Monday, January 26, 2009


I can't stand Bruce Weber.

He's the Leni Riefenstahl of "fashion" photography.

If Leni Riefenstahl was a pervie senior citizen with an Aryan youth fetish.

His pictures for Abercrombie & Bitch always make me want to take a "Silkwood" shower whenever they enter my eyespace.

Can someone please explain to me where this all white world of barely legal people who frolic about naked exists? And, pray tell, EXACTLY how is that these naked soon to be "Gay for Pay" future pornstars of America sell clothes? I mean, there's not a stitch of actual fabric in any of the shots.

These homages to Hitler Youth are, essentially, NAMBLA stiffy starters.

Homage is "Gerard Depardieu is a fat, bad acting, foul smelling pig" (you know, French)for tired old limp weenied twink blower.

Well, Portland has a new Mayor, Sam Adams.

No, not that delightful, yet mediocre brew sold in your more obvious sports bars, this Sam Adams is for real!

Or is he?

It seems just before the election this year, Der Brewskie was asked if he had had a sexual relationship with a 17 year old boy intern.

"I did not have sexual relations with that woman", prevaricated Der Brewskie.

Oh wait.

That was Big Willie.


"I did not have sexual relations with that boy", prevaricated Der Brewskie.

Ok, now I got it right.


I swear.

Well, maybe Der Brewskie mispoke.


It seems the twink in the case, one, I kid you not Beau Breedlove, says they actually had a little tongue hockey on government property.

The Loo.

Ok, right now Bruce Weber is simultaneously popping a chubby and planning his next Abercrombie & Bitch shoot.

Right now.

Now Breedlove (Tee. Hee.)says that he was all down with Der Brewskie putting his boy prober into his slutty, yet delicate spit holder.


No. Really.


However, Oregon (It's a territory somewhere between someplaces far more important. And interesting.) law states that sexual contact between a boy of 17 and a middle aged pervazoid is classified as sexual abuse.

In other words, just because a kid gives you "that look" you still don't get to go all Roman Polanski and touch the Whisper Gently training jock.

A kid is a kid.

A perv is a perv.

So, this whole subject came up during Der Brewskies run for mayor of, someplace near someplaces more important. And interesting. Der Brewskie denied it and won as the first Gay mayor in his village of flannel wearing, earth eaters.

Oh yeah, Der Brewskies a total fagasexual.


Well, now that the twink, Beau Breedlove (I'm dying!), has cum forward (More. Tee. Hee. I'm so clever.) and told the truth about nastying up in the boys room, Der Brewskie is facing calls to resign.

As usual the apologist "leaders" of the LGBT community (please someone shoot the next person who says LGBT to me! GAY! FAGS! PRACTITIONERS OF THE LOVE THAT DARE NOT SPEAK IT'S NAME! M &M'S! ANYTHING BUT LBGT!) are coming forward to support Der Brewskie against calls for him to resign because of l'affaire.

L'affaire is "why should I wash my smelly underarms before I make love to you and your leetle dog" for dude made it with a kid. Yeah, French.

It seems our "leaders" and Gay hacks like Dan Savage(who's made a career out of being, oh, so outrageous and controversial) are actually ignoring the crime that was committed and the lie that was told to get elected and saying the whole thing is just an "anti-Gay witch hunt".

As far as they're concerned, Der Brewskie should be left alone. And besides, "the twink wanted it".

Here's my question. Straight or Gay, if your 17 year old was at work getting tongue banged and felt up in the toilet by his boss, how would you feel? And furthermore, exactly what would be your reaction to that same bosses lawyer saying that your child was, well, a slut who "wanted it"?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

So, our Gay "leaders" want us to defend this pig.


He molested an underage intern under his supervision.

He lied to win an election.

The point?

I don't mean to call Dr. Freud in, but, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Sometimes wrong is just wrong.

Selling clothes by sexualizing youth is wrong.

Feeling up underage boys next to the shitter is wrong.

Calling yourself a "leader" and then defending a liar and a child molester just because he and you and I are Gay, is wrong.


I tell you.


Wednesday, January 21, 2009


I'm old.

No doubt about it.

I knew Jacob Marley before he became a mere nightmare after Ebeneezer ate some righteous 'shrooms.

I was there when Pia Zadora was shilling Dubonnet or some such.

I read Spy magazine when Lisa Lampanelli was doing Mob hangout stories.

I remember when Tyler Perry was straight.

I know. Tyler Perry aint gay.

I know.

Does he?

Where was I?

Oh. Yeah.

I'm old.

I was born colored. Or Negro. I can never remember which.

Chicken or the egg?

At some point I learned to say it loud because I was Black and proud.

I had an afro. I wanted to be Foster Sylvers SO bad.

I'm old.

At some point, the poverty pimps decided that being Black wasn't good enough anymore. No. We had to start identifying with Mother Africa.


I ask.

So, we became "African Americans".

As if.

Let me tell you something. I aint interested in being anything but American. I live in the best country on earth and my people built this shit, so, I don't see any reason to let anyone else be "Americans" all the way and we have to hyphenate an subtract from our "Americaness" by putting someplace before our title like we stepchildren.

"Them's Bebe's kids".

I am an AMERICAN! Period. Bitches.

Well, with the election of "That One", the carpet baggers done shown up.

Sho nuff.

Like Boll Weevils on a cotton field, a new breed of professional "African Americans" have shown up all over the internets and your local cable network.

It's actually the faults of the powers that be. Just like in south in the pre-civil war days, the media elite have never seen fit to hear from Black folk.

Unless a riot was going on.

And just like in the south, a tsunami of change showed up and all of a sudden there was Negroes everywhere.

That One caused this latest Tsunami.

All of a sudden, every network low level segment producer was told, "find some Darkies and quick!"

Who showed up?

A bunch of hacks who had never actually gotten anything published, filmed, seen, or cared about.



"African Americans".

It seems white people don't understand that no Black person has ever used the term "African American" when no white people were in the room. The only Negroes who use the term in a roomful of Black people are dreadlock wearing, Kwanzaa loving, light skinned, out to prove they are truly Black by reading Nikki Giovanni and dating funny looking dark "poets", pretenda Negroes.

Or some such.


You KNOW what I'm talking about. Negroes who don't even live around Black people anymore have lined up at the CNN/FOX/ MSNBC trough to be "Pundits". Seems to me the only qualification to be a Black Pundit is to be an "African American".

To be an "African American" pundit at one of the media outlets, you must always say that mouthful of self negating claptrap every time you actually mean, "Black Folk". Then, you must make sure you give White people (Caucasian Americans. See how silly this all is?) a "look" if they forget and say "Blacks".

Don't get me wrong, it's about time we saw some color on the air. However, why is that we only get to be on when the subject is That One?

What, we can't talk about the Auto Bailout? The brave pilot who landed that plane in The Hudson?

We still talkin' 'bout riots if you think about it. Political riots.

Riots. Nonetheless.

You know who's fault this whole "African American" bullshit is?

Jesse Jackson.

Remember him?

He used to have a point before he became a too old to not know better, pervie, baby daddy, Blackmailing (African Americanmailing?), heinous corporate tool.


He used to head Operation P.U.S.H which meant, oh who gives a fuck anymore? Somewhere along the line he decided it would be much easier to blackmail whites into giving his consulting firms cash if he just kept reminding White folks that we originally got here by way, not of Pan Am, but in chains just after The Mayflower got here ("these Indians sure are nice, but, they keep dying. Hmm, we're gonna need some slaves and Mexicans haven't been invented yet. I know! Africa!").

Jessie and his fellow Poverty Pimp, Al Sharpton (who needed the cash cause press n curls aint cheap uptown.), realized there was big cheese to be had if the rats could just guilt the fat cat into handing it over due to the sins of the father.


"African Americans".


Here's a thought.

Just one.

As if.

Since we no longer have to or do care about Jessie Jackson and Big Poppa Press N Curl, why don't we go back to being Americans?


No fuss.

No muss.

You need to let people know your ethnic background (as I often do)?


Or Black.

And the best part?

Either way, it means American

Oh yeah, there's one distinct advantage to being old.

You can say whatever the hell you want.

Friday, January 16, 2009


Ever show up at a party looking your best?

You know, hair did, nails with the Chanel logos all Heidi Montag'd, high heel sneakers on, dead animal resting on your shoulders.

Hells yeah, the men all paused when you walked into the room.

Yeah, you were recycling that dress, but since Galliano don't give Dior away, you wore it again. You just blew that shit up with a brooch and that rat on your shoulders.

Oops, Mink. Ermine. Rabbit.


"I always LOVE it when you wear THAT dress!", some skank wearing far too much L'aire Du Temp poisonously coos while air kissing you from 3ft away.

L'aire Du Temp is, "could you bitches stop sending over awful groups like Air?" for cheap, heinous bitch juice. You know, French.

Or some such.

Well, Hillary Clinton is the one perfect choice the incoming President, That One, has made.

I could list the misses and near misses That One has made, but why bother?

Fuck that, here's a couple.

Let's start with WalMart anti-Semite "Pastor" Warren. Oh. Wait. Did I mention his bank, uh, church is one of those places where newly minted "Christians" come on Sundays and praise some God who I'm not familiar with ("Who is this God you speak of? And why does this God need a private jet?").

This banker, uh, "Pastor" preaches hate in the form of Homophobia wrapped in the Won Ton of "I do lots of work fighting AIDS in Africa". Just one thing Mr. Drysdale. The number one way to prevent AIDS in sexually active people is to slap a Jimmy Hat on the ole Thanga Dang Dang. Well. Mr. Drysdale doesn't believe in that. No. He believes the way to prevent AIDS in Africa is to keep your legs crossed.

After all, AIDS in Africa is caused by women having sex. Not restricted access to condoms.

Stupid sluts.

The way to prevent AIDS in America is is for Homosexuals (in case you're new around here, I am THE leading advocate of "The Love That Dare Not Speak It's Name") to stop, well, being, uh, Homosexuals.


"And we have a course for it! Thursdays. Right after "Obeying your dumbass husband, it's Gods will."

Right after.

Well, That One has Mr.Drysdale, uh, "Pastor" Warren giving the immolation next week at the inauguration.

Did I say "immolation"?

Hmph. Freudian. Whatever.

So. One down.

Let's move on.

Then there's that fat, hairy fuck Miranda Veracruz de la Jolla Cardinal.

Oops. Bill Richardson.

Or as us former Hillary girls know him, Iago.

I hate him. Not only is he treacherous and duplicitous, he's hairy.

But what's worse is that he is my least favorite thing.

Ethnic by convenience.

Like Black people who say "African American" when there is a paycheck involved (or white people in the room. Black people say that around white people to make you guys feel better. Or worse. It depends. On you.). Iago is "Mexican/Hispanic/Latino" whenever he NEEDS to be.

Running for office or a cabinet appointment, he gets all, "Si, es muy bueno, si se puede, Senor Negro!"

I hate him. He so thoroughly stabbed the Clinton's in the back that I had nothing but glee when his job as Secretary of Whatever the fuck he was up for fell through.

What's my point and how does Hillary Clinton and a stylish, yet, recycled designer outfit and a dead rat figure into all of this?

Is this your first time around these here parts? Hang on Tonya Harding. Put the stick away and be patient. Like an eighty year old millionaire with a bag of Viagra, I always pay off.

If you stick around long enough.

Here's my point.

I know, finally!

Fuck you.

In today's paper that harridan, Maureen Dowd, manages to, yet again, find something bad to say about the Clinton's.

I love me some of That One.

I do.

I swear.


But, That One has made some choices I just cannot stand.

Were you here earlier?

The one choice EVERYONE agrees was a no brainer and majorly smart, was Hillary Clinton as Sec. of State. Love her or hate her, she's the logical choice. And since That One decided to give, What's His Name the Second Banana gig, Sec. of State was the only job worthy of her (watch her nail the Nobels next year.).

Everyone except for Maureen Dowd. This C, oops, I promised myself I wouldn't use the word CUNT this year.


Anyways, Dowdy, seems to not be able to "get over it" like she bleated throughout the primaries and thereafter about 18 million Clintonettes. She drags Hillary and Bill through the mud and implies that they are sitting in their den of evilosity plotting against That One.

Drink much Hatoraid lately?

She must sit in front of her mirror talking to some evil Queen hour after hour asking the same question over and over.

"Mirror Mirror, on the wall, who is the smartest Woman of them all?"

"Hillary, my dear, it aint you I fear"

"Fuck you Mirror!" Dowdy probably screams.

"Fuck you back, you miserable, untalented hack!" I'm sure the mirror retorts.

Right after the Mirror calls her a C..Damn I said I wasn't going to write CUNT again!


No really.


My point?

Do I have to spell it out?



In the new year, self confidence is the new Black (not African American.). The next time you've got your Wig Hat and your High Heel Sneakers on and some Bitch tries to remind you, and everyone around you, that you're giving it to the children, yet again,in THAT dress, just think of that Mirror at Dowdy's house.

Smile politely.

Air kiss back.

And whisper.


Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Let's face it, the newest fashionable must have this coming Holiday season is going to be "The Black Friend"!

Tres Chic et Fashionable!

That's Surrender Monkey for "get a Negro now!"

But, not so fast Keannu Reeves!

Like an orchid or small Marsupial, Black people require special care.

To whit:

When we visit feel free to offer us liquid refreshments.

We like Kool-Aid. Red or Purple.

And please don't try to explain to us that Red and Purple are not flavors. If we wanted a flavor we would ask for Strawberry (Boone's Farm).

Black women are fond of Alize. However, If a Black woman says that she's looking for her Alize there's a pretty good chance that she's looking for her daughter, not her misplaced cocktail.

Btw, if you are in a club and offer to buy a sister who has been drinking water a drink be prepared to fork over the cheese for a "Hennesy". Black woman don't need to be bought a water. They can do that on their own.

Even if a Black chick don't drink it she will always order "a Hennesy". With Black women, it's the shelf not the drink.

Top shelf.

If a Black man is driving a beat up old American car, it's a "hooptie".

If a Black man is driving an old beat up Japanese car, it's a "beater".

You can refer to his hooptie but never his beater. There's a difference.

All the sexual stereotypes you have heard about Black men (large weenies, insatiable sex drive, falling asleep the moment they get theirs) are true.

I swear.


Never touch our hair or tell us about your "Jewfro" you had in college.

Never utter the word "rebel".


Don't introduce us to the only other Black person at your office Christmas party.

We already know each other. We met at the monthly "all Black people know each other" monthly social Ho beat down.


Do NOT get drunk and refer to us as "my homie, my brother" or anything ending in "scnizzle".


At a club when trying to pick up on a Black girl, please, please, pretty please tell them you have "jungle fever".

If nothing else to give the club something to talk about, "Dayum! Gurlfriend beat the fuck outta that white boy!" "And then made him buy her a Hennesy!" "Dayum!"

Ha. Ha.

The menu may say "Chitterlings" but they are pronounced "Chitlins" and NO, you can't have any.

Michael Bolton is NOT a soul singer. Michael McDonald is.

Retha is the Queen of Soul. Mariah Carey is a tramp.

We have hated OJ ever since he beat up his black wife and bought that white girl from her parents , however, white guys hate him so much we will defend him.

Just 'cause.

We get a huge kick out of that chicken dance you guys do at weddings.

We like Joey and Phoebe but not Ross and Rachel. We love Janice. Monica and Chandler, not so much.

We don't understand Tool Time.

No Black person has ever laughed at Mad About You.


Cartman. Yes. Kyle. No.

We used to like Kramer but, well, you know.


Vanilla Ice. Yes. Eminem. No.

Gloria Estafan. HUH? Shakira? Hells yeah!

Blair Underwood gets on our nerves. He's a "stunt Negro" brought in to sex up up a white show just before it jumps the shark.

Even if you didn't, say that you voted for Obama.

If you just remember these few things you should be okay during the coming years.



Tuesday, January 13, 2009


I hate MSNBC.

I'm not the blackest of the black people.

Hang on, there's a point.


I swear.

Honestly, I truly love my people, I love collards and chitlins'.

White people, please don't ask us to taste our chitlins'. You won't like them and we'll be pissed that you messed over our food.

Besides, just cause you at Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles, it don't mean you get to go all Sandra Berhard.

Btw, exactly who told that bitch she was Black? Just cause we let you in the club and didn't beat yo ass in the bathroom doesn't mean we like you all that much.


When it comes to personal Blackness, I'm closer to Bobby Brady than Bobby Brown.

Ever look at Bobby Brown and think, "I'd do him. Once."? You know you have.

Step 10 is admitting it.


Well. I hate MSNBC.

Here comes the point.


I swear.

Both that dickhead Keith Olberman and Chris "I touch myself when Barry speaks" Mathews get on my very last liberal nerve.

They both have this bizarre liberal version of Limbaughian rage at, well, everything.

Or at least women.

They tore Hillary a new one everyday during the primaries. If she won, it wasn't by enough. If she lost by 1/2 point she lost in a landslide a state she should have won. That one got a papercut and she should get OUT of the race.

That dick Keith-O was a blithering blather of spittle whenever Hillary took a minute off from sodomizing puppies to run for President.

And Chris Mathews.

Shooting fish in a barrel is never any fun.

Sarah Palin!

Speaking of shooting fish in a barrel.

They took her apart like a Lego village the week after Christmas.

Oh wait, let's piss off some "Christians", ...Like a Lego village after XMas. Ooh, that left quite a pleasant feel.

Somehow I got stuck watching that guy Rachel Maddow and the Diabolic Duo come on like a prison gang bang right after that.

One after the other.

After the other.

Well. Along comes the whitest black man I done ever seen.

Ron Christie is the type of Negro who would have been happy in the kitchen of any large house in a certain part of the country. In a certain period of time.

Of this I am certain.

He's a former advisor to the guy who's leaving soon.

What the living hell in all that is precious did he advise that murderous blank check?

"Massa George sir? May I advise you to wear a hat? It's powerful windy and cold out dere."

D.L. Hughley will play him in the BET biopic.

When I finally pushed my mouth closed from listening to this guy answer every single question with "9/11" , my jaw was on the floor. He actually said "yeah, good try, you can't name a single lie that George Bush has told!" AND he said it in this "neener neener neener" taunting sort of way. Imagine that Black cop from Beverly Hills Cop who got the banana put in his tailpipe.

And he was REALLY mad!


In all of my years of being black, I have been in some sticky wickets. I have been car less. Damn near homeless. Strung the fuck out. Smelly. Missing rotted teeth. Hungry.

Ok, hungry, I didn't mind so much.

I was wearing a 30 waist.

Big girls SO understand that one.

In all my travels and travails I aint NEVER sold myself out.



I swear.

And if I EVER think about selling out or, perhaps more importantly, defend the indefensible, I will throw myself off of a bridge. Or candles across a room (inside joke. You don't get it. Do you?). I will NEVER compromise or sell out my self respect and/or what's left of my morals to get ahead in life.


Look at this Christie fellow. Google him. I did.

"He's a traitor! A joke!" And those were the nice points people made about him.

Why this long post about some Negro who sold out himself to be a house Negro and get on tv as a pundit?

To teach us all a lesson I hope we all learn.

Be it a boss. A Lover. An overseer. A roommate. Whatever.

Never sell out.


Cause when you sell out you get what you were paid for.

And it's never enough.

Sunday, January 11, 2009


I love Jamie Lee Curtis.

She's sorta tacky.

She's just a little Dykey.

She's a handsome woman.

She used to be a man.

I know this because her wardrobe in BEVERLY HILLS CHIHUAHUA is a stunning game, set and match of exactly what a woman of "a certain age" should wear.

And yet, she still looks sorta tacky, a little dykey, and yet, still handsome.

She used to be a man.

In BHC JLC plays (oh that was fun! BHC JLC. So "W" Hotel) a psychotic mass murderer on the run from her ex mother-in-law who has an unhealthy obsession with large rodents.

Or something like that. I didn't care. She looked amazing!

Her clothes are all I paid attention to for the 1st twenty or so minutes as they established a premise for the cool part of the movie to start.

I love talking animal movies.


Dogs and Cats? Calling Oscar!

If an animal has that peanut butter in their mouth thing going on so it looks like they're talking....I'm in.

This one is really good with the peanut butter thing. The animals are hilare!

I also like Kirstie Alley movies.

Anyways. Jamie Lee gets busted for heroin smuggling and has to leave her spoiled Chihuahua behind with her crack dealer, some blond chick who loses her on a meth fueled run to Mexico.

And that's when the fun commences.


I swear.

The Chihuahua ends up lost in Mexico! And finds not only that the whole world is not all Beverly Hills and Puerta Vallarta, but that honor and heritage are oh so important.

Ok, I have no idea what this movie is about. I might have just tripped over a zig zag in the rug on my way into the theater.


Anyways, it's hella funny. Every cliche you've ever seen in a movie is here from the opening fashion montage (who did the wardrobe?!) of Doggie Couture, to the bad buddy who must redeem himself, to the empowering Million Chihuahua scene that tells the little white bitch (I watched that Westchester Dog thingy too sweetie) that even though she may look and act all Beverly Hills, at the end of the day she is still a Strong Black Woman!

Uh, I mean a Chihuahua from the hood.

Jennifer Lopez is brilliant in this part.

There's even a meet cute, we hate each other, we're SO gonna go all Jose Cuervo in our trailers on the third day of filming, get together to save the dog, fall in love and solve the whole global warming thing by the end of the movie, interracial couple.

I don't know who they are.

Oh my God Chandler Bing! There's also the best little rat who steals some jewels that have something to do with the white bitch (Tee.Hee.). And he has an Iguana friend!

You had to be there!

So, JLC breaks out of the Serbian sexslave prison camp she's been sentenced to and is on her way home! You can imagine the hilarity that ensues!

Can't you.


Of course (SPOILER ALERT! As if.), by the end JLC manages to get home just as the gardener is pulling up his pants from a bang with the chick who loses the dog in the first place.

Did I mention that there is a doggie love story that at one point had me sorta misty?

There was.

Ok, my thing is this.

You could rent "The Women" and want to just bite your nails to the quick out of sheer boredom or Rent "BEVERLY HILLS CHIHUAHUA" and find out how Jamie Lee Curtis manages to solve the mystery of her long hated grandfather who shares a terrible secret with the other older residents of a small midwestern town.

Ok, I have no idea what this movie is about.


I liked it.

Thursday, January 8, 2009



Yes, the dreary Meg Ryan remake of one of the alltime best "Gay" movies EVAH!

"The Women" starring Meg Ryan and a bunch of other people is just as bad on DVD as it was the first time at $9.00.

Plus a large coke at $5.50.

I want to like Meg Ryan, but, her being in a movie is pretty much a guarantee that you're about to spend up to two hours of your own personal life wishing you had watched anything other than one of her treacly odes to Collagen.



Here's my original review. Nothing has changed. Jada is still a dyke (Hmmm). Megs lips are still certified for over water flights ("In the event of an emergency water landing, grab hold of Meg Ryan for use as a flotation device.). Annette Bening or Diane Keaton, I'm never really sure who is who, is also in this hormonal limp dick as, why bother. That red headed chick from Will and Grace is actually the best thing about this waste of your (and my) time.


I warned you.


I have this thing my friends know as "The Derek Washington Last Memorial Fuck".

Let me 'splain Loo-Cee.

After you break up with someone you can't help but regret the fact that you never saw the end coming. If you had, you never would have signed the papers on their car, been nice to their asshole best friend, let his/her bitch sister borrow your Chanel shopping bag, etc..

Mainly, you regret not having had one last, "Bang Bang till the break of dawn".


So, grasshoppers, here's what you do: Somehow, arrange to meet your ex at a bar. Get him/her soused. Say everything that ever went wrong was your fault. Suggest a tequila shot to seal the past in the past.

Now, here's where the good part comes in.

Since you would never let your ex drive in his/her condition, suggest you spend the night together.



Well, you "betta work"! You forget about anything in that bed except your ex. You make sure that you turn it out like a Hooker at a Lakers playoff party. You bang like like a pornstar! Pretend you're with Todd Palin and "DRILL BABY DRILL!"

Now, just when your ex finishes hitting the ceiling, before they start breathing, you whisper in their ears real close and wet, "from now on, everytime you cum, you think of me."


Like Pavlovs' dogs your ex will never be able to have a climax again without your face being in their heads.



Well, the brilliant 1939 version of The Women whispered "from now on everytime you see a remake of me, you'll think of me."



As in the "DWLMF" all I could think of while watching the new version of this Norma Shearer/Joan Crawford classic was the original.

Hoisted on my own petard.

Quelle bummer.

Where the original was a brilliant, witty, catfest, the new Dianne English Version is , I'm pretty sure, A Lexus commercial.

Premise: Mary Haines is a perfect house, oops, stay at home mom. Her unseen hubby (no men in this version or the original. The 1959 version starring some milqutoast named June, Joan whats her name from Dynasty and Mrs. Howell had men. It suffered from the men but still was better that the latest version.) Stephen is having an affair with hottie Crystal (Joan Crawford in the original and some hot latina in the new version) a perfume girl at Saks Fifth Avenue.

Did I mention this movie was a Saks Fifth Avenue commercial.


This movie SUCKS!

Meg Ryan does what she can with the Murphy Brown direction of English. But, Chica! What's up with your lips? Is there any collagen left in Collagenia? She does, however, wear an amazing black outfit with gloves after she straightens her Carly Simon post James Taylor breakup perm.

Jada Pinkett plays a horny dyke.


Debra Messing is actually pretty good in her role as the baby factory with a secret.

Annete Benning is fine, but, her character, Sylvia, is not supposed to be sympathetic. I guess her agents took care of that ("just take the Miranda part from Sex In The City, cut, paste, no one will notice."). Her part's stupid. I'll leave it at that.

The hot Latina is actually really good as the Maneater Crystal. Somehow, she goes all MIA in the middle of the movie.


Debi Mazar is bang up as the manicurist who gets the whole ball of dung rolling.

This movie is going fine until somebody decided to rewrite a classic.



In the original b&w version, the ladies attend a fashion show that turns into a color extravaganza of the most over the top fashion you can imagine. I'm talking Salvador Dali wet dream fashion! Human hand clasps on coats. Frocks that turn into Moonshot evening gowns! And crazy sets with monkeys, bulls and all manner of props. The point was the insanity of womens vanity.

In the new "I am woman hear me roar" version, the fashion show is presented as a straightforward example of Marys' (and the Sisterhood of Traveling Pantsuits) independence from men.

She lives for herself and all women!

"From now on, everytime you cum, you'll think of me."


Remember when dogs ate table scraps?

When kids took peanut butter sandwiches to school and no one got sued because "Algernon has a peanut issue"?

When a teacher could leave a classroom and nobody shot a classmate?

When water came from a faucet?

When you had to earn a gold star not be given one for your self esteem?


Neither do the Replicants who would buy this.

This wagon is cool. However, it is exactly what's wrong with America today. The whole country is being turned into a W hotel with Ira Glass on endless loop in the lobby.

This "PussyWagon" is for people who think they are uberhip, but, really are the same as their moms and dads, but, with fauxhawks, "Mid Century Homes" and
"Tribal Ink."

Bores. Big fat Dwell Magazine bores.

They cook using curry and play cultural tourist and think they're "aware of the world". Guess what? Two weeks at a "Four star Eco Resort in Ecuador with Filipino maids and Bamboo floors" aint the real world.

And neither is pulling Dashiel and Apple in this "100 Best New Ideas For Kids" or whatever the F this thing is.

PussyWagon. Plain and simple.

P.S. Am I too young to be a curmudgeon?

Wednesday, January 7, 2009


Ever want something so very badly that you would kill for it?

Sort of.

You just know it's going to taste so good.

Well, like seeing the Colin Ferrell XXX Tape, sometimes what you want very badly just doesn't live up to the hype.

I really wanted to like that Black English chick what's her name Lewis.

Not so much.

At all.

Ever watch a cat lick itself into some really nasty frenzy? Well, at the time it's SO very good. Twenty minutes later, that bitch is coughing up a furball all Tila Tequilaish.

(Ok, what the fuck is that chick about? I mean a bi-sexual whore gets a career?!? If it weren't for E! that bitch would be doing ping pong shows outside the base in Danang. Very badly.).

Well, after "The Terrors" of my weekend I wanted something so very badly.


That's hairy, smelly, beret wearing frog for , "Oh No You D'NT!

Got it.

Not so much.

So, I'm removing the post about the last night at El Rancho de la Puerco Muerto.

Nobody asked me to , but, it's like, I'm having such a good time in life why care about anything negative?


Not so much.

Friday, January 2, 2009


When I was little kid we always went to Schaumberg to do our shopping. Something about Evans Furs being located there.

Well, they also had really big modern stores. Nothing like Marshall Fields or Carson's. Those were STORES! Big and dramatic. The type of place that had windows that made you take a special trip downtown to see. A Future homo of America's training ground.

As it were.

We also did all of our grocery shopping in the suburbs. Mind you we lived at 70th place and South Shore drive. Right across the street from the whites only country club where if you looked over the wall you could see blond girls riding their horses on the beach.

In the middle of a black hood.

Sorta South Africaesque.

The revolution didn't need to be televised, it was in my front yard.

Of course, the reason we went to the suburbs is that after all week of dealing with my people, my mother, Babs, was tired of Negroes and needed to get into her Thunderbird and deal with people with some sense. Plus, as I found out later, the products in the suburbs were newer and the food was fresher and cheaper. I will never forget the first time we went to a store in the neighborhood (middle class mind you) and saw what passed for vegetables. Blech.

Well, that first time we went to the ghetto we were shopping for my fathers families Christmas gifts. "Those people, the Washington's", according to Babs when she was being nice.

When she wasn't being nice, well, you would understand where I get my demure yet make a sailor put his dick back in his pants at a Turkish whorehouse potty mouth from.

"It's not your cousins Cricket and Nods fault they have the mothers' that they do, so we have to go to the West Side and buy them SOMETHING though I know they aren't getting you anything", said Babs through clenched teeth.

They never did. I was always "Barbara's' son". A McClanahan, not a Washington.

"Get out of my car now! We're going to see Santa while we're here!" Mom barked in her low soothing yet "oh fuck I better move it" dulcet tones.

WELL! There he was! Surrounded by pickaninnies with poor clothing choices and those little black girl balls in their unpressed hair was.....A skinny old Colored man in a stolen Santa suit.

"Stay here in line, I'll be back", mom took off in a sea of poor dark people all Evans fur and leather looking way too cute for the room.

Needless to say there was no way I was going to get in that mans lap and have him fuck up my Christmas order. My order at Harolds Fried Chicken never came with the ketchup already on the fries so I knew this fool was not getting me the Hot Wheels with the Pacer Camero and the double looped track.

And the other children said things like "I seen" and "LaShwan I'm gonna fuck you up if you don't stop it!" while they wiped snot from their noses with their cheap coats and then chased each other with it.

Aw, hells to the no.

I waited to the side and tried to hold my breath.

That night, my sainted father (step but the best father ever! FUCK I'M CRYING!RIP dad.)Perry Washington who was the lightest black man you ever did see, asked me how it went with Santa.

I told him how they had all of these nasty children and some old Colored man who had stolen Santas suit and I never got my chicken right at Harolds and besides, Santa was white.....

That night I found out there was no Santa.

He wasn't white.

Black people were every bit as good as white people.

Poor kids had poor parents and I should be thankful that my parents had gOod jobs and cared enough about me to see that I was well dressed and lived in a nice home.


And that is how I found out that Santa Claus didn't exist.

I had something way better.

My dad.