Blerg (n): 1. A phrase denoting any combination of apathy, lethargy, frustration, or incontinence; it originated on the NBC sitcom 30 Rock. 2. What people in Sweden shout after connubial pleasure.
—Licious (adj): 1. A trendy suffix for invoking sass or the use of hair extensions.
Do NOT put this product anywhere near your hair, even though it clearly says on the bottle that it's supposed to "replenish" and "moisturize" your scalp. If you do, you will look like Joe Dirt and it will take three shampoos to get back to normal.
Surely you've seen the Selleck Waterfall Sandwich? And the sequel: Bea Arthur Mountain Pizza? Brilliant! (I owe it all to loyal reader Schmenny for keeping me au courant to Interweb zeitgeist.) But now that there are more than two of these genius creations, and two makes a pattern, we can know the formula behind the genius. It's simple: your favorite celebrity + your favorite food + your favorite vacation destination = interweb sensation!
Here is mine:
Leisurely, right? Note how the tacos catch the light from the flames, as if Rembrandt was painting Moses' burning bush—if the bush were tacos—while God watched on in amusement at her silly creation...
Here is Longtime's:
Longtime, who knew you were so apocolyptic? It's like Freida Kahlo went to a 7-11. And painted.
Readers, I invite you to share your holy trinity and I will edit copy edit paste handcraft each one in Photoshop for your Tumblr-ing pleasure. Really, it's my solace from the 10,000 work emails I neglect to respond to each day, so I encourage you to submit and I will post them.
I would just like to point out to the 400,000 people on Facebook that I have long called for Betty White to ascend to the top of the Executive Branch of our government. None of you are visionary nor are you using Betty's immeasurable talents wisely.
As you know, I've given up Perez Hilton for Lent. It's hard. I'm undoing five years of Pavlovian office conditioning: I'd hit refresh on the Perez tab in my browser every time a new email from a boss or superior popped up in my Outlook. I am trying to fill my free time cubicle coma with smarter, better-for-me places like newyorker.com, wonkette.com, businessinsider.com, and feministing.com. You know, brain food.
And how! I was shocked to read today over at Feministing (if you're afraid to check it out, just get over yourself and go) about a disturbing controversy, and more shocked that I actually had unknowingly dipped my toe into this seething cauldron of debate. The controversy: cupcakes.
Specifically, a bakery's marketing campaign, a bakery right here in the heart of my fair city of Blergistan: Butch Bakery. Their slogans include "Butch it up," "Cupcakes for Manly Men," and "The Man-ifesto." (Don Draper just splashed some cold scotch on his face.)
But after checking out the Butch website, I thought of only one thing:
We're men, we're men who bake.
First a bit of history on our miniature Schnauser of a friend the cupcake: it has been around for literally many years. Cupcakes were invented on a television studio set in Long Island City, Queens, where a curiously-dressed young sprite named Carrie Bradshaw introduced this quaint delicacy to the sad, uneducated paupers who lived outside her magical Shangri-La called Bergdorfs. Soon, almost everyone was eating these delicious morsels. But not enough. Eventually, American ingenuity creaked into motion—finally these bakers and AFL-CIO rejects pulled themselves up by their Caterpillar boostraps!—and innovation sprouted. There were cupcakes with toppings. All kinds of toppings! Sprinkes, gumdrops, candles! Outre! And then they thought to put cookies on top! Oreos and Nutter Butters and Thin Mints oh my! Then everyone had cupcakes all over the land and we were happy and we were good. But like our nanny, we took our cupcakes for granted. Too many choices, too much risk-taking. We over-hedged our love of cupcakes. There was turmoil. The industry needed a bail-out.
This is where we are now: cupcakes are fighting for relevancy in a bloated, corrupt capitalist eco-system. Everyone seems to have an opinion about them. I view the cupcake as purely a vehicle for frosting, much as I view a gentleman caller. But really, all of capitalism's problems can be traced back to one thing: bad marketing. It's not what you sell, it's how you sell it.
Now, I ate two of Butch's creations recently at a friendly gathering. (Sha'mon there were extras.) One of them was supposed to have bacon inside—prompting the "Why hasn't someone thought of this before?" question—but I was let down to find it did not. Rude. The other one I consumed might have had the camo-chocolate top that you see below, but quite frankly, it did not see the light of day long enough for me to notice such a detail.
They were served to me by a gay man in a lesbian's home. And rightly or wrongly, I assumed Butch was operated by Christy Cummings and owned by Sheri Ann Cabot because American Bitch had folded. I had no idea Butch was named without irony or a nod to queer culture. What straight man refers to himself or other straight men as butch? What straight woman refers to a straight man as butch? It's puzzling, right?
I don't need to point out how utterly silly and un-modern the Butch branding is. Which I do, because I've actually worked in marketing for many weeks and marketing is a very precise science guessing game. If I were a dude, I'd probably be insulted and head to Crumbs like everyone else. There are more of them and the lines are shorter. Also: if their cupcakes are really aimed at straight men like they claim, then they are doing their target audience a disservice. How are guys going to pick up chicks at the corner bakery if there are only other dudes there? Sick, bro.
Take it from a someone besides me who always has their pulse on the capitalist zeitgeist, Jack Donaghey: "New Yorkers are off cupcakes and we're back to donuts." (Season 4, the episode with Jennifer Aniston.)
So Butch here's your next product:
And free of charge, I threw in a few new mottos I know Butch Bakery will like:
"Peen-worthy" "Poke it, mon" "Just rape it" "Tastes better than your girlfriend"
Tiger "Ride Her Cup" Woods' delivered his public mea culpa last week, which apparently was scripted by the Jetson's maid Rosie. You know what else happened last week? The beginning of Lent. I find the timing... interesting. Catholics love golf. Catholics fear love Lent. Was Tiger "Putter? I hardly knew her!" Woods trying appeal to a large bloc of his fandom? (Seriously, just click on Longtime and my list of Tiger porn titles from November, okay? We're very proud.)
As little as I care about this whole PR pickle—you know, we're stepping up our shit in Afghanistan and China hates us this week for meeting with the Dolly Llama—I can't help but notice that Tiger's had several months to address the public since the incident over Thanksgiving. Why now? And speaking of the Dolly, isn't Tiger a Bhuddist?
If he's not taking his sex rehab seriously as it's been reported, I would encourage him to convert to my brand of faith. All he has to do is give up the Ambien sex for 40 days and then he can start back up again. Not too hard, right? (TWSS.) The real secret of Lent is not that you give up something you love in the spirit of sacrifice, it's that you give up something you hate yourself for liking, so you effectively give up hating yourself for 40 days. Lent is really a vacation from guilt. (I gave up Perez Hilton.)
Lest you question my credibility, here is visual proof I cannot quit Catholicism, no matter how hard I try:
(Thanks to Schmoroney for taking the picture and schlepping to St. Patrick's Cathedral during lunch on Wednesday. And yes, it was a bad enough hair day to necessitate the Gibbler ponytail.)
Two gals named Longtime and Schoprah were bored one day and decided to create a blog named after their favorite word, blerg. They aim to highlight things they see, read or overhear that make them a) laugh; b) clap their hands and shout "hercuhleez;" or c) make Schoprah hurl objects at the TV.
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