Crazy Tyra! A newspaper wrote this long article about her, and it was perhaps a little unflattering, and Tyra didn't like it, because Tyra is very conscious of how she is portrayed. She sees herself as an important public figure, y'know! Why would anybody pick on her or doubt her authenticity? She's just trying to help people see the world more clearly, that's all! So Tyra decided to mess with the newspaper reporter: She put the reporter's phone number on Twitter! And told people to call it! The reporter was so mad! But Tyra didn't give up or apologize! OH, WAIT, WHAT? IT WASM.I.A.WHO DID ALL OF THAT, AND NOT TYRA? Well, huh, imagine that!
But it's actually chocolate sauce. Y'know, like Heidi Klum, as you see here.* Except you strap a stuffed shorebird to your crotch to hide your chucky, and you use little BP flowerbursts to cover your nipples. You can cover your ass with an object of your choosing (mud plug?). YOU'VE GOT SEVERAL MONTHS TO PERFECT IT, SO GET CRACKIN' NOW.
PROTOTYPE: (NOTE: SHOREBIRD-ON-CHUCKY NOT SHOWN)
* Klum's choco-slathered pics were published before the Gulf Coast oil spill and therefore she has nothing to do with the idea for this Halloween costume.
The Real Housewives of New York can eat the dicks at the bottom of the bag of dicks; I find those ladies utterly exhausting, and they also make me sad in the same way the gorilla house at the zoo makes me sad. The Jersey chicks, though? Now that's some fake-realness that calls to me. It says: "We are a hugely cartoony bosomy exaggeration of the suburban life that wraps America like a fleece blanket. You knew us once. Perhaps we sat next to you in religion class."
I mean, yeah, I usually cannot make it through an entire hour of their horseshit. But I almost get there. The RHNJ/RHNY show-to-show minute-watching-capability proportion looks something like this:
45/NJ = 15/NY
And within last night's 45, there was Teresa's epidural. She was having a baby. The baby turned out to be beautiful. Blah blah blah. It was rich Jersey people making a rich Jersey kid. But I *loved* watching that needle go in. Not in some sort of sadistic way. Nor was schadenfreude a factor. And yes, it was gross, but it also was reality-show peril at its most poetic: Give the flesh-and-blood woman a hardcore anesthetic because she exists and therefore has a nervous system and is not a guido robot.
In that infinitesimal moment, as she was slathered in iodine, I did not want her to be hurt. THIS IS WHAT MAKES AMERICA GREAT.
But don't blame it on either of these guys. Human rights laws allow for "vocal covers in a tank top" and "alleged black metal riffs in a shirt and tie." The real sin is that metal did not choose to kill itself a long time ago. It would have been the most metal thing to do, y'know?
What happens when a total flake says some offhand shit about a couple of battleaxes and then has to do a quasi-backtrack because the Worst Possible Thing You Can Do These Days is to let a "controversy" just fade away, because otherwise you're wasting an opportunity to have your name electronically spooged at defenseless people?
At the risk of appearing to defend The Madonna and The Lady Gaga, I find myself wondering why anybody listens to The Joanna Newsom.
So, yeah, that means you, The Guardian. You might be the asshole here. Or maybe it's The Pitchfork. I feel so used.
I considered spiders, scorpions, beetles and ants. But the wasp? Oh so nice. Quote: "And that is a very important stage in the development of the social life. In fact, it's the very basis on which all the great insect societies are built. This species of wasp, however, is still at the stage of working alone."
HEY CLONING-EXPERTS, when you get a chance, can you clone hip-hop a few times and give a clone to these people? So they can torture it to death and then defile/desecrate the clone-corpse quietly and in private, without harming the actual corpse of hip-hop?
From behind about 20 feet behind, the dude didn't appear unusual: Maroon coach's jacket, khaki slacks, old sneakers, wispy balding hair, a few white plastic shopping bags in his hands. He wasn't stumbling or shuffling. He could've been a retired cranky pundit or g-man. That's probably why I didn't scrutinize him until he deliberately tossed aside a perfectly good toothbrush and a half-used bottle of hot sauce. This was no accident. After chucking them down, he looked at them for a split second, as if to say, "yeah, that's the perfect spot."
The yup who was walking next to me said something like, "are you fucking serious?" I pointed to my head and half-whispered, "I don't think he's all there."
To be sure, this is probably like the 10,507th most shocking thing I've ever seen. Shit happens, kids. But seriously, a toothbrush and a bottle of hot sauce? If I'm not shocked, I'm at least totally confused. And, goddamn it, I lack the poetic chops to turn this moment into verse. Haiku, maybe, but not right now.
Anyway, when the yup and I caught up to the guy -- we didn't say anything to him -- he heard our footsteps and stopped dead in the sidewalk. I'd like to think that he was contemplating whether the toothbrush and hot sauce actually belonged where he put them.
Seriously, my own sanity is right on the edge here.