As my célébrité continues to grow at an alarming rate, I find myself inundated with social invitations and formal appearance requests. It often boggles my mind that people expect an on-the-fly response to their invitation. I don’t think they realize the complex social calculations that are involved in drafting and executing someone of my social standing’s calendar. I can’t be expected to compute these equations that fast…do I look like Watson, the IBM supercomputer and Jeopardy-ien extraordinaire?

[Anecdotal observation: the people that demand these sort of split-second responses are the same people that accuse you of not calling them. Umm, hi. Last time I checked, a phone call takes two players. And as far as my call log can tell, you called me just as little as I called you. So it seems like we're both on the same page WRT our friendship…it's definitely not a priority. And frankly, guilting me is only reaffirming why I didn't call you in the first place]

So let me help you interpret and navigate some common responses:

Response #1: “Oh, defffinitely.”

“Oh, defffinitely.” Definitely, eh…that’s like 100%, right? Wrong. Notice how their voice went up midway through definitely. That’s extreme unease you’re hearing. This person is absolutely not coming to your event/house party/quinceanera. And to be honest, you’re not even a good enough friend to get a courtesy excuse later. Awwwwk—waaaaard.

Response #2: “Sure, email me the details.”

“Sure, email me the details.” No doubt, you’ve encountered this. And we all know what it really means: umm, you caught me in the middle of a brain fart and I can’t think of a single excuse…yet. But by the time you send me the details, I’ll have manufactured something extraordinary. Either that, or you’ll forget to follow up, sparing us both the awkwardness that will inevitably follow. [Note: always carry an excuse in your back pocket—you never know when a drive-by ambush might happen. I keep three]

Response #3: “Definite maybe!”

“Definitely, maybe!” Though this implies extreme hesitation, this is actually one step away from solidly penciling you into their schedule. What it’s really saying is this: “I don’t actually think of you as a close friend, but I’d like to fix this and the first step towards doing that is attending your somewhat intriguing soirée.” You’re lowering your guard…being genuine with the host: you’re trying to repair the years of neglect you’ve paid to this relationship by sincere honesty. And gosh darnit, it just feels good…doesn’t it?

Response #4: “yeahhh, Nope.”

Or, you can do what I do: “yeahhh, Nope.” Said with a completely straight face and no excuse after, I find it really keeps people on their toes and reaffirms who’s holding the strings in this friendship. “Can you believe that, he flat out said no. He’s probably going to just sit at home, watch a Dateline child predator story and go to sleep.” And you’re probably right, but I’ve got you talking about me later, and that’s all that matters.

You’ll notice that this list is completely devoid of a definitive “yes” response. It simply doesn’t exist. Why? Because deep down, we’re always waiting and hoping for a better invitation—a backstage pass to a Lindsay Lohan cocaine bender, a surprise sexual rendezvous with a Craigslist Killer….any opportunity to climb that social ladder higher and higher.

Every once in a while, I try and serve my community by unexpectedly showing up to an event which I didn’t solidly RSVP to. I do it not just because of my court appointed community service requirement; no, it’s worth it just to see the host’s face as she says “Oh, I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I said defffffffinitely, didn’t I?”

Love me a good celebrity mug shot.

It’s no secret that I try to model myself after the celebrity that I no doubt will one day become—whether it be consistently refreshing my wardrobe so I’m not photographed in the same outfit twice or changing my cell phone number every 90 days to protect my privacy, I’m always staying three steps ahead of the paparazzo. So in the midst of this epidemic of celebrity unruliness and misbehavior, it’s refreshing to hear an updated list of excuses for me to add to my vocabulary. There’s nothing I love more than a good excuse.

First though, I think I should start off with an example of what not to do, presented in perfect clarity to us by Charlie Sheen. Can I be the first to say that man, I had no idea Charlie Sheen was such a train wreck. But oh my god, wow—that man is truly horrifying. And to think he’s CBS’s shining star, a network which caters to 60-year-old Jewish grandmothers in Florida.

Let’s be clear: I’m not saying that it would be beneath me to freak out at a prostitute I hired and accuse her of stealing my wallet—that’s actually the first thing I think about, traditionally, when I hire them (“oh fuck, I forgot to hide my wallet—is it still there? Did she steal it? She stole that shit! Oh wait. Sorry. False alarm. It’s right where I left it. Well, I got lucky this time…”). If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years and years of watching Law & Order and CSI (Miami and Vegas, NOT New York), it’s that you can never trust a prostitute. Bitches be shady!

But, unlike Charlie Sheen, I’d like to think that I’d have the wherewithal to have a competent entourage in place to take the fall for me. If I’m making $2 million per episode, you better believe my empire would be appropriately staffed.

An allergic reaction to some medication you were taking. Really?

So let me get this straight: not only did Mr. Sheen not have anyone on the front lines, ready to either take the fall for him or hide all of the evidence before the police arrived, he didn’t even have the appropriate back office in place to come up with a plausible excuse for his behavior.

Mr. Sheen, and Co.: as someone who takes fistfuls of pills and is perfectly capable of operating heavy machinery and/or caring a baby in my fetus to term, I’d like to point out how ludicrous your excuse is. An allergic reaction to medication is an awkward outbreak of bumps on your chest or a severe case of lethargy—it’s not going ape shit in a suite at the Plaza Hotel. Couldn’t you think of something better? You were in character for an upcoming role; you were distraught of your recent series of divorces…hell, just say that prostitute actually did steal your wallet. Like I said, everyone could relate to that.

Anyway, the best thing to come out of this is a handy reflection by the NY Daily News on celebrity excuses over the years. Or as I prefer to call it, a cheat sheet.

I’ve already written about how I don’t think it’s productive having celebrities on Twitter—if anything, we need less access into their empty brains. But it’s becoming increasingly clear that C-list celebrities and obscure politicians are using this solely as a tool to find relevance. When no one else cares about their meaningless lives, they can always turn to their tens of followers on Twitter to gently brush their forehead and tell them “@RamonaSinger u dont hve #bugeyes. There not to big, their hott. #bethanysux”

Case and point—the Real Housewives of New Jersey Reunion last week (and lately, the last three reunions from that show have featured a segment where the housewives discuss their “adoring” fans on Twitter). Which reminds me—does anyone feel the need to take a Xanax before watching that show these days? These girls are stressin’ me out rulll bad:

First of all, Here’s what Andy Cohen: you don’t “send a Twitter.” You Tweet. Yeah, I think it’s stupid, too, but let’s try and stick to the nomenclature that the tweeple are using, mkay?

But, in general, surrrrriously?

Danielle, just because you get a retweet from some psycho pedophile in Kansas doesn’t mean you’re right or that you’re not crazy. To be sure: you’re certifiable, and anybody telling you otherwise probably also doesn’t know the difference between “their, there and they’re” or “two and too” and certainly can’t be trusted. If it’s riddled with grammatical errors, no doubt it’s riddled with errors in logic as well. Countess LuAnn–your performance sucked; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And Speidi, same goes for you—they’re followers in the sense that they’re laughing at you, not fans that are adoring you. I think we’re just trying to keep tabs on your krazy-ness so we can forward it around the office for a good laugh or two. Plus we’re waiting for your beach ball breasts to explode, because we know you’ll have live tweeting coverage of the subsequent spill as events unfold.

I don’t hate Twitter; I just don’t like how celebrities use it.

But really, it’s no surprise that celebrities have flocked to a medium which requires the absolute minimum amount of work for them to maintain—140 characters of meaningless text. The way that they use it makes it clear: Twitter is for people who are too lazy to organize their thoughts into a clear and structured argument. It’s for people who are too lazy to blog but think that their thoughts are still important enough to be heard.

If you’re not going to put any serious time into your arguments, it’s pretty self-righteous to think I should bother reading them. #justsayin

In honor of Ramadan coming to an end this week, I decided to dig up my own experience with Ramadan while studying abroad in Senegal, a Muslim-majority country in Africa. Just a note, in Senegal, the festival of “Eid” is actually called “Korite.” Or so I think; I didn’t really put too much research into it…

Friday, October 20th, 2006: “ChrIslam”, and my experiment in fasting

I decided to give the whole Ramadan/fasting thing a try today. And by “whole” clearly I don’t mean whole, I did my own version, something I like to call chrIslam. I strongly feel that there is a thin line between fasting and trying to kill yourself—not drinking water in a country eleven degrees north of the equator during the hottest season of the year is flirting dangerously close to the latter. I got up at the first call to prayer so I could binge eat with the rest of the family before sunrise but when I came outside no one was there, and rather than waiting around, I took this as an open invitation to bend the rules and go to sleep for a little more and then eat. So I got up at 10 and had a little breakfast (ok it was really really small so it barely counted. In fact, new rule, it didn’t count. It’s nice when you have your own religion). At noon I was mildly hungry so I went and bought a carton of orange juice to drink (in case you’re keeping track of my first day of “fasting”, by 12 o’clock I had already eaten and drank, but whatever that’s ok in chrIslam, It’s kind of like “ok I’m fasting, startinnnnnnng NOW!). Then we went to the beach, and ok, the Prophet didn’t have to tan when he was doing the whole El Hadj thing so obvi he’s not going to have problems replenishing his body but I did (once again, another reason why chrIslam is better—it takes into account today’s modern pressures on bronzed skin).

As I laid there in the sun I started to think about, well, food—duh. I drifted around, starting with food that I hadn’t seen since I got here, food like sushi and French cheeses. Then I got more realistic and started thinking about food that they did have here, like Pringles and baguettes. Then a little later I realized that I was thinking about cheb-u-jen, that horrible fish dish I told you guys about. Incidentally, I didn’t know that there was a point where you could be sooo hungry that you’d start to dream about cheb-u-jen, but there I was, salivating over oily fish and spicy rice. Oh and that carrot. Allah, what I would have done for that carrot (look at me in the spirit of the month with that Allah reference. When in Riyad…).

I got home at around 6:30 and waited for the sun to go down. Patiently. “Ok people, I can’t see it, it’s down. Let’s hurry up and get this rice show on the road. Thanks.” At the end of the day one of the other kids here pointed out that when everything was said and done, basically I had just skipped lunch. Whatever, you say potato, I say no thank you I’m fasting. And plus my host Mom was really happy that I had done it; she didn’t need to know about the breakfast at 10 or the carton of OJ at 12 so we didn’t tell her. Her little Toubab had fasted-ish and that’s all that counts. When they asked me how it was I was like “well actually it’s a lot easier when you drink… you guys should really try it next time.” They were only mildly amused. Whatever, I give it less than fifteen years before this whole chrIslam thing sweeps the, umm, world.

Sunday, October 22nd, 2006: Ramadan. It be done.

Well, it’s official, Korité is tomorrow. What’s Korité? Glad you asked. Korité is the end of the month of Ramadan. It’s a big celebration because everyone finally gets to eat during the day and who wouldn’t want to party after that, sheesh, I mean can you blame them?

So why did I just find out today that a major Muslim holiday is tomorrow? Another excellent question—you’re just so good at this. As you may or may not know, Ramadan is based on the moon. It started last month on the first day of the moon and it officially ended tonight, the first night of the next moon. Now you might be thinking, but with today’s modern technology, can’t we definitively pinpoint the cycle of the moon so that we can plan these holidays in advance? In so many words, yes. With yesterday’s old modern technology we could do all that. In fact, I believe Copernicus way back in the 15th century knew the cycles of the moon, which would mean for some 600 years we’ve been able to accurately predict when the moon will and will not be visible. But religion and science aren’t best friends. In fact, if religion and science we’re both walking down the hall in between classes I don’t even think they’d say hi to each other, it’s that bad. Like they might do a chin-pop or an eye-nod or some other form of recognition through minimal body movements but you just know that once religion met up with her friends in Biology class she’d totally talk some mad smack on science: “omg did you see how he totally tried to say hi to me. As if. LOSER!” Back to the moon though, it’s not so much a question of if the moon is out but that the right people see it out. One person sees it and then gets on the phone and calls another person who calls someone else and before you know it everyone in Senegal is out looking at the moon. You think I’m joking but they’ve actually set up a national organization here in Senegal with the sole purpose of determining whether or not the moon is out, and if the appropriate people saw it out. I wasn’t actually there for the call, but I’m imagining it went something like this:

“Girrrl, hey hey hey it’s Ronetta / Oh me, I’m fine. How’s Lucas? / Amen. And the kids? / That’s good. Well here’s why I’m calling, guess what I saw tonight? / Yep, the moon. / mmmhhhmmm Oh yeah it was out there alright. / I was on my way up to the terrace and Larry was all, ‘girl you wastin yo time with that moon business’ and I was like ‘Well I wouldn’t have to do it if you’d actually get up off that damn couch once and a while’ and sure enough there it was. / Oh I know, Amen to that. / So whatcha wearin for koritAE tomorra? / ohhh girl that’ll look goo—ood on you. / yeah lavender is a good color for you / oh me? I don’t know yet but Jenny down the block has this really great up-doo all planned out for me so I’m gonna go down there right after I get off the phone with you / oh you too! / Oh hey don’t forget to call Monica too, tell her about the moon and tell her I said hiiii. / Ok girl take care.”

Wow, I feel like I just insulted Muslims, African-Americans, African-Africans, and people whose favorite color is lavender, all in one fell swoop. Sorry! Anyways that was that: the moon has been seen, now let the games begin.

It’s the end of an era tonight: the Hills series finale. Normally, series finales don’t move me very much. But this one’s different. They were the same year as me, and consequently, we shared many of the same life experiences together: Prom night, challenging internships with difficult bosses, having our sex tapes splashed over the internet. Who will help me process these life experiences now that they’re leaving? Kim Kardashian? I think not.

If you don’t watch The Hills religiously, don’t worry: neither do I…neither do most people. That’s why it’s in its series finale. In fact, if you’ve watched one episode, essentially you’ve watched all 6 seasons of it. There are usually three plot lines per episode; here they are:

Plot Line #1: LC/Kristin endlessly speculate with their friend, Lo/Whitney, about the likelihood of them dating serial polygamist Brody Jenner, all the while remaining steadfast that really they “see him more like a brother than a lovah.” Here’s the thing, though, about brothers: when they call you on the phone, you don’t drop everything you’re doing to go hang out with them. You don’t write their name over and over again in your notebook and scribble hearts around it. And you don’t get wasted at Les Deux and then go home and make out with them. Kristin/LC: you probably should look into your relationship with your brothers.

Plot Line #2: Idiot Spencer Pratt does something douchey to his wife, idiot Heidi Montag. Heidi seeks out the advice of a member of her family, who gives her the exact same advice that all of us at home are screaming into the television (dump Spencer!!) and then, after 25 seconds of careful deliberation, she gets back together with her husband.

Plot Line #3: Audrina/Justin Bobby “Drama.” I use air quotes here because Audrina uses the term “drama” extremely lightly; she clings on to any form of communication with Justin Bobby and then spends the next 2-6 weeks dissecting it. “He looked at me, what do you think that means?” Umm, that he has sensitive corneas? You see, the problem is that Justin Bobby doesn’t like Audrina enough to date her, but, as Audrina so astutely points out, he has eyeballs. And like any self-respecting male, he cannot pass on that nice piece of ass. On numerous occasions, I’ve contemplated purchasing He’s Just Not that Into You for Audrina, but I’m waiting for the icon-based version of that text to come out as I believe that will be easier for her to grasp.

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned (or rather, relearned) from watching The Hills it’s that:

  1. “Boys can be jerks. Huge jerks. Boys sucks, girls rule” and that
  2. Girls are pretty bad at picking up on consistent trends in their love lives; they excel at repeating the exact same mistakes and expecting dramatically different results.

So, cast of The Hills, I’d like to individually bid you one last farewell, even though I’m fairly convinced your lives will continue to play out on the cover of US Weekly for at least another 15 or so seconds.

Stacie the Bartender Roommate.

Stacie, I think I’ll miss you most of all! I thought you were just a fleeting character when you played Spencer Pratt’s mistress in Season 5. But then, miraculously, you reappeared with the subtitle “Kristin’s Friend” in Season 5. Although MTV gave no indication that you were in fact the same Stacie, us prolific Googlers were able to quickly ascertain that you were in fact the Stacie of Bartending fame. We also discovered topless photos of you. I can only imagine that you tested well in the 18-24 demographic. To that, young lady, I say bravo! Look at you translating a minimum wage job where you get harassed by C-list reality-TV stars into a maximum wage job where you get harassed by C-list reality-TV stars. A promotion’s a promotion, and for that, we salute you.

The Pratts

Thank you for making my family look less dysfunctional, that’s quite an accomplishment. Stephanie Pratt—while you are probably the biggest idiot in a family that uses retardation as currency, I’m fairly certain that you will find some other member of the reality television world to cling to. You’ve demonstrated a keen ability to do so thus far, even if it requires throwing members of your family under a bus. Though, to be fair, many of your family members deserved a hearty bus trampling, so no judgments coming from this corner.

Heidi and Spencer—I feel like the further you two slip into obscurity, the louder and more desperate your shenanigans become. And I eagerly await the next one. As a matter of accounting, I believe you’re at your legal limit for divorces/annulments, but I’m fairly confident you’ll manufacture some new vehicle for getting yourself on the cover of tabloids. Maybe Heidi will push the boundaries of plastic surgery even further and install a third boob between the beach balls she already has on her chest. Or Spencer might self-draft himself to be Sarah Palin’s Vice Presidential candidate. Do I have ESP? No, I’m not saying that. But are these plausible plot lines for the Montag-Pratts? Based on the course of their lives thus far, absolutely.

Kristin Cavalliri

I must say that was quite the shock when you entered Speidi’s wedding in that blue dress. And boy had I missed you. Thanks for coming back.

You know how dogs can hear really high-pitched noises? Or how ants communicate with each other through smell. Well, I think girls are like dogs/ants. Before you jump up in arms, just bare with me through this analogy.

There are some girls that just rub every other girl they come in contact with the wrong way. Kristin is one of those girls. As guys, we can’t understand why. Cute chick, likes sports and enjoys hanging out with the guys. What’s not to like? Well, guys—I have the answer: Kristin emits a really high-pitched noise/off-putting pheromone that’s undetectable to our testosterone-infused bodies. But rest assured, it’s there. And that’s why she can never get along with other girls. I think I’ll call it Cavalliri syndrome.

I leave you with one last prediction for tonight’s episode: LC returns. And then the show ends. Probably with a pink suitcase in the back of a black convertible.

I present to you Stefani Germanotta, an Italian broad from Manhattan. You may know her as Lady Gaga.

Coincidentally, she was in an episode of MTV’s Boiling Point a few years ago, the show which tested unsuspecting people to see how much shit they would put up with until they cracked. Spoiler altert: Gaga doesn’t make it the whole time.

Here are my thoughts:

  1. What? She’s normal? It’s weird seeing Gaga without an orbiting ring around her head or a cluster of Kermit The Frogs pinned to her blouse. Or without blood gushing out of her body. Or not showing her cooch.
  2. She’s a brunette. It looks good. It looks healthy (the current Gaga looks anything but).
  3. She’s vulnerable. She has insecurities. She doesn’t like sitting at a table, alone (who does, I guess?). At 0:23, she does that awkward hair toss which proves it. You know the one I’m talking about, you’ve probably done it before: your nose is slightly cocked up as you glance around the room as if to tell everyone “Yes, I am alone right now, but I’m usually surrounded by tens of people.” Here’s some advice for the next time, Gaga: do what the rest of us do—bring a book and pretend you’re reading it.
  4. Her full name is Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. Italian Guidette McStereotype says what? Move over J-Wow, because I smell the newest addition to the Jersey Shore crew.

    After some extensive research as to how Gaga got her name (Wikipedia…is there any other form of extensive research??), turns out it’s a funny story (not haha-funny, more like good cocktail conversation-funny):

    Oh man, I was going to wear that.

    “Every day, when Stef came to the studio, instead of saying hello, I would start singing ‘Radio Ga Ga.’ That was her entrance song. [Lady Gaga] was actually a glitch; I typed ‘Radio Ga Ga’ in a text and it did an autocorrect so somehow ‘Radio’ got changed to ‘Lady’. She texted me back, “That’s it.” After that day, she was Lady Gaga. She’s like, “Don’t ever call me Stefani again.”

    T-9: even when you’re wrong, you’re right.

On the whole, I don’t like seeing Stefanie Germanotta this way. In general, I don’t like hearing her speak, even in interview. It makes her seem more human, more real. And I don’t like it…I don’t like it one bit.

In other Gaga-news, an audio clip was released last week of Britney Spears demoing Telephone, synthesized and everything, just the way a good Britney single should be. Apparently, Gaga wrote the song for Britney, but when Britney passed, Gaga recorded it with Beyonce. It’s kind of an interesting look into how the music production industry works – check it out (and yes, I’m linking to Perez Hilton; don’t be fooled, I don’t read that site. It’s the only place with the full demo, though).

Sometimes I ask myself where I’d be without the Today Show. They’re constantly throwing relevant information my way, like how to lose that baby weight after giving birth, or recipes for the best vegan, soy cookies. They’ve even taught me how to identify the signs that my child is sext-ing with their friends (damn kids and their technology!).

Last week, I almost missed a winner: Superbowl 101 – tips for a woman to fake her way through the Superbowl. Meredith’s guest, Betsey Berns, lays out some really helpful tips that are sure to make you sound like a pro. Some of them include:

  1. Knowing the colors of the teams: Colts are blue and white, Saints are black and gold – gee golly, that’s a really helpful tip!.
  2. Throw out some technical terms, like “Blitz” – as if that this is some sort of foreign word that isn’t already deeply woven into the English language, thanks Betsey!

I’m not even a feminist (that’s a dirty lie, I absolutely am), but wow, this is pretty chauvinistic towards women. What’s worse: it’s a discussion between two females.

snapshot-2010-02-08-21-42-59

I used to think it was kind of cool to follow celebrities on Twitter. My favorite: Lance Armstrong. Not because I enjoyed hearing what he had to say, but because he posted cool pictures that gave a behind-the-scenes look at his life–training pictures, new gear he got from his sponsors, and pictures with his children. It was like I was Facebook friends with Lance, and who wouldn’t enjoy being Facebook friends with a 7-time Tour de France winner?

But then more and more celebrities started using Twitter. And rather than posting cool pictures, they posted annoying political statements and picked fights with other celebrities. Great, just what we needed: a middle-school playground for famous people!

Now here’s the thing about Twitter: everything is shortened into 140-character tweets. OK, time for a fun exercise: say something intellectual about the heathcare debate. Or think about someone that really pissed you off last week, and tell me why that person annoys you. How many words did that take you? More than 20? Thought so. Do you know what happens when you limit an argument to 140 characters–roughly 20 words. You sound stupid.

It’s already hard enough for celebrities to sound smart. Let’s not handicap them anymore by forcing them to vocalize their opinions in a platform that A) limits them to about 20 words while B) taking away their ability to visually communicate their message–arguably their greatest asset.

Some examples:

Newt Gingrich, tweeting about the confirmation of Supreme Court Nominee Sonia Sotomayor [Newt: your sentence structure makes a caveman look like Shakespeare]:

White man racist nominee would be forced to withdraw. Latina woman racist should also withdraw.

Or Kirstie Alley [who, by the way, tweets like 97 times a day, and whose stream is riddled with grammatical errors], getting mad over a few well-deserved fat jokes made by Conan O’Brien:

@StarJonesEsq I’ll tell you ONE BITCH I’m gonna knck out next time I see her is CONAN O’BITCH O’BRIAN..that guy acts like I bit his dick off

Another gem from Kirstie:

CHEATING is between a husband and wife. Not TMZ and Joy Bewhore….God, I want to bash her in the vagina with her microphone..

Or Heidi Montag, whose profile just says: “I love Jesus.” Really? She, by the way, has over 1 million followers. Again: really?

Anyway, the only good thing to come out of celebrities using Twitter is when someone hacked several high-profile accounts; it was golden:

If you are a celebrity, here are some easy takeaways to use when managing your social media presence:

  1. Post pictures, not politics. You’re already relatively vapid; forming a cogent argument in 140 characters is difficult for anyone, much less you.
  2. Get hacked. It makes for lively discussions about the composition of your orfices. And everyone wins when this happens.
  3. Less access, please. Turns out, you guys are just like us. We liked thinking you were different, it made you seem special. Turns out you’re not.

Just had to get that off my chest.
Wow, Ke$ha. Pretty bad ass, if you ask me. Where'd you learn those hand gestures?

Wow, Ke$ha. Pretty bad ass, if you ask me. Where'd you learn those sick hand gestures?

Ok, so three things that are begging to be pointed out with this one:

1) First of all, Ke$ha, spelled with a $ sign and everything, is a freckled, blonde, white girl. Really? Reeaaallly?

2) Although it’s usually never a good idea, let’s dive into some of the lyrics; I think they’re worth a second look:

“Before I leave brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack.”

My question to you: How many girls do you know who actually enjoy sipping Jack Daniels, much less drinking so much of it as to “brush their teeth” with it on a recurring basis, becoming the opening line of their first single? Really, now.

3) Another lyrical dissection, though it truly pains me:

“We kick ‘em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger.”

I guess that following a good "teeth brushing" of Jack, this might look attractive. Though even that seems to be a stretch...

I guess that following a good "teeth brushing" of Jack, this might look attractive. Though even that seems to be a stretch...

Strike three, Ke$ha. Need I remind you what Mick Jagger looks like? Not since the 1980s has Mick Jagger been trumpeted as a man of superior looks. Just because it rhymes with swagger, don’t make it right.

charliebrownchristmasBecause they produce ridiculous quotes like this one, from the mayor of Arlington, TN, speaking about the President’s decision to hold a prime-time address to the nation to announce an escalation of forces in Afghanistan:

“Ok, so, this is total crap, we sit the kids down to watch ‘The Charlie Brown Christmas Special’ and our muslim president is there, what a load…..try to convince me that wasn’t done on purpose.”

No extra commentary needed. Mayor Russell Wiseman pretty accurately captured the sentiment of the nation with that comment. Which, by the way, he posted to Facebook.
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