Frieday

Watch this video and feel your stress drift away and into oblivion...



Have a great weekend!

A Birthday Tribute to Smellen

Happy birthday to f.o.b. and guest blogga SMELLEN!

May all of your wildest birthday wishes come true today, gal.

Smellen "the felon" is not only brilliant, hilarious and an enormously talented artist, but she is also just a lovely human being, inside and out. Love you like a sister, Smellsy, all year long too, not just on your birfday!

Smells and I have been friends for a long effing time - since preschool! I've had the distinct pleasure of celebrating well over 20 birthdays with her over the years as we flattened a path through the woods between our houses while perfecting the slumber party. I gave her chicken pox, she taught me about the wonders of grilled-cheese makers and together we dreamed about one day having boobs (now I laugh, ahahaha).

I remember one slumber party in particular where we used a Ouija board to "communicate" with the deceased cousin of an alleged new kid in school. He "told" us that he died in an unfortunate accident. Virhin was his name! We were so bewildered by the spelling of his name - how unusual it was, how MYSTERIOUS! Was it Turkish? Scandinavian? I have recently begun to suspect that the name was so unusual because...it wasn't real. NO. Not possible. I swear I wasn't pushing the arrow but it's possible that Sarah Longworth was. We may never know! Man, I only wish I was as cool now as we were back then.

I hope this birthday is even more fun than that one was and wish I could be there to celebrate with you. Treat yourself to a cupcake with sprinkles!

And the winner of the "Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who's the Blergiest One of All" Contest Is...

SCHMEMILY!








(Do you remember when I announced this contest? No?)

Here is her winning prose:

My life has become even blergier since your last contest! Still unable to shake my unemployment, I decided to enroll in a training program in a medical technician field, though some friends and relatives thought I was overqualified for the career due to my collection of degrees. Lo and behold, I was rejected from said training program! So I've returned to the job search, where I continue to be rejected by all potential employers who cross my path. My unemployment benefits are running out, so my bank account balance is decreasing with a speed roughly equal to that with which my ass is expanding (Cheetos are my solace). Furthermore, the fellow whom I thought was my boyfriend recently introduced me at a party as his "friend". Misfires on all cylinders!

Schmemily won a $10 Chipotle gift card. (Schmemily, you let me know that it arrived, yes?)

Thanks for participating, ladies and blergs!

From the desk of... Tony Micelli

Oh ay, ay oh!

Obamer! Paisan! Wassa matta whichew? Mom jeans? Come on! Let meeya tell yewa a few tings. One, as a former major-league baseball player (St. Louis Caudinals), I can tell you baggy jeans are not appropriate for throwing a pitch from home plate. They ain't appropriate for nuttin' on the ol' diamond. And b—this is the most important thing—women hate baggy jeans. Hate. (Sorry I just spit on Angeler's TRS-80 screen and had to wipe it up.) In fact, I know most women love an athletic man in tight jeans. KnowhatImean? It's 'cause they love our derriers, our rear ends, our tooshes, our toukases, our cabooses, our backends, our cans, our seat cushions, our gluteous maxami, our rump shakers, our buns... You get the picture? This look drives women wild to the point where they longingly stare at you for eight years and have elaborate dream sequences where you wear a tuxedo and she wears a ball gown and you dance to Frank Sinatra. But I digress.

I find a nice black denim Wrangler (hey oh—size 29"!) can go from day to night, or from the ballpark to the Situation Room. It solves all your problems. Badabing! Don't deny the women of America your heiny. They need it. But they need just a little bit to keep 'em looking and dreaming that one day, you will profess your love for her and you two move to Iowa and coach community college sports and then break up and then move back to Connecticut and you knock on her door one day and she opens it in a head towel and bathrobe. It's more of a... public service. But I don't need to lecture you about dat!

And not for nuttin, but don't let any of dese nobodies give you crapola about your outfits. You're da president, and you are da boss. (HEY OH!) Also, I know you probably got your own cleaners in the White House and all, but if you ever, you know, need any help... Gimme a call. I'm the best.

Ciao,

Tony

PS, If Michelle starts wearing shoulder pads and red glasses, give me a call.

[Editor's note: I apologize for the small size of the photo—clearly it does not do him justice. There is a dire shortage of "Tony + Danza + tight + jeans" images on the interweb. Seriously. Also, I am frightened intrigued by the catalogue of Who's the Boss "fanza" fiction stories out there.]

Mathlicious equation of the day! Recession edition!

+ =

In Chicago there is, literally, something in the water. Tests conducted last year revealed that all kinds of fun pharmaceuticals are dissolved in the drinking water - oh, and they forgot to tell everyone. While cities are required to report the presence of lead, pesticides and harmful bacteria, there is no such regulation for drugs soooo it was kinda left off of the water quality reports last year.

They found traces of the bug repellent DEET, the anti-cholesterol medication Gemfibrozil, Ibuprofen, Progesterone - found in birth control and other hormone treatments, Prozac, caffeine and nicotine, among other substances.

People are outraged and demanding a response but I say - everyone just relax! This could be great news. Think of the money we could all save on prescriptions, bug spray and Advil, not to mention cups of coffee. We're in an economic crisis! That could equal hundreds of dollars a year.

I'm a little concerned about the free nicotine though, because I don't smoke - it's hazardous to your health.

Frank McCourt, I hardly knew ye.

I was so saddened to hear this morning of the passing of author Frank McCourt at age 78. I just read his Pulitzer Prize winning memoir, Angela's Ashes, last month and and am nearly finished with the sequel 'Tis. I was so moved by the grim story of his childhood in Ireland in Angela's Ashes that aside from loving the book, I feel a fondness for McCourt himself. If you haven't read it, pick it up immediately. I haven't been brought to tears or outbursts of laughter by a book since Beverly Cleary, when that damn dog Ribsy ran away, but this one really got to me. It's a must-read.

Angela's Ashes was McCourt's first book, published when he was 66 years old. I wonder how he felt after telling his gut-wrenching story after all those years, and then to have it become so hugely popular. Was he happy? Bitter? At peace? I was absolutely entranced by his lyrical prose style and dry Irish wit, not to mention touched by the tragedy. Ask Schoprah, I was practically speaking with a brogue for a week after reading it (sorry again, about that).

Anyway, enough of me blathering on like a dry shite with the scutters out the gob! Let's all raise a pint glass to Frankie McCourt - May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead. Och, aye.

The results are in and they are ADORABLE

The votes were tallied, counted & recounted and the verdict is in! Thanks to all of you who took wasted the time to vote, especially the creative write-ins - from Meow Zedong to Justice Ruth Bader Gins-purr, they were all awesome.

The Duke of Fur was the overwhelming favorite, with Vanessa in 2nd place. I appreciate the sole voter who admitted to not giving a flying eff, as well as all of you who expressed concern over my descent into crazy cat lady-dom.

However...despite my efforts to uphold the democratic process, I've decided to keep the name they gave him at the shelter. It's adorable and really suits him. Also, a few people have told me they're planning to call him other names anyway, so what the hell difference does it make?

Anyway, it's my great honor to introduce, for the very first time, my furry friend, Chris! That's right, his name is Chris, short for Christopher, or Christo-fur, if we're going to be cute about it (and I think we are). I knew we were meant to be as soon as I laid eyes on him. I mean, how could I say no to this???

"mew"

Animals with people names is actually a cute rule, and what could be better than Chris? It's not my fault if people think I'm talking about a real dude when I talk about him. i.e: Chris finally moved in; Chris and I are having dinner; I have to get home - Chris hates it when I'm late; Chris can't keep his paws off me; Chris pooped on the couch again, etc.

More to come about my new roomie! For now, enjoy the first of undoubtedly thousands of pictures.

He's a champion napper - just like his mama.

and an amazing glowy-eyed winker - also just like his mama


learning how to G-chat


baby's first blerg post!


he's actually edible


Can you stand it?

One more post before bedtime

Stuart Smalley, Sonia Sotomayor. Stuart Smalley, Sonia Sotomayor.

That'ssssss all.

Where's the "Dude You Made Out With In a Bathroom Stall" Collection?

So I was doing some online shopping in my free time at work the other day and as with most things, it got me riled up. I went to the Gap's website where I stumbled upon "the boyfriend collection."

The boyfriend collection. For ladies. The boyfriend collection. The Gap marketing team almost called it the "dude you're banging after you stopped banging other dudes" collection, but went with this safer choice. Now, I know there have been boyfriend collections at other clothing chains before—it sounds like something J. Crew would do—but that day, it pissed me right off. So much so I went right over to Anthropologie's website. Take that!

First, the Gap is showing a yellow-striped tank top as part of this collection inspired by boyfriends. Honeychild, if your boyfriend wears a striped yellow tank top, you're barking up the wrong tree. But more importantly, why is clothing that's comfortable called menswear? Just because it doesn't have a cinched waist, it's masculine? Women are "borrowing" the idea of not encasing themselves in an tight piece of fabric from guys, like we didn't think of comfort on our own? Please. Also, have you ever worn a full-on pantsuit? It's misery. "Their" clothing isn't all comfy. (I don't know how Hillary does it.) Also, most women and men in our society pretty much wear the same things. Witness jeans, tee-shirts, flip-flops, track suits... The B.F. label is completely unnecessary.

Second, and I'm ashamed to admit that Longtime had to point this out to me during my G-chat rant, it's extremely heteronormative. It presumes their customers are a) straight, b) aren't single, and c) not married. (Lesbian friends, I encourage you to weigh in the comments.) What really set me off though was that the boyfriend collection excludes those who don't practice monogamy. What about women who can't commit, or who break out into hives at the thought of watching someone play X-Box while you pick up their shit? What about the sluts, Gap?

Lastly, why must they shove the word boyfriend in our faces? Don't use outdated women's-mag crap psychology to sell me your cardigan. (And if you call me Hector Projector, stop reading this blerg immediately and go back to reading the article in Cosmo or Marie Claire telling you how to drive your man wild blow him.) When they start a "Girlfriend" collection for men, then I'll buy from this one. But I'm guessing sales for that won't be as strong.

Purses are the new messenger bags. Pass it on.

Your girl is... STILL NOT ME Hubbell.

Hubbell Gardner is off the market. And she's a German. Feh, it'll never last...














"Schoprah, in a different time, a different place..."

The 57 perils of dating

Dating can be scary, particularly blind dates. You never know who will be waiting for you when you arrive, good or not so good.

If I ever go on a date again, my supportive (and married) friend Schmarah offered to help me with an 'out'. That is, an excuse to help me end a date that's not going so well.

In the event that I would need to be rescued from a bad date, we created a date rescue code: Code 57 .

So, for future reference if I text any of you "Code 57" or just "57" in really desperate situations, you must call and tell me there's been an accident/injury/act of God and that I must leave immediately.

Assume that '57' refers to any of the following:

Heinz 57 - because he bathes in it to remove the skunk smell

his 57 personalities

57 long long nose hairs

57 times he farted during dinner

57 not so sneaky glances at my boobs

57 collectible superhero figurines in his bedroom

'57 - the year of his mom's station wagon that he borrowed for the date

57 is the age of his mother in whose basement he resides

there are 57 toenail clippings he has saved under his pillow

'57 - the year he graduated from clown college

the number of hot dogs he can eat in one sitting

the length, in centimeters of his rat tail

the number of Phish concerts he's been to

there are 57 singles wadded up in his pocket

the number of times he's been arrested

the number of times he asks the waitress if there are free refills

the number of pennies he carries in his fanny pack

the number of ferrets he keeps as pets

the number of cups of coffee he drank before your date to stay alert

the number of times he then has to pee

the number of pairs of jorts hanging in his closet

the highest number he can count to

the number of black wolf t-shirts he owns

the number of marshmallows he can fit in his mouth during a game of chubby bunny

the number of times he cried himself to sleep this week

the dosage, in Mg of his Viagra prescription

the number of sci-fi conventions he went to last year

the number of cats he's hoarded in his apartment

the number of words in the speech he prepared to ask me to marry him

the number of pitbulls confiscated from his basement

the number of signed Michael MacDonald albums in his collection

the number of times he oiled his chest before the date

the number of Twinkies he ate for breakfast
the number of Enya songs on his ipod

the number of condoms stashed in his cargo pants pockets

the amount I offered to pay him to just let me leave

the number of outfits he tried on before deciding on one

the amount of money he offers me for "dessert"

the number, in ounces, of Dep hair gel on his head

the number of bottles of Binaca he used this morning

the number of times he updated his Facebook status today

the number of seconds the date lasts

the number of Fabio posters on his bedroom walls

the number of digits of Pi he recites to me at the table

the number of empty frosting tubs under his bed

the number of hairs on his "mustache"

the number of body building competitions he's won

the number of samurai swords he bought on E-Bay

the number of Hypercolor t-shirts he owns

the number, in inches, of the tires on his monster truck

the number of prescriptions he takes for his hyperhydrosis

the number of times he pumps his Reebok Pumps during dinner

the number of rhinestones bedazzled onto his jean jacket

the number of live mice he feeds his pet python each day

the number of pictures he sneaks on his camera phone

the number of girls' names he has tattooed on his arm

the number of times her refers to his life coach
the number of surgeries it took to have his "twin" removed

the number of "Family Circus" cartoons folded up in his wallet

the number of sugars he takes in his coffee

the number of spray tans he gets each month

the number of times he's seen High School Musical

the number of trolls on the shelf above his bed

Yes, it's for any and/or all of these reason's that you'd need to respond to a Code 57. Thanks, friends and thanks Schmarah.

Hopefully it will be a code 69 instead. Hey-ooo.

I'm kidding!

<<-------- VOTE

or else...

Presenting the first "Hehehe Screen Grab from Schoprah's Work Computer"

You've probably guessed by now that I am an on-the-job multi-tasker don't do anything at work . Sometimes I find funny things online and I press "Command Shift 3" faster than Theresa from the Real Housewives of New Jersey can flip a banquet table.

This is a screen grab of an article about nuns from NYTimes.com:














Notice the picture in the lower right corner.


Hehehexactly.

Mathlicious Equation of the Day: Special Quitters May Not Win But They Get TV Shows Edition

—























=

Did you know somebody other than Michael Jackson died this week?

It wasn't a person persay, but this being passed away with as much dignity and grace as he maintained throughout his personal life. He was a lesser-known political force, someone who didn't ask for the spotlight but was a shrewd harbinger of influence nonetheless. In times of strife, he remained an elegant and influential example of quiet sorrow to those around him. He was loyal, even though his closest family left him in the cold; he was amused by life's simplest pleasures: lounging on the back porch, admiring the beautiful Ozark sunset with a bourbon and branch. He will be missed.

I am, of course, speaking of former First Cat Socks Clinton:













He was 19 years young. He died in the loving arms of Betty Currie, his "father's" White House secretary. I use the term loosely because the Clintons gave him away once they left the White House, and reportedly, Socks got second-hand treatment when Buddy the Dog came along. I choked up when I heard the news because in the fifth grade someone gifted me a Socks the Cat tee-shirt for my birthday. I had been a proud member of Kids for Clinton in the fourth grade, and even though I'm pretty much a dog person, I wore the shirt to sleep in to the local swimming pool where I was teased.

(Also, did you know Socks was commemorated on a set of Central African Republic stamps? You think Barney Bush is getting that kind of recognition?)

Longtime, may your new kitten be half the Steel Magnolia that Socks was. And Bo Obama, you have a lot to learn. A lot.

The Jackson family: benchmarks of good taste and understatement

Uh, so I didn't realize the entire Media would be shutting down for Michael Jackson's memorial service, but apparently it was King of Pop coverage on all the networks, all day. I didn't watch it live like some people (Longtime), but I caught up on YouTube and all I have to say is... Wow. Thank God E! has provided us with a handy wrap up:



Michael, you and Liberace are redecorating Heaven together. The pearly gates are probably being bedazzled as we speak with rhinestones, gold cheetah appliques, and fake showmanship.

Also: LEAVE THIS LITTLE GIRL ALONE JANET! Let her grieve in private. Sick. 

<----------- VOTE!

or else...

Mind = blown

As if this blerg wasn't enough of a thief of my time, I was just introduced to wordle! I might as well quit my job now.



Don't you love to say wordle? Wordle wordle.