ManWhore.com

Do you like the way I rock it? Boy, you know, it's so cha-ot-ic.
--B. Spears, 2005

Brit, you hit the nail just right. Just in case your computer screen hasn't yet contracted gonorrhea, Kevin Federline's new website just launched, and... boy.

I understand that you may value your eyes and therefore decline to visit KevinFederline.com, so I'll give you a rundown. It's bizarre. First you get a collage of "false tabloid" US Weekly and In Touch clips detailing the rise and alleged fall of Brit & Kevin + Federletus, finishing with "BRIT TO KEVIN: SHAPE UP!" and fading to black. Then some kind of PowerPoint effect tool ushers in Kevin's message:

"Now that I have your full attention... Never judge a book by its cover!"

"Book," "weekly tabloid"... it's all the same chez Spears. Then the mild threat:

"I'm coming... 2006!"

There is then a montage of champagne bottles spurting their delightful bubbly spirits in a way that does not at all bring to mind erections, sexual release, and/or orgiastic climax, and is totally fucking creepy.

I took a break here, to search for some rusty nails with which to put out my own eyes; yet before I could commence this sweet, sweet blindness, I had gotten to the main page. Meet the man himself: Kevin enjoys "horseback riding, long walks on the beach and the wind whipping through my hair. Ha ha ha." Fascinating, no? Also, in a turn that gives my ocular self-mutilatory desires pause, his new single, "PopoZao" hits the online music community Jan. 1. Perhaps I will turn on my eardrums instead.

Popo. Popov. Zao.

Zao.

Yao.

Yaaaaoooooooooo.

Zaaaooooooooo.

My ears! Yet this Federlinian mating call is Kryptonite to Moesha actresses and Louisianian child stars alike.

I'd like to've heard that conversation at the Malibu compound.

"Wassup, I'm gonn' have ma own site on the Internets! Britney baby,--naw, honey, can ya put that thing down for a minute, it won't die or nuthin', I know, I've done this before babe-- Brit, I wanna WEBSITE! Can you just host it for me? Babe? ZAOOOOOOOO! Yeah, that's right. Oh, and where's your checkbook, it's not in your bag."

Slightly less worrisome: the free verse of Rosie.com. Gives J.J. Redick a run for his money.

Yesssss

I feel so, like, validated. I was kind of bracing myself for the Beast.
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You are

Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman 77% Superman 75% Spider-Man 75% Supergirl 72% Robin 70% Green Lantern 70% Hulk 65% Iron Man 60% Batman 55% Catwoman 55% The Flash 50%

You are a beautiful princess with great strength of character.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

I Like To Roast

The Whole Foods meat man said 18 minutes per pound at 350. But what if we threw out the roast wrapper before recording its poundage?

Several options, but Brother Blotto and I opted to bring the roast into the potty room.



I recommend weighing yourself without the roast first, particularly if the roast is ten pounds. The logic escapes you when you look at the scale and DEAR GOD I AM WAY FATTER THAN I THOUGHT I WAS.


But then you do the necessary subtraction and realize you're holding a ten-pound hunk of only partially defrosted raw beef.

I should be on the Food Network:


"I just love a good Sunday Roast! It's so easy!"

Even when it got stuck in the oven still only partially defrosted and was mooing at the center at dinnertime.

We still ate it, though.



Merry Christmas!

On Time At The Homestead

Ok, I have to admit: I bitch about the weather, but I love New Jersey. Maybe not all of New Jersey, like I don't particularly care for Camden or the Parkway south of the Amboys when there are tolls every .3 miles, but where I live is just so familiar and snotty and seasonal, and it's great. No, I cannot leave the house without a sweater, fleece, backup jacket, and gloves. Yes, I want to decapitate the majority of the 12-year-olds carrying LV pochettes and oh-so-bitchy ovrehighlighted 27-year-old mother-of-twos with their ugly, screaming, slick-haired, be-Polo-ed children in their overloaded fucking MacLaren strollers at the Mall at Short Hills. But so what? I mean, my dog's here.

Last time I was here I entered my room (which isn't even my childhood room--Little Sister and I swapped after graduation) to find unassembled exercise equipment, a cracked window, and my bedspread encrusted with animal hair. And... where's my pillow? I think Mother took my dismay to heart and turned it into a charming cubby, replete with new pillow and framed family photos on the desk.

Unfortunately, the microfill body pillow sprung a leak my first night. Due to the static cling caused by dry, cold New Jersey air, I've been discovering these grainy microdots everywhere for the day or so, like I rubbed down with exfoliating cream and shirked on the rinse.

Anyway, I posted early today, at the crack of 10:30 AM, because I'm about to start baking. No you pothead, I mean cookies. With three pounds of butter and two dozen eggs in the house, I'm not liable to cease until 6.

TK:

DK's Christmas Gift To Me: A Photo Essay

Update: New Jersey is FUCKING FREEZING.

5:30 AM: Am up and awake, waiting for my cab.
5:40 AM: Am up and on the phone, screaming quietly at the cab company, waiting for my cab.
5:50 AM: Am up and on the phone, frantically calling for a new cab.
6:00 AM: In cab.
6:48 AM: Am denied check-in, as flight is in less than 30 minutes. Thanks, cab.
6:50 AM: Have cajoled and begged Monte, the United check-in man, to check me in. Thanks, Monte!
6:53 AM: Cut entire security line while guard's back turns.
6:54 AM: Begin airport-length sprint to gate.
7:00 AM: Wheeze, slow to brisk walk.
7:14:30AM: Arrive at gate. Luggage handle has broken from my ancient wheelie-bag and won't slide back in. Thrust ancient wheelie bag on random man and hope for the best.
7:15 AM: Take off.

And after all that...

See title.

The Wrap

Ooh, I'm a starfucker. Met BJ Novak from The Office last night (I don't care about him being on it, but I do care that he wrote the "Diversity Day" episode) and attempted to get him to fall in love with me because he is hilarious and adorable. I don't think it worked.

Tonight, however, put last night to shame, as I met more or less the entire cast of Arrested Development, the best show on television.

I unfortunately did not meet Portia de Rossi, who was not at the party and therefore did not bring Ellen. Ellen and the AD creator hate each other.

My date informed me that Portia and Ellen suck face immediately after every Ellen taping.

You learn these things at wrap parties.

Rubbed elbows with George Michael, who is 12. And Maeby. And Real David Cross. And Father-Uncle Jeffrey Tambor! And Buster, which was very unnerving because he was acting normal! And Jason "Teen Wolf 2" Bateman. Jason claimed to have heard all about me. He said he was a big fan. Yes, he was lying. But he was lying for me.

I hear the guest stars are shits, with the notable exception of Henry Winkler.

(Phew).

(Like you'd want to find out the Fonz is a shit?)

Do you get what I'm talking about?

Because you should. Because the show is awesome. Cancelled, but awesome.

So watch the DVDs, already!

And appreciate Real David Cross!

The Daters Abound

A veritable melange of dating activity among MB's friends lately.

A sampling:

-
My older roommate.

I think she's husband-hunting.

She posted some personal ads online and is now meeting multiple Alans and Jims for coffee. She does not consider men under 30. Several have been in the Peace Corps.

-
My younger roommate.

L. works the JDate angle, holding the young Jews to exacting standards. Forget to call? Bye! Snide to the cat? Later! Dislike Gaslite karaoke/the 80s cover band at 2020 on Fridays? Not even a text message.

Boys love her.

Her father pays for the membership.

-
K. met a cute guy on the plane over Thanksgiving ("He is cute, Meg. I mean, cute).

Yes, he's mindnumbingly boring.

Yes, he has halitosis.

But, you know... he's cute.

She decided things were through over the weekend, but not before he coerced her into sitting on Santa's lap at the Grove.

"So then I had to pay $25 for two 5x7s of me and some dude I don't even like."

-
SerialDater was about to dump her Prada-shoe-giving oncologist man-friend, but then he gave her a trip to Kauai for Christmas.


-
Once, I met some dude from the Internet for coffee. He hadn't shaved his neck. That was a couple months ago. Like... 6? 8?

-
I need to get out more.

Sensitivity

So I go to help out at the tutoring office today. The woman in charge asks me to file all these folders with info on former students. There are a lot of them. "Dead students," she calls them.

"Although I really shouldn't say that," she continues, looking at a particularly fat file. I assure her that I know what she means.

"No," she says. "I mean, this one student actually passed away."


Meghan's first, sensitive thought: So can I throw away her file?

Cowboys In Love

What a weekend. Feline hysterectomy! The industrial supply distribution prom! Cowboys in love!

1. Mildred got her lady parts removed on Friday. Her previously merely runty appearance is now compounded by her shaved belly, stitches, and indentations on either side of her midsection. It was great when she first got home and was still sedated yet unable to sit, reduced to wandering around the apartment with her lolling head and crazy drug eyes. Aw poor kitty.

Later that night met up with the not-late but still-great high school bestie Pina at El Carmen, who always inspires me. Seriously! Inspires me heartily to drink SoCo and lime.

2. K. wrangled me a date to her company Christmas party. I know what you're thinking---Hollywood Christmas party? Santa babies in Mean Girls maribou miniskirts downing Jaeger with sleazy agent types, aw yeeeeeeeeah! but no, my friends, it was in Long Beach. It was at a hotel and featured taffeta gowns and stiff hairdos, a photographer for the couples, and dinner: a prom without the awkward high school skin issues and plus an open bar. I ate two lobster tails and Dennis wrangled a Secret Game Hen second entree. He had learned nothing from his overeating at the CAA Christmas party the night before. And then we danced! And frolicked! And mocked K.'s ex to an almost-but-not-quite tiresome degree. A good night.

3. We saw Brokeback Mountain at the Grove yesterday. I was about as pathetic as my cat looks, blubbering like a leaky showerhead through much of it, but take issue with several friends' claims that I was still weeping outside the theater. I was just confused by all the tap dancers in Mean Girls maribou miniskirts that suddenly appeared in front of the exit. Can't they tell the difference?

Help!

I need awesomely bad reality show names. Dancing With The Stars, But Can They Sing?, and Who Wants To Marry A Multi-Millionaire have all been taken by actual reality TV. It's for a writing project.

E-mail me! Leave a comment! I've already got some involving little people, so you can leave those home.

Barbara Walters's Dream

In 1997, Barbara Walters had a dream.

"Four women! One successful! One funny! One black! One annoying!

FOUR WOMEN, ONE SHOW!

I shall call it... THE VIEW!"

Yeah, I know you don't watch The View. If you're reading this you're most likely a) under 38, b) possess a working brain, or c) are reading this at the office. Any or all of these imply you do not spend your mornings with daytime TV. But there have been changes since 1997, and I feel obligated to share them with you.

Miss Blotto: watching The View so you don't have to.

First, Meredith "Don't I Look Great Yet Not In A Preserved Way?" Vieira.



Meredith has remained unchanged. She's the only one who could carry a show on her own. She is consequently the only one worth watching, and exceptionally boring to write about here. On to an easier target:

Star Jones Reynolds.



Where to begin? It seems that when Barbara picked Star as her token black host, she decided to kill two birds and also pick the most annoying black woman alive. But Star... she has staying power. I think her body has an inverse relationship with America's hatred, growing thinner and stepping closer to attractiveness the more everyone mocks her fully product-placed wedding and obvious puppet of a husband. "You wanna fuck with me, America? JUST TRY!!!!!!!!"

Also, I think she sits up at night with her diary, confessing how much she hates pretending to fight with Saint Meredith on the air.

Joy Behar.



I confuse her with Joy Philbin.

And finally... Elisabeth.

Oh, Elisabeth.



I mean, I liked her on Survivor: Australia. Who didn't? After that dramatic tribal council when she was supposed to get voted off and they gave Jerri the boot instead, the entire second floor of my dorm spontaneously combusted with surprise and joy.

But now she's some perpetually pregnant NFL wife with bad highlights and uninformed opinions, which she thankfully never shares anyway, and it's sad. She's destroyed my memory of that younger, happier Elisabeth, who wasn't convinced that emergency contraception is an abortion pill. Elisabeth, honey---if you're already pregnant, it'll just make you nauseous. Read it on the Internets. Go design a shoe.

She's nominally better than the original Young Blonde Host, Debbie Matenopoulouspoulousravides. Remember her? She's on the TV Guide channel now, and not at all bitter about it. She inspired that "Dare Debbie" skit, where the three other hosts would force Debbie to take increasingly death-defying dares in hopes of her early demise. Buying out a contract is expensive, y'know.

?!

Oscar winner Charlize Theron
Oscar winner Frances McDormand
Oscar nominee Sophie Okenedo
Oscar nominee Pete Postlethwaite

all read the Aeon Flux script

and thought

"Yeeee-ah!"

I Fucked Wendy Pepper

I'm flipping through the first season marathon of Project Runway, DVRed today. This self-proclaimed "Prada of reality shows" is awesome, people.

Except... for right now.

We'll come back to this in a moment. First, a history. Back when I was unemployed and living with my parents, a state to whose return I constantly fear, I spent a lot of time moping around in the basement watching Bravo. PR kept me sane. I'm not proud, but that's the way it was. In between developing my pasty tan and chauffeuring my sister to soccer, I worked part-time at SYPNYM (Small Yet Prestigious New York Magazine), performing research, starting this blog, and generally dicking around New York.

And although the dichotomy of my New Jersey and New York lives was apparent, I noticed one place where the twain did meet, and that place was Project Runway. People would actually talk about it. Hipsters walked around Williamsburg with t-shirts reading "I Fucked Wendy Pepper." Wendy Pepper! Project Runway's own odious, skunk-haired matron responsible for most of the back-stabbing and bitching and who designed several truly unforgivable crimes of fashion. My Bravo habit was not lone.

I'm currently watching the second-to-last episode, when said odious Wendy edged out the adorable, effeminate Austin for the Final Fashion Week Three. Yes, it's a reality show, but my heart is not stone: it hurts.

Ok, I'm on to the finale. This was awesome: it's two months later, and when Wendy shows up, it's no more Wendy, but Mrs. Pepper to you, bitch! She's gotten rid of the skunk stripe, wears clothes that fit, and flexes the claws in full view. Wendy... is scaring me. But it's ok, she still loses.

Watch the reruns! Listen to Jay as he proclaims not to have taken the bitch's dye! Ponder exactly who drew that mustache on Wendy's daughter's photo (my money's on Kevin). Season two starts Wednesday, and y'all best be setting your TiVo.

Wendy's first Project Runway design, which for some mystifying reason did not get her sent immediately home:

Goodbye, World

It was good knowing you, human interaction, and nature and weather, you weren't too bad either.

But the DVR man just left, so I'm going to take some time and get to know Moxi, my new boyfriend.

No, he doesn't like to cuddle. But he can pause live TV. And what he lacks in height he makes up for in his user-intuitive interface and desire to watch Barefoot Contessa whenever the Food Network feels like airing it. Even if the Daily Show is on at the same time.

I LOVE YOU, DVR MAN.

Oh, Happy Day

It was a happy day yesterday. Duke beat Indiana. I met up with an old acquaintance. Dennis and I went and stared at Adam Sandler at the bar, because we are tools.

And Defamer published my bitchy little Nellie McKay story!

My story. On Defamer! Validating me! Validation! Yes!