Catching Up...

So I haven't posted in a while due to utter laziness and the loss of desire to pick up a cyber pen. That's done now. Read Skinny Bitch, it will change your life. So one thing before I begin my real rant...Tina Fey > Sarah Palin...I told ya so:



Let's continue...

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not opposed to driving. Considering that I'm a frontin' ass bridge n'tunnel girl, having a car comes in handy to zip into Manhattan pretending like I live there. It helps, considering on a slow day I can get to most places before any boro bitches or harlem hooligans (never again, I promise) can. My opinion of driving dramatically changes once I reach New Jersey. NJ drivers are poor excuses for road warriors. They think road rage is cool, up until you step to them. Then they cower like the NJ residents that they are. You know, the ones who only go to NYC during Christmas at Rockefeller Center but only take the bus because they're afraid of driving on city streets. Yet every summer they pack their wack ass minivans and head along the NJ Parkway to Seaside Heights, despite the fact that NJ highways produce more accidents than diaperless babies funneling breastmilk. But I digress.

While driving this past week in New Jersey, I came across two road culprits that are very typical New Jersey. I will also explain why I hate them:

The Hippie-Crit.




Yes, that bumper sticker reads "I Never Met a Tree I Didn't Like" and yes this man is driving a Jaguar. Really? First of all, why buy an $80,000 car and slap a bumper sticker on the back? This isn't a case of the perfect $400 accessories to go with your $20 dress. This is the exact opposite. This is ordering caviar and scooping it up with Pringles. I mean wtf? Were you being ironic? Did you want to prove that money didn't matter so you ruined your paint job? Is that what this is about? Let's not even get into the "going green" pledge on his car's ass. Your gas guzzling machine never met a tree it didn't like? Did it like wasting all that paper to purchase it? From money to the many many contracts and manuals (because believe me, Jaguars are pains in the ass to maintain. You can't get them repaired anywhere but Jaguar dealers. I've never had one, but I did have a pet cat once. RIP Harley.) It's just a bitch slap to society really. You don't like trees unless you are a pothead turned yuppy scum and blew 15% of your 401k on this car. Then the tree sticker makes you funny. You weren't being funny though. You were oh so serious. So welcome to my blog.

Space Hogs.




Okay look. This is one of those things that can be easily argued like "Well where else do they park?" Let me explain why this man's Hog (Harley Davidson) should be made into bacon and served to a cop. This crotch rocket was parked at a women's department store. Most men in their mid-life crises buy these pieces of metal to drive around and act like they're not fat or not uncool. Like this other guy I saw:



He can't possibly think he's cool can he? Regardless, the last thing he is using this bike for is transportation. The man above was riding through Lincoln Center in New York, so they're everywhere.

Anyway, the point is, why was a man on a motorcycle using up spaces in a parking lot at a women's department store? Aren't those things meant for "cruising?" Unless he was being a perv and wanted to pick up women outside. Optimists may say he was buying a gift for his wife. No he wasn't. His bike didn't have a special bag compartment. Maybe it was a woman? No it wasn't. No woman goes to a department store with minimal container space to carry purchases. This was a man, a greedy greedy man who chose to not only use up a girl's parking space but pull SO FAR UP that it looked like an empty space, until SUPRISE! it wasn't. Might I also add that he was parked in the second space in the lot. Some people have no hearts.

I'm renewing my MetroCard.

"I Wish I Looked Just Like Cheryl Tweedy" - (c) Lily Allen

There is a song that I'd like to share with the world...the world being the few people that visit this blog regularly (I love you some me).

The song is titled "Call the Shots" by British girl pop group Girls Aloud. Now look...Girls Aloud was formed in '02 from the British reality show Popstars. Before you go knockin' their hustle, remember the last time you shook your ass to Danity Kane. That's right, it was last night. I can recall the very first time I heard "Call the Shots." It was at my previous job working with the dynamic Dragonette (blog on them soon cometh). So I'm at the office while my boss was going through his usual laundry list of new songs he pulled from the blogs across the pond. Some were great, while most were downright cacophonic. With the help of some headphones and a strong will, I was able to drown out most of the crap that blared through the computer speakers. It was no dis to my boss because he agreed alot of the music sucked - what were some people thinking?

Anyway, one day this little gem began to play. I jumped up at the sound of perfectly placed synths in a Eurotrash setting. It was like the sluttiest outfit at a Sex Pistols cover band concert. The beginning of the song reminded me of New Order (R.I.P. Ian Curtis.) in its attempt to mold electro and synth into designer dance pop. And it worked! It was the perfect combination of pop tart and Euro - now that is a complete breakfast.

For those narrow minded yankees who can't bear to love something from the UK, check this. Cheryl Cole aka Cheryl Tweedy is like a low budget Posh Spice, married to a "footballer." She is also the hook singer on Will.i.Am's "Heartbreaker" so see, you know her already. Now get to know her vocal flatmates.

I still have no effing idea what the song is even about, but when the hook comes around, it is like one big lube ad. I have never felt more like a gay man than I do when I hear the hook to "Call the Shots." James Saint James comes skipping out of my head like a little sprite and we start dancing at the Roxy. I have glitter on my face and I'm wearing pink JNCO jeans. I break out glowsticks and the cast of Will and Grace is cheering me on. Men are topless wearing dog collars and Rock Hudson posters line the club. "We're doin' it for Liberace," I say! Then I wake up in a what I think is a foam party, but it is really my boss spraying me with a fire extinguisher, while the song on my iTunes play count reads "69."

In reality, the video depicts nothing of what's in my head. Their video concept is the birthplace of voguing, while mine is the birthplace of syphilis. We both have something in common though - Madonna's previous nightlife. It's a celebration bitches! Some may argue that this video is bland, but a bunch of British gals in couture standing around and voguing is way classier than anything anyone else could've imagined while playing this "meant for clubbing while rolling" song.

So now that you can mop your floors with the politically incorrectness that I've spilled all over this blog, let's watch the video!



I hope you love it as much as I do.

The chair massage at nail salons

I've decided that the chair massage at nail salons is completely contingent upon the amount of tip you leave. And what's crazy is that it's not even the ten minute chair one like the photo suggests. It's the one that the nice "nail technician" gives you when your nails are drying. It's not like the most important thing in the process, but when you get it then you don't get it, it becomes a question of what makes you get it or what makes you not get it.

Case in point:
Two weeks ago, I went for the routine summertime manicure/pedicure at this one nail place that usual gives the free chair massage at the end. I paid, tipped (HOWEVER, I left a smaller tip than usual since I forgot to carry cash and I hate charging a tip). So I'm sitting at the dryer and start doing the shoulder shift like I am about to get the rub (*pause*). The lady is standing there turning the dryers on as I am doing the shoulder shift. I began to feel like that episode of Sex and the City where that guy keeps shifting his rear closer to Miranda's face until she shouts "I don't do that!!!!" The lady goes to me "Okayyyy" and walks away. Nothing but me and a significant loss of dignity.

Fast-forward to yesterday, where I am at the salon and this time I had tip money. It came to like $22 and I handed her $30. She kept the entire change, which was a big boo since I wanted to sneak at least $2 of that for coffee money, but I digress. So I finish, go to the dryer and the woman beats the daylights out of me in the chair. I think I have a bruise actually.

There should be a sign that reads, "Complimentary Chair Massage With Hefty Tip" - something that lets the world know if you are being a cheap bitch that day to not do the shoulder lean hoping for something that won't come.

Hatin' Hayden

Now look, I enjoyed Hayden Panettiere when she played a baby prostitute in Raising Helen, and I hear great things about her cheerleading acting thing on Heroes. I even let her slide with that role in like the fourth Bring It On (even when she wore desert camo and said "yo"). But Hayden, Hayden, Hayden...what kind of f*ckery is this:




Now with all due respect, it might be the Candies campaign, but honestly come on little girl, this ish is like taken straight from the How to Become Fergie Handbook! We really really don't need another Fergie. And what's up with this hackneyed Reggae tinge? "Yoo dun buy meh flow-ahs." Really? Do yourself a favor and be a real "Hero" to these underaged girls so they don't go running to Hannah Montana for guidance. Yikes.