Wait. So you want me to pay a bunch of money to live in a big house decorated in hot pink and smells like hair spray and share a bathroom with a bunch of bulemics– but first ridicule and embarrass myself to prove I’m worthy? Um, what?

I just don’t get this whole concept. All these crazy bitches preach community and sisterhood and the bonds born out of pledging. Last time I checked, standing in your underwear in front of other girls while they point out your flaws didn’t form any kind of fucking bond. It takes humiliation to a whole new level. (This ACTUALLY HAPPENED to girls who were pledging.) It makes me want to kill some Delta slitches. The fact that girls are CHOOSING to go through a week of pledging with insane requests and demorlaizing demands is appalling. Girls! Come on.

Also, I keep hearing you can’t even drink in the sorority house. Tell me again the perks of this? Sororities also have rules as to how you can and can’t behave. WTF? This idea that people (YOUR PEERS!) can decide things like, what’s appropriate behavior, how much is acceptable to drink, how high off the floor you can dance, etc. It’s fucking ridiculous. I know a girl put on probation for doing a shot at a fraternity party. What?! Stories like this make me want to go apeshit on the people who think this crap is normal.

Just a quick note to all the ladies entering college: Skip the sorority. Seriously. The cooler, more fun chicks are playing sports or on the newspaper orĀ  just chilling in their off-campus apartments playing cards and sipping a beer. You don’t have to lick gum off another girl’s shoe to make real friends.

And a quick note to all the dumbshit girls MAKING the insane and demoralizing demands: Just stop.



I like this magazine. I like Vanity Fair so much, in fact, that I subscribe to it; I’m on the books to receive issues from now until 2013, and I’ve been reading it for years.

But here’s the deal. I like holding the magazine in my hands and reading it. And lately I can’t really do that.

And here’s why: Today, September 2, 2009, Vanity Fair leaked details and quotes from another interview Levi Johnston gave about Sarah Palin. (She suggested hiding Bristol’s pregnancy so her and Todd could just adopt the baby and then he’d be free to go on his merry little way.) Ooooh! Interesting.

But here’s the deal … that story is in the OCTOBER issue.

Again, today is September 2. I still haven’t had a chance to crack open the SEPTEMBER issue and truth be told, I haven’t felt a huge urge to read it, because VF leaked every goddamn story that sounded interesting over a month ago. (Those include, but are not limited to, the Ryan O’Neal interview where he admits he hit on Tatum at Farrah’s funeral; the Ruth Madoff profile; the Mad Men photo album.)

So what am I subscribing to, exactly?

I realize that Vanity Fair isn’t the only magazine that’s doing this. Glamour does it, Details does it, Playboy does it, InStyle does it. THEY ALL DO IT. (Though, to be fair, it doesn’t help that I work in a media environment that’s hellbent on covering the covers, too; I probably get exposed to article spoilers more than the average subscriber does. Trust me, I get it: PVs and UVs!) And, to be balanced, there are other, non-leaked stories inside each of those publications, but as a reader and as a writer, it disappoints me that there are no more surprises waiting in the mailbox.

I don’t have a nice fancy bow to put on this, other than: Magazines, stop being such fucking whores.

Heidi Montag


This thing is the worst human speciman on the planet. Actually, scratch that. Her fucking AWFUL husband Spencer Pratt is the worst human speciman on the planet, but this blonde bimbo comes in a close second. (Don’t worry, Spencer’s gonna get his own post but I’m just too fired up about Heidi to dive into his douchebaggery just yet.)

Heidi? Sweetie? Um, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but, you look RE-FUCKING-TARDED when you try and make sexy faces at the camera. I mean, you literally look like something is WRONG with you. I don’t know who told you that holding your lips in that awkward position was cute, but trust me, it’s not. You like like a fucking cartoon fish.

Also, what the fuck happened at Miss Universe? First of all, why were you even performing there? Who did you dupe into thinking you’re an actual talent? Second, what the fuck was that performance? Last time I checked, you aren’t Britney Spears circa 2000 performing at the VMAs. You’re Heidi Lameass Montag and you’re performing at the 2009 Miss Universe. Your poorly-recycled attempt at recreating Ms. Spears’ previously mentioned performance was insulting to each and ever viewer who was forced to sit through your “show.” Frankly, it was abysmal and embarrassing. Please don’t make the mistake of performing again (or thinking that people care. Cause we don’t. I PROMISE.)

In the spirit of being fair, you have a nice rack. Even though it’s fake. But I can’t get there on the nose. Or the hair. Or the face. But, I am willing to admit you have nice tits.

But UGH, you make me sick. And your little dog too.

I am sick and fucking tired of W Magazine. Particularly their celebrity photo spreads. Every month, the “editors” put a featured celebrity in the most fucked up situation they can conjure up — and then call it entertainment. (I specifically do NOT choose the word journalism because it most certainly is NOT that. And I can’t, just CAN’T call it fashion either. Leather balls in a person’s mouth or shoestrings as underwear do NOT count as fashion. Unless it’s an S&M mag. Is W? Is that how they’re branding themselves these days? Didn’t think so.)

Let’s take the current issue with Bruce Willis:


WHAT THE FUCK. I can’t imagine how the photo direction went on this. “Hey John MaClaine, I mean, Bruce. Can you curl up in the fetal position and wear these red leather gloves? Masculine? OF COURSE IT’S MASCULINE buddy! Trust us….”

I’ve just had it with magazines pulling this shit. Do I like innovative and interesting photography? Yes. Do I like it when celebrities are exploited or sensationalized to get it? No.

This applies to you too V Magazine. Fucktards.

Here’s something I just learned recently: Runners are fucking scumbags.

You’re going to have to trust me on the details here, because a lot of the sites I would use as resources have some pretty fucking nasty photos, but, seriously, RUNNERS ARE FUCKING SCUMBAGS.

Ok, hold on, let me compose myself, and present the jury with some anecdotal evidence.

During last year’s Boston marathon, runners dropped their pants and took shits ON THE SIDEWALKS.
Same thing happened in London’s marathon.
The organizers of Washington, DC’s 10-mile cherry blossom run almost lost their permit after last year’s run because so many runners were pissing and shitting ON THE MONUMENTS.
And, just to bring it home, my cousin ran in this year’s cherry blossom run in DC, and told me afterward that, at mile three, SHE SHIT HER PANTS AND JUST KEPT RUNNING.

Keep in mind that this is all happening IN PUBLIC. OTHER PEOPLE ARE AROUND.

And, the thing is, this happens every year, this is just the first time I’ve ever heard of it.

What really gets me, though, is that runners think they are fucking awesome. They’ll go on and on and on about runner’s high and doing ironmans and seven-minute miles and blah-dee-fucking-BLAH. And then, the next thing you know, they are shitting on sidewalks, or, in some cases, SHITTING THEMSELVES. During the race.

Seriously, when it comes to that point, it’s time for you to get a new fucking hobby.



I have torn cartilage in my knee. It is an injury I sustained playing sports, and it is an injury that will require surgery to repair.

Because of that, until I actually have the surgery, I walk with a limp. Sometimes, if I know I have to do a lot of walking, I’ll bring a cane to lean on, to help with the limping.

The limp is enough to make people stare, add the cane into the equation, and it’s like I become a novelty that every fucking person in the world cannot resist making a crack to or about.

People of the world, I know you think you’re being clever and original, but, seriously:

The House reference has been made.
The Barbaro reference has been made.
The Tiny Tim reference has been made.
The Mr. Peanut reference has been made.
The Dr. Kerry Weaver reference has been made.


You’re not being original — if you were, you would be able to tell, because I would laugh, instead of giving you my patented LOOK OF DEATH — and seriously, it just isn’t really funny.

I’m in pain.
(I can’t even fucking sleep at night.)
I can’t do 99% of the things I like to do.
I feel incredibly fucking vulnerable.
(I’m a great target for muggers, right?)
MRIs and surgery are fucking expensive.

So let’s stop making a fucking joke about it, OK?


Fuck fuck fuck. I don’t even know where to begin. This cover’s got me all pissed off. I mean, REALLY? REALLY? Two young girls licking an ICE CREAM CONE? Come on.

Ugh! At least Leighton (she’s the one on the right for all of you living under a big fucking rock) is having some fun with it. Her expression seems to say, “this is pretty friggin’ ridiculous but hey, I’m famous and cute and will just smile for the camera.” Meanwhile, Blake, who I actually REALLY want to like, didn’t get that same memo. Instead, she’s trying to be all sultry. And frankly, she looks fucking retarded. Here’s the deal: I’m aware when other women are doing things that are hot and I can appreciate (COUGH imitate) it. But this is just embarrassing and gross and insulting.And her boobs! Jesus.

And, talk about lowest common denominator. Really? THIS IS A MUSIC MAGAZINE. GOD DAMN IT.