometimes the fireworks don’t come one after the other; sometimes one of the fireworks launchers gets distracted by a hot chick wearing an LRWBD (little red, white, and blue dress) and the audience has to suffer a brief pause without anything to ironically ooh and ahh over. That doesn’t mean you have the right to add to our suffering by making terrible jokes about how the show was really short this year.

5. PDA-ing on the lawn
Something about chemicals reacting and exploding in a tube, cascading ashes and miscellaneous debris on everyone, makes you really think about what’s important in life, ie. rolling around in the grass with your ball-and-chain, getting grass stains on your LRWBD.

Are you guilty of these offenses?

Lyric Interp: Timbaland Ft. Justin Timberlake

2010-06-28T22:26:00.015-05:00

At first glance, an extended metaphor wherein sex is compared with a fast-food eating extravaganza doesn’t sound like it would work. At all.

But then you think of the various possibilities this particular analogy allows, for instance, “I just can’t get enough I got to drive through.” This line is perfect; in fact, I have previously found myself uttering this very string of words, both before steering my car down that magical window-lined path AND when faced with a fine male specimen. So the metaphor works.

A beacon on the horizon of an otherwise cold, cruel universe.

And the metaphor keeps on working: “Have it your way, foreplay/Before I feed your appetite.” Yes, you can have it your way, whether the menu contains a Whopper Jr. or a li’l gropey action. And the bit about the appetite? It gives me a bit of an appetite for a little JT with a side of fries.

Aphrodisiac to the stars.

“Do you like it well done, cause I do it well.” By far, the best line in the song. Although this little ditty sounds like it was penned by friggin idiots at an idiodyssey convention, it’s lines like this that prove otherwise. (FYI, I do like it well done, because E. coli is a very real concern.)

This is his “Yeah, dat’s right” pose.

So by this point you’re probably convinced that, hey, maybe this extended metaphor isn’t so bad. Maybe JT actually knows what he’s talking about. I mean, he is single-handedly responsible for both deflowering Ms. Spears AND spawning the “I’m Lovin’ It” phenomenon.

Ba da ba ba ba...

But wait, you missed the line where he compared his spread-eagled lady friend to a cheap pancake joint: “I’ll have you open all night like an IHOP.” Well, we should count our blessings—at least he didn’t say Waffle House.

I know at least one singer who’d prefer this place.

Shortly thereafter, he drops this bomb: “I can tell the way you like it, baby, supersized.” This line means one of two things: 1) you look like a cheap ho (the kind who goes to IHOP) or 2) you look like Michelle Duggar and thus require something supersized to even register that you're being inseminated yet again. Either way, not a compliment. Strike two, Timbaland ft. JT.

Truest statement ever.

Strike three comes from a purely linguistic standpoint: “Baby get my order right, no errors/Imma touch you in all the right areas.” I’m sorry, but it is NOT okay to rhyme “error” with “area.” He could have chosen any number of words to rhyme with “area,” for instance, “Bavaria, “Bulgaria,” or “anxiety hysteria.” But whatever. No one ever listens to me when I give great advice.

So what do you think—does this metaphor work or not?

Read my other lyric interps!

Where am I Going, Where Have I Been?

2010-06-25T19:52:00.008-05:00

You may have noticed my posting has been light for a while. I’ve had quite a few life changes in the past few months that have left me too tired, busy, excited, and/or emotionally spent to blog. So what have I been up to?

First I finished up with finals and ended my campus jobs.

True, except my “things I studied” circle was even smaller.

Then we had senior week, which means drink, rinse, repeat. And a little “Aaron’s Party (Come Get It).”

That’s just chocolate milk…

Next was graduation, the saddest day of my life, the day I’d been dreading for months, the day I entered “the real world.” (I seem to have forgotten what John Mayer taught me about the real world back in 02.)

I had to do it!

Then I moved away from my lovely apartment and my fave roommate ever, and into my childhood bedroom, complete with blanky and weird bear painting.

Why do I allow this “décor?”

After I got settled in and accepted my fate as a parents’-basement-dweller, I bought my very first car!

Isn't she a beaut?

But that purchase depleted, oh, about 90% of my life savings. So the next item on my agenda was to get a job. Enter One Day One Job. If you’re a recent college grad or current college student trying to find an entry-level job or internship, I highly recommend this blog! Why?

Because…I got a job! Working for these people. And it’s friggin’ sweet, and I couldn’t be happier. (By the way, you should check them out if you’re into crafts, which I know a lot of you are!)

So that’s where I’ve been. Where have you been?

7 Types of Terrible Movie Titles

2010-06-13T20:40:00.010-05:00

I saw “Get Him to the Greek” this weekend, and I felt like a complete idiot when I bought the ticket. “I’ll have one ticket for ‘Get Him to the Greek’ please,” I said. It just sounded stupid. In what other context would a sentence like that exist, besides someone buying a ticket to see an unfortunately-titled movie? That got me thinking about other movies whose titles set them up for failure. You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you can definitely judge a movie by its title. There are seven categories of horrible movie titles that I have determined:

1. Titles that include a character’s name. Movies included in the category are the critically acclaimed “John Tucker Must Die,” “I Now Pronounce you Chuck and Larry,” and the rhyming wonder, “You, Me, and Dupree.” My main beef with these titles is that the character names are completely made up and therefore 1) can be changed to accommodate asinine rhyme schemes, and 2) mean nothing to the audience (who the hell is John Tucker anyway? Why should I agree that he must die if I’ve never even heard of him?).

2. Titles that are hard to pronounce. This is just poor marketing. No one is going to see your potential blockbuster if moviegoers literally cannot ask for a ticket. This category is clearly the sole reason that “Gigli” fared so poorly. And what about “xXx?” How does one say that title? Did you know there was a movie called “Phffft” and another called “Sssssss”? “Hey I’m gonna go see ‘Phffft’ this weekend, wanna come with?” Is that the name of the movie or do you just have dog hair in your mouth?

3. Titles that are hard to say within a sentence. This is an offshoot of the previous category. The difference is that these titles usually have awkward punctuation, rather than phonetic/spelling disparities. Movies such as “But I’m a Cheerleader” and “Slap her…She’s French” fall into this category because it just ruins the whole flow of your monologue to put an unnatural ellipsis in your sentence. The worst offender is “To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.” This title encompasses an entire snail mail correspondence, complete with greeting and sign-off.

4. Titles that just state the movie’s premise. These titles are developed by the least creative people in Hollywood, people who are so tired and weary from making their edge-of-your-seat, tissue-in-hand, slice-of-life cinematic masterpieces that they couldn’t come up with a clever title. “Snakes on a Plane,” I’m looking at you. Or what about “Mom’s Got a Date with a Vampire?” Most of that movie is an is-he-or-isn’t-he-a-vampire mystery, but the title clearly states that, not only is he a vampire, but he’s also got a date with mom. The same problem exists with “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.” I’ve never actually seen this movie and I don’t know anything about, except that Jesse James is assassinated by a coward named Robert Ford. Thanks to this title, I don’t even need to read the imdb synopsis. “Santa Claus Conquers the Martians” is not only a horrific movie of MST3K proportions, but its title gives away the ending.

5. Titles that are spoken sentences. These titles are actually sentences that are said by a character during the film. They could easily fit into category 3 or 4, because they are usually prosodically cumbersome to say and give away too much information. I’m thinking of “Dude, Where’s my Car?” and “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids,” in specific. Also “You Got Served” deserves special recognition because it is both a spoken sentence and the inspiration behind a nation-sweeping, asinine catch phrase.

6. Titles that are dirty. Whether they mean to be filthy or the studio execs were just a bunch of cumquats, “Dick,” “Octopussy,” and “Snatch” are just plain embarrassing to say. “Freddy Got Fingered” is an intentionally dirty title with an intentionally dirty and stupid plot. Bonus points for being a full sentence, featuring a stupid character’s name, and giving away the premise of the movie.

7. Titles of sequels that are “clever.” I use the word clever loosely; clearly whoever came up with “Beethoven’s 2^nd” and “2 Fast 2 Furious” thought they were being clever, but really they were just stupid. “Lion King 1 ½” doesn’t even make sense, nor does “Why Did I Get Married Too” or any other sequel that uses “too” instead of “two.”

What other terrible movie titles have you heard?