Dog Goes Exterminatin'

During my drunken Monday night viewings of Intervention, I sometimes see previews for a show called Exterminators. It's about exterminators. Specifically, it's about the crew of Vexcon, a Louisiana pest control company run by Billy Bretherton and his hillbilly ass family.


I know Dog the Bounty Hunter was an inexplicably enormous hit for A&E (I'm not going to lie, I get sucked in occasionally...Beth, if you're reading this, I know this sounds weird but do you use White Rain shampoo? You seem like you would.), but was there such a demand for the white trash gothic trucker look that a show about bayou critter gitters was greenlighted? Does the world really need another program about people who can barely exhibit good sense in their professional lives, let alone the ability to purchase anything not covered in studs and pleather?

And the hair. Billy and Family, wtf. I'm serious. Dog and Beth are pioneers in the awful hair movement, but you guys are like their drowned rat cousins who aren't lucky enough to live in Hawaii. You're stuck crawling around the swamps of Louisiana trapping (and possibly barbecuing) godknowswhat. Gators. Possums. Britney. You guys are freaking me out and A&E is not doing itself any favors.

Allison excepted.

Live Stroooooohhhhhh

Lance Armstrong fall down and go boom. As if winning 7 Tour de Frances and banging Cheryl Crow were not enough, Armstrong is back on the bike competing with people half of his age trying to recapture something. Today, he fell of his bike and broke his collar bone while competing in Spain. While some speculate the crash was due to him listing to the left because of lack of ball weight on that side, witnesses said they heard Armstrong yelling at competitors just before the crash that “You kids and your fancy speed cycles better slow down!” Outside the hospital after being treated and released Armstrong waived to reporters and yelled “Get off my lawn!”

Being Real at Guido Beach

While I am from and currently live in the Midwest, I've paid rent on both coasts and traveled around quite a bit. With that said, out of all the people I've been able to meet, there are few species as unique and, frankly, a bit horrifying as the Jersey Douche. A subspecies of the Jersey Douche, the Jersey Guido, is even more deserving of laboratory research (by techs wearing Haz-Mat, of course). See here....



"Pet peeve? I don't know what the fuck that means."

Who Would You Rather?

In response to the question posed by Perez Hilton, I'd have to say "whaaaaa?" That's a hard one, and I'm not talking about where it counts. Although I wouldn't be excited about Joaquin Phoenix's or Mickey Rourke's lips coming anywhere near either of mine, I'm going to have to go with Mickey Rourke on this one. I've gone 26 years without getting crotch lice so far, so I don't think I want to risk it with Mr. "I'm a Rapper" Phoenix's face pubes now.

I Love My Dead Gay Son

I don't smoke. Although everyone in my family and most of my friends are smokers, my lifetime cigarette consumption is maybe a single pack. And those barely count because I was either piss ass drunk or breaking up with someone while I was smoking them.

There are a ton of reasons to be glad that I never started smoking. Obvious cancer issues. Cigarettes are expensive. I have asthma and if I'm going to exacerbate it by smoking anything, it had better be weed. So yeah, mostly it's a good thing that I don't smoke.

There are, however, two situations (barring the aforementioned piss ass drunk and breakups, that is) that cause me to wish I did smoke:

-- To have something to do with my hands, and...

-- When I watch Heathers.

For anyone who a) didn't grow up in the 80s, b) isn't a female, and/or c) doesn't think being mean is awesome, Heathers was a movie about mean girls. This wasn't the post-2000, Lindsay Lohan-style mean girl, either, the Heathers were mean fucking girls. See, back in the bad old 80s, everyone had big hair, ostentatious outfits, and knew adolescence was all about making other people feel shitty about themselves. There were no self-esteem workshops. There was no Adderall. No, there was being an asshole and doing blow, and this is why Heathers is great.

Not only are the Heathers a clique of bitches named Heather (except for Winona Ryder, who is only slightly less loveable than she was in Beetlejuice), they torture one another with violent croquet games and call one of their overweight classmates "Dumptruck." Yeah. Bitches.

So Winona Ryder's character, the only non-Heather in the group, gets pissed and starts offing her friends with the help of Christian Slater back when he was young and hot. The actual circumstances are a bit more complicated, but basically the Heathers get what's coming to them and Christian Slater goes crazy and, in a creepy pre-Columbine trenchcoat situation, tries to kill Winona and blow up the school during a pep rally.

Which Winona Ryder survives, but not before sticking an unlit cigarette in her mouth and standing at the exact perfect distance from the explosion so that the cigarette gets lit and she coolly smokes it down, knowing that Christian Slater is dead and the Heathers won't bother her anymore.

GOD. If I could guarantee that every cigarette I smoked from here on out would be lit in such a fashion, I'd have a voicebox by the time I hit 40.

Until then, I'll have to settle for Heathers being remade for Broadway. I love this just like I love my dead gay son. If I had one.

I'm Lovin' It

Although it's not something I like to admit, I do go to McDonald's occasionally. Once a month at the very most. Usually at a time when lesser females would inhale the entire freezer section of the grocery store and claim hormonal irresponsibility for that type of behavior.

While my order of a cheeseburger and small fry is never out of stock, apparently, one of the most repellent McDonald's items, the amorphous and terrifying McNuggets, can sell out from time to time. For those of us living in the 21st century, the McDonald's menu is old hat and it wouldn't be hard to just order something else. But for Latreasa Goodman, choosing another item was too much to handle. Also, the McPloyee manning the register had already charged her and offered neither a refund nor a substitution for the tasty dish.

So Latreasa did what any concerned citizen would do. She called 911. Three times.

Now Latreasa has been charged with abusing an emergency service and McDonald's has offered an apology. In the form of a free meal coupon and a refund for the original McNuggets order. I'm not sure if Latreasa is pleased with the offer, but hopefully she'll think twice before confusing reconstituted chicken parts with a life-threatening emergency.