do you believe in planets?

isn't it ironic. dontcha think.

I currently seem to be winning some contest on Facebook called "The Sweetest Person."

::awkward pause::

It's okay.

::uproarious laughter::

Yeah, I know.

25 ways to feel superior to your facebook acquaintances

I was going to post this in response to that "25 random facts" clusterfuck circulating around Facebook like the clap in a whorehouse.  I decided to scrap the project for fear of insulting the friends who DID post their 25 so-called "random" facts.  Then J went on a pretty convincing "facebook is overshare-y" rant over on her blog, so I'm posting this here, for her.  I'm pretty sure she's the only person who reads this shizznizzle anymore any ol' hoo.

1.    I’m hung up on the notion that you can’t really “choose” 25 bits of trivia to volunteer about yourself and then conveniently dub them “random.”

2.     Then again, my first instinct was to say, “I have three kidneys!”

3.    Which I do—I do have three kidneys.

4.    But that’s the furthest thing from a random fact—in fact, it’s quite the opposite: my go-to story/factoid that I whip out whenever someone implies that I should build myself up as unique and interesting.

5.    And really, isn’t that what this questionnaire means? By “random facts” don’t we really mean “interesting quirks—things that mark you in a particular way, not so ‘out there’ that you come off like a total weirdo/loser, but not so mundane that you sound like the world’s most boring bore; things that people probably don’t know about you, but that don’t come across as overshare-y”?  That’s how I interpret it.

6.    And I’ve filled these out before…

7.    …so I know what I’m talking about.

8.    Although last I remember filling one out, it was 6 random facts, which is way easier to deal with than 25.

9.    And really, I never know what I’m talking about—that was a bluff.

10.    I’m working pretty hard to be “meta.”  I hope y’all appreciate that.

11.    You know what really does strike me as random?  The songs that get stuck in my head, rotating on a weekly-or-so-basis.

12.    This week it’s a newer old R.E.M song, with a video of a cellist getting her ass handed to her by life.

13.    The reality is that I just like the video because Michael Stipe is adorable.

14.    (It’s possible that the exhibitionist-me is screaming right now at the facebook-me to scrap the interior dialogue and just pummel you with 25 a-touch-too-personal elizafacts.)

15.    (But that exhibitionist-me has a blog for staging her exhibits, so for the moment she can just go ahead and can it.)

16.    Before that it was Rihanna, ye olde Umbrella song. 

17.    Whenever I think of Rihanna prancing around with that umbrella bein’ all, “Said I’ll always be your friend,” blah blah, “You can stand under my um-buh-rella, ella, ella, eh eh eh,” I go “awwwww!”

18.    Sometimes facebook makes me want to stab myself.

19.    Sometimes facebook makes me want to stab others.

20.    Before Rihanna it was Beyonce, with her entrancing “Single Ladies” song+video.

21.    It is possible that I am generally just a touch “stabby.” 

22.    Before Beyonce it was Sheena Easton’s “My Baby Takes the Morning Train.”

23.    I should be more generous.

24.      I’m making myself out to have the world’s worst taste in music.

25.      I ate dinner with a plastic spoon tonight.

someone needs to write a handbook

Not sure I understand the contours of our political landscape when it comes to gestures--what's in, what's out; what's appropriate and presidential, what's "hood."

Apparently--that is to say, guessing by the silly-ass media hullabaloo surrounding it waaaaaay back in, meeeh, August--there's somethin' kooky about a half-black, half-white man fist-bumping his wife on the campaign trail.

By the way, doesn't that sound dirty?  "Fist-bumping his wife"?  Fist bumping? How about "giving the fist bump to"?  Still dirty.  Bumping fists with?  Sounds like... a euphemism for something dirty. Like, "I want to purple dinosaur Barack Obama!"  We all know what purple dinosaur means in this context, right?  Well, try replacing "fists" with "uglies." 

My apologies.  Truly, I: a) can't help myself, and b) digress.

Anyheeeww, riddle me this:  why isn't anyone up in arms about the below-pictured hella-ancient former president fist-bumping the below-pictured hella-emaciated former tennis pro?  Hmmmmmm? 

It all stinks of some lewd kind of conspiracy--and if we want to talk about bumpin' whatever and dinosaurs of any hue in connection with that second image, we can take "stinks" and "lewd" in all kinds of horrifying directions. 

AND THEN. As if the fist-bumping/purple dinosaur issue weren't baffling enough:

!!!!!

Apparently there's nothing kooky at all about a crazy-ass  rifle-totin' jesus-lovin' white lady rockin' the devil horns.  Right?

I suppose, so as long she's decked out in Marc Jacobs and Prada, we don't give a--how you say--hoot. Oh, gosh golly, you really let one slide der yoh gotcha media.  You are to the presidential election as DYBIP.typepad.com is to professional tennis. And by that, I of course mean AWESOME JOB.

So anyway, about that handbook. Karl?  MBIMOTMOG? (rise, rise from the ashes!)

two promises; two predictions

I PROMISE...

...that Kate Bosworth is a fucking idiot. I not only promise, I swear it. And you can ask Conan.*

I FURTHER PROMISE...

...never to that I will allow you to kill me if I ever wear tights under shorts. And I DOUBLE promise not to wear tights under shorts CAPPED OFF WITH SANDALS OR OPEN-TOED FOOTWEAR OF ANY KIND. This includes strappy anything and kitten-heeled what-have-you.**

~~Intermission~~

I PREDICT...

...that I will STILL forget to purchase adhesive bandages tomorrow, despite the fact that I gouged myself open tonight and--get this--fixed a cotton-round to my finger with dental floss to stop myself from bleeding all over my belongings as I continued to unpack.

I FURTHER PREDICT...

...that my exercise schedule that was entirely effed by my vacation this week will continue to be effed this weekend and next week, as a) I have weekend guests from P-land, and b) classes begin anew on Monday.

nothing but sour grapes!

SourBeth on being Gwen Stefani:

Three things that would bllllow:

1. Everyone wants to do your husband.
2. Putting on false eyelashes every morning.
3. Even having babies didn't summon the breast-fairy.

Three things that would rule:

1. You not only got to do Gavin Rossdale, but you married him, then proceeded to have his babies.
2. You can somehow maintain that level of bleached-ness without your hair falling out.
3. You finally gave up on that schlock you called ska and started a solo career.

The end.

:::skids to a stop::: (pant pant pant) I'm here! DON'T LEAVE!

I'm frantically attempting to reclaim your undivided internets attention, just in time for opening night! Brrrrring it on, Flushing Meadows!

For her first official US Open post, your favorite shallow-as-a-puddle fan-girl (me!) appropriately chose to rant about a meaningless, miniscule detail. No, not Venus Williams's opening night girlscout uniform*, but the US Open website's ridiculous(ly easy to spot) eff-up. Check out the sub-headline of today's top story:

Uh...WHAT?!?

Let me repeat that, with emphasis:

WHAT?!?

Women's defending champ who?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I watched last year's final, and I seem to remember a specific Russian giantess kicking the crap out of Justine "How you say, 'toozbrush'?" Henin in straight sets. On the other hand, don't correct me; me ifn't wrong.

My girl awaits an apology, www.usopen.org. Feel free to refer back to DYBIP if you need further fact-checking or research assistance.

spring break yeah woooooooo spring break yeah woo

Uh. Seriously. Worst spring break weather EVER. What a pile of crap.

In other news, Calvin Johnson is a ROCKING dj, but he has severe body odor.