My Favorite Facecrooks

So we all made the pilgrimage from MySpace to Facebook because apparently Facebook involved "real" social networking and was so super safe because we had to use our "real names" (like we somehow couldn't put John Smith as our name). That and those Lil Green Patch Kids.

Anyway, as of late, Facebook has been recruiting some creepy ass people ever since you could join without a school email address (sorry but it's true!) The social networking aspect has been replaced by people using their status bar as Twitter and prematurely revealing sitcom endings, name dropping (if you're in the industry you know the "Chillin with Fif" statuses), and leaving melodramatic quotes like "What's getting stabbed in the back without the tetanus?" And these people are your acquaintances.

My problem lately is similar to the issues I had on MySpace. It involves strangers hitting you up like they know you and having some retarded reason for acting like they do.

"Hey my name is Chad Baxter. I enjoy long walks on the beach and date rape. We have no mutual Facebook friends, and I'm hoping you don't realize that my default pic is of Jesse Metcalf, because I have no idea who he is; I Google imaged "shirtless guys" and found him first. I don't speak any English, but have translation software on my Dell. I weigh 500 pounds and it's all in my neck. I'm hoping you find me sensitive and sexy so we can meet in an Arby's parking lot and I can make a statistic out of you. It'll be a good time."

"Sup I'm Mandy Peterkin. I'm 14 and have no business friend requesting you. I know chances are you'll never add me, because it's morally wrong. I'm not your mom's friend's youngest daughter nor am I your best friend's cousin. I'm a latchkey kid who got a computer for my birthday and I am trying to find people to talk to until I meet a nice teenager on here named Chad Baxter who convinces me to meet him at Arby's."

"Hey my name is Tracy. I don't have a last name...I used the spacebar for the last name portion on Facebook and got away with it. I also have no business friend requesting you and this picture of me is from six years ago when I did some internet modeling to pay for my nail degree. Since then I've had 6 children and my stomach skin could be wrapped around rhode island as insulation. I don't even know if you're male or female, but I'm hoping you find me attractive because my husband Phil is cheating on me with some guy at the office named Carl. I won't find out it's Carl until his office's holiday party when I run up on his secretary Dana and start a cat fight while Phil gets it on with Carl in the coat check and blames it on the non-alcoholic eggnog. Then I tell Phil how I've been having Facebook relations with some guy named Chad Baxter and he doesn't care if I cook because he loves going to Arby's."

"I'm Pikal Refai, but all my friends call me Bill. I'm looking for a wife and am hoping you have cataracts and can't see that I am twice your age. I grow my mustache extra bushy to hide my hairlip, but it's barely visible. I like you very much - not because you are pretty or smart or successful, but because you have a pulse. You may also remember me from that email I sent you asking if I can store my money in your bank account because I closed my account in Dubai and had nowhere else to store my millions. That's millions in rupee, so you could walk away with $15 if you marry me. Think about it."

"Wuss poppin' I'm Swagga Bastid and even though Facebook has no music player, I'm here to tell you that my remix of 'Swagga Like Us' called 'Swagga Like Bastid' is that fire and you should check it out on z-share until even z-share disables the link. I'm really hot on the blogs - well my blog...actually my MySpace blog. Anyway, I'm gonna be doing an open mic so maybe you can come and tell your friends. By the way I have a YouTube channel and I say that like no one else does."

"Hey bitch my name is Joey Balmundi but everyone calls me Soprano. I'm 16 but my fake ID says I'm 42 and I'm throwin' this little party at the Limelight this weekend through my new promotion company Balmundi Ballerz Entertainment. Make sure you bring you and the rest of your sluts with you. Find me at the bar and I will give you a complimentary jaeger bomb. I won't realize that the Limelight closed down six years ago until I get to the club that night, so maybe you can give me a ride back to Jersey so my mom doesn't catch me."


...back to Friendster I go.

You Down Wit OCD? Yeah You Know Me!

It's Sunday afternoon and there's nothing on television but repeats of Step By Step and the umpteen MTV True Life series. While the idea of watching Patrick Duffy and Suzanne Somers collectively raise a family of assholes was tempting, True Life: I Have a Yeast Infection sadly won this TV competition. Okay that wasn't the real True Life, but if MTV hasn't made this one then they probably should have.

Anyway, this one was some collection of True Lives that all involved disorders. There was the one with the people with Tourrette's - including that twitching comedian from NJ and the girl with too much eye liner who starred in her school play. You'll be happy to know that twitching comedian has started dating (they even televised him making out with some poor paid actress/MTV intern). The girl cut off all her hair and got shouted out by Jordin Sparks at an American Idol concert. Progress, people.



Then there was the True Life: I'm Fat or whatever it was really called. There's 600 pound people blaming everything from their thyroid to McDonald's for their size and televising their gastric bypass surgeries. The updates are of these people being thin with like lots and lots of skin hanging. You had your stomach rerouted to your rectum and you can't holler at a tummy tuck? Am I missing something?

The next one involved people from Staten Island. No dis, but that IS a disorder - spoken from a Jersey native. I'm better than you.

And finally, my real reason for this entire blog - the OCD kids. These were the people who turned the lights on and off six times or used exactly ten sheets of toilet paper. MTV put these people on (inter)national television to discuss how tragic their lives are and it led me to identify some OCD people that you may or may not know:

Lip gloss girl
She carries her lip gloss in that little jeans pocket. She puts it on every six minutes. If she runs out, she scours the streets looking for lip gloss from fellow girls and gay men. There are five layers of gloss on her thin lips. She has streak marks on her face like she's been drinking Mountainberry Punch Kool-Aid. And she runs her tongue across her teeth every 30 seconds like she just got her braces off. DO NOT confuse OCD lip gloss girl with fresh to death my lip gloss is poppin' girl. Those are two different girls. OCD lip gloss girl looks like her lips have collagen injections...sponsored by MAC.

Water with lemon guy
Since we're in a recession, it's understandable to drink the free tap water at restaurants. If you live in NJ, you are playing Russian Roulette with tap water (especially when you have to chew it), but NY tap water is way different - and better. So ok, that's fine. You like tap water. Water with lemon guy is the guy who asks for his lemon wedge to squeeze into his free water. If the waiter forgets, he starts making demands like his chicken was served raw. "I want my lemon wedge!" he says. "You forgot my lemons!" Water with lemon guy needs to understand that if the tap water is unbearable to drink without lemon, then you probably shouldn't be drinking it at all. Spring for the coke, buddy. It probably has more health benefits than a glass of Agent Orange with lemon zest. Just a thought.

"Did I drop something?"
I must admit, I am her sometimes. Especially when I carry a bag that doesn't close. This person, though, stops short on city streets to double check dropping something they weren't even carrying. If you're standing behind them and walking fast, then the sudden halt may leave you inside of their colon. And while society is pretty much f*cked, do you really think if you dropped your bowling ball that someone won't tell you? Let's disregard the fact that you yourself would know. Just keep in mind that if you think you might've dropped something, there's a herd of cattle behind you ready to stampede you and you will probably be trampled on and killed over a tube of chapstick.

"Is my hair still plastered?"
You have more product in your hair than a girl from Staten Island (or a guy from Staten Island for that matter). It's taken two bottles of gel and a can of mousse to create that Roman warrior helmet on your skull. My question for you is...after spending two hours creating your man-hat, do you really think that a hair will fly out of place? There is no point in patting around your head every five minutes like you left your pick at home. Your hair looks like Annie Lennox's...not Questlove's.

Cellphone check 1-2-1-2
Awkward silence? Check the cellphone. A cellphone rings in Brooklyn and you're in Queens? Check the cellphone. Someone else checks their cellphone? Check the cellphone. Beggar approaches you looking for cash or crack? Check the cellphone. Let's not get into cameraphone guy, who takes a picture of a dead bird and then reviews all of his "walking down the street" photos like they're Justin Bua paintings. See you think you've taken that black and white photo of John Lennon in the New York cutoff shirt, but you're more like the creepy guy from American Beauty following around a plastic shopping bag.

Ass, Gas, or Bass...Nobody Rides For Free

I can't help it. I'm obsessed with Chuck Bass from Gossip Girl. He is the perfect combination of douchebag and Andre3000. With his flamboyant clothing choices, messy androgynous coif, smoldering in dark allies while he pretentiously announces "I'm Chuck Bass." I can't help it. And to know that the actor who portrays him, Ed Westwick, is BRITISH (complete with accent), I really can't take it. Rumor has it he's banging Drew Barrywhore (I used to like her until this). They should end that immediately. On the show he screws anything fly with a pulse. This gives me hope. But alas, his heart belongs to Blair. Damn that motherchucker!

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.