Hot Fuzz

About a week ago I saw a commercial for the HP Envy Ultrabook. The product didn't impress me all that much (everyone knows that I'm a total whore for Apple), but the song used in the ad left a lasting impression. Unfortunately I couldn't get my Shazam up fast enough, so I was stuck looking for it online.

I had no idea how to accomplish this- I didn't know the name of the song, and I also had no clue who the fuck the artist was. So I texted Rio from Good Music, Bad Math and asked him to give me the name of a site that would point me in the right direction. He sent me to Yahoo! Answers and told me that not only would someone probably be able to assist me with my query, but it was also a goldmine of stupidity when it came to the postings on that site. The categories on Yahoo! Answers cover basically everything, ranging from Sports, Travel, Entertainment & Music, Food & Drink, Business & Finance, Politics & Government, and my personal favorites, Pregnancy & Parenting and Science & Mathematics. The level of idiot that I found while perusing through the questions on there was absolutely mind blowing. I think I must have forwarded Rio like eleven of them before he started totally ignoring me.

The greatest request I found on Yahoo! Answers, and possibly in the history of the American education system, was this one. I didn't even believe it myself after staring at it for a solid two-three minutes so I screen-capped it so you all could confirm that it is, in fact, real:

LOLOLOLOLOLOL.

I don't know who wrote this but I think they are actually 100% serious. I wonder if they know Amanda Bieber. Also if you Google this, it has its own category (type in "yahoo answers walk on sun").

Since this is apparently for a "seasns" test (I'm guessing "science," but it's been a while since I was in school so maybe this is a new subject that I don't know about), I'm actually going to help this person out and let them know why walking on the sun is an impossibility, unless you are Smash Mouth, and no one cares about them.

1) The sun is super far away, like at least 100 miles, so driving there is kind of a pain in the ass. Also it's really round, so good luck finding parking. 
B) It's a gigantic ball of gas, so it smells really bad.
ARCTIC FOX) It's hot there all the time. I guess you could go at night though, or in the winter, like a few virtuosos suggested. 
DD) The only food that the sun likes to eat is Raisin Bran, so it's probably a cheap date and doesn't tip well.

What a dick.

If you still can't believe that anyone could actually be this dumb, the link to the original post is here. 'Merica.

BTW, I did find my song. It's "Promises," by London dubstep band Nero, and it is an awesome addition to my gym playlist.

All Apologies

I got really bored at work today, because it's a day that ends in "Y" and therefore I have nothing to do but sit around, look up asinine shit and harass Coyote Tits on Facebook. I was perusing the celebrity gossip sites, pretending it's "for research" (hey, I work for a film company!), when I found this on Dlisted.com. It's a screen capture of some idiot tweenybopper's (let's hope) Twitter feed, and frighteningly, I actually think whoever wrote it is 100% serious:

Welcome to our future, ladies and... well, clearly not ladies. And also, no gentlemen, either. So... toddlers? Chihuahuas? Fans of the Alabama Crimson Tide? (Fuck those guys! Go Gators!) Miley Cyrus?

Sounds about right.

Upon closer inspection of this mystical revelation posted by "Amanda Bieber" (I'm guessing not written on her birth certificate), I realized that her tweet did not, in fact, make me mentally implode as much as I expected it to. Now, before you're all like, "What the fuck?"; just hear me out, and draw your own conclusions:

1)  Read it over again: this girl's logic may be exponentially flawed, but her grammar and spelling are impeccable. So at least, you know, there's that. Yay, education?

B) This incredibly discomforting Twitter post just proves that Kurt Cobain, who I grew up rocking out to even after his death, really did predict the future with his words. Observe some lyrics from Nirvana's massive classic hit "Smells Like Teen Spirit":

Load up on guns, bring your friends 
It's fun to lose and to pretend 
She's overboard and self-assured 
Oh, no, I know a dirty word 


With the lights out, it's less dangerous 
Here we are now, entertain us 
I feel stupid and contagious 
Here we are now, entertain us 


Almost twenty years later, we have "Amanda Bieber." I think I'm done here.


PS- shit, I'm old.


SHARKTOPUS) We can all rest assured that one day, this delusional moron will eventually die. Also, so will Justin Bieber. 


You can all check out Dlisted's original post here.

So You Have Chosen... Death

Earlier this week one of my best friends, who will heretofore be referred to as Wonder Woman, finally dumped her loser-ass boyfriend. I never approved of this guy, but in the beginning I thought that it was because I tend to be really harsh as to who I choose as suitable lifemates for my girls. I mean, one does not simply walk into Mordor.

This is what guys have to live up to when they date my friends.

Wonder Woman (the one in my life) is amazingly pretty with an epic rack, super long legs, a sense of humor that rivals only mine and a Masters degree. She can bake you a dessert that will throw her into a cosplay round with Sara Lee while explaining to you what "cosplay" means. She can throw down winning arguments about who would emerge victorious in a battle between Harry Potter and Star Wars villains. She's a devoted mom to two ferociously adorable, yet horribly behaved, mixed breed puppies. Sometimes she roots for the wrong sports teams, but that's OK because we're both ardent Jets fans (Superbowl 2013!).

The fact that this dickhole didn't wake up to her every morning and ask himself what the fuck just happened for him to deserve to see the boobs in front of his face is reason enough alone to take a torch to his balls. I was waiting for her to pull the plug on this one when she realized that he needed her to reach things on the top shelf (technically, they're the same height, but she can actually wear heels in public without having to go on RuPaul's Drag Race) and that the most he has going for him is that he can be easily killed.

For some reason, though, she really liked him, which made her reaction to their breakup all the more heart-wrenching, especially when he was such a cavalier asshat about the entire situation. She forwarded me their conversation, and I literally hope he gets kidnapped by irate, hungry mountain lions. I would throw a raw steak in that cave if I could. Also this video, just to get the party started:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bD8OP0-bIFU

Out of respect for my friend I'll leave out what went down, but suffice it to say that this dillhole is an immature baby with so many issues he could be his own magazine. Here was this girl, way out of this turd goblin's league, who was essentially laying it out on the table (not like that though, because EW), and all he had to say was, "I care about you," which apparently scared the shit out of him because he's a five year old with the emotional range of a teaspoon. When Wonder Woman finally said "FUCK NO" and canceled her subscription all of us practically threw her a party. She was pretty distraught and down on herself, so I finally sent her this text:

"Make a list of all the reasons why you're awesome. If you can't right now, I'll do it for you. Also if you keep blaming yourself I will come over there, embarrass you John Cusack in Say Anything style, and beat you to death. Love, Nugs. PS- Sharks."


I think it worked- she's already arguing with me about how much tequila I've been drinking, so that's a plus (according to her, NEVER ENOUGH. How is this girl single?).

Basically what it comes down to is this: it's understandable if you're in a relationship and you part ways because you're not on the same page- you want marriage and kids, they don't; one wants to move, the other wants to stay; they won't watch Game of Thrones with you; one of you is into dressing up sexually like Falcor from Neverending Story.

You know who you are.

However, if you know that this isn't going anywhere, don't be an asshole- have mercy and end it before someone wastes their time and really gets hurt. And by someone, I mean you, because the heels on my shoes are super pointy and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

PS- When I brilliantly came up with that Neverending Story reference, all I did was type the name "Falcor" into Google Images and that picture came up. These people actually exist. I was just kidding. WHAT IN THE NAME OF FUCK.

Oh, Canada! *FACEPALM*

This weekend was my last chance to party in NYC before I head out to Hell-A for work. In order to give me a proper burial that included one final taste of Ray's Pizza, Hurricane came out for the funeral procession. We decided to leave my mark on as many Manhattan neighborhoods as we could manage, until we either passed out from lack of sleep/too much alcohol or collapsed due to the 118 degree (!) heat index. Unfortunately, that bitch Mother Nature had also altered her plans to revolve around me, and, with a combination of my immediate departure, the scorching temperature and my debilitating "physical problems" I wasn't exactly looking for my next Captain America, ifyougetwhatimsayin.

Such is my life.

Since guys never notice that I'm alive and I rarely get hit on, I figured this probably wasn't going to be an issue.

Hurricane and I chose our first destination mainly due to the fact that the wind chill had dipped to a frigid 98 degrees and we were basically looking for somewhere- anywhere- where the doors closed all the way. As soon as we stepped inside, we got accosted by some a-hole in a business shirt. That's almost as bad as Ed Hardy as far as bar outfits go, BTW. After I had entertained this jerkoff for no more than five minutes he "suggested" that I accompany him back to his apartment.

He actually said to me, "I'll be honest, I want to hook up with you." I told him that it was pretty obvious, as from ten feet away he probably wasn't attracted to my scintillating personality. He then advised that we skip the usual conversation and date part. What an incredible asshole.

I politely turned him down and he asked me to "explain my logic." Dbag. I said that I wasn't going to go home with a guy I just met five minutes ago and he immediately went into some philosophical rant about how that's not a good reason because

1) I can Google him and find out that he's not a serial killer and

2) he would be totally open to having some kind of friendship/relationship afterward.

I told him I didn't want to see him afterward, let alone right now, and also judging from this conversation he probably had body parts in his closet. He also said he detected some kind of "physical attraction," unless he was off. I replied that he was off. He added that I hadn't told him to fuck off yet, so I "obviously felt something." I told him I feel like I'm interested in this conversation because I find it hilarious and I want to see where else he's trying to go with this. I also wanted to know, BTW, who wrote his scripts.

PS- I should have told him that he was about to "feel" my knee in his crotch. I always think of the best shit when it's too late!

Then he told me that he would be the best hook-up I ever had. I laughed in his face. I told him that the fact that I said no 800 times and he's still harassing me is enough to get me to never go anywhere with him, ever, except the nearest precinct. Also I admit the that I kept the conversation going partially so I could be a total bitch.

Then, just when I thought I was safe, he countered with, "here's what we should do. Hook up." I proclaimed that here's what I should do- then I grabbed Hurricane, put our drinks on a table, and exited stage right. Out of the corner of my eye I watched him make a beeline for another, even younger girl who I almost thought about saving but I decided not to push it since I was already in the clear.

After that we decided to stick to places I had previously gotten loaded at and may have already made out with somebody already knew and loved. We chose one of the West Village music venues and this time it was Hurricane's turn to meet some guy who, while decidedly pretty cute, was not taking the RealFeel all that great, while I agreed to play wingwoman. I talked to this dude's friend for a while before I realized he was a total creeper. After a while he started yelling that he just HAD to see me again and he offered to give me a job at his company to get me to stay in NYC. I was terrified that he was going to offer to marry me. I was almost ready to smash my glass on the ground just so I could stab myself with one of the shards until I happened to look to my left for some assistance and realized that Hurricane's future alimony check had a much hotter friend OH HAAAAI.

As it turned out, dude turned out to be from Toronto, which I could tell immediately because he actually said "ABOOT" and "EH." HAHAHAHAHA! That is amazing! (PS, Tabs- I asked him if he knew you and he said no. If he wasn't a total Canada stereotype I would have assumed he was lying because everyone knows you.)

Despite the fact that he looked almost EXACTLY like Peyton Manning but way hotter and with a decidedly more perfect nose, Canadian Bacon of course was a hockey fan , so we traded barbs about the Rangers vs. the Leafs. As a Blue Jays fan, he also harbored a disdain for the Yankees (sorry, Tits), so I decided right there that I was going to bear his perfect 6'3 children.

Seriously, imagine our genetic mashup.

He asked for my number within five minutes and I felt kind of bad because this other dude was watching but hey, you snooze, you lose. It's not my fault that this guy implemented the MAC System.

Creeper Dude turned out to be a pussy that admitted defeat by just going home without saying goodbye or anything, so the rest of us- Hurricane, Sweatstack,  Bacon and myself- went for late night mac and cheese. After a couple of hours, Hurricane and the Stack were heavily making out on some bench while I silently cursed my own bodily functions. 

Hurricane had to get up super-early for work the next morning, so Bacon and I decided to hang out. Over the course of the night he had dropped hints that I was welcome to come back to his apartment, and I almost cried because STUPID STUPID PERIOD. When he finally asked me straight out to come home with him I made moving-related excuses because I was NOT telling some dude I just met about my womanly issues. It may have seemed kind of ballsy on his part to assume that I would just up and fuck him when I had known him for like, three hours; however, at this point we had already made out in the middle of the street and almost gotten hit by a car twice. So, uh, yeah. One can't exactly blame a guy for "going there."

Before you guys get all judge-y and shit keep in mind that again, I rarely get hit on and have not gotten any action in like three months AND there was vodka involved. I am usually not this big of a whore.

Anyway:

I did kind of like this guy and besides, his Canadian accent was hysterical and he let me make fun of him, and I didn't want to be that girl- you know, the girl that lets a guy grope her in the street and then is like, "Well, thanks for doing awesome shit with your hands there. See ya!" So I decided to come clean (Ha. Ha ha.) and tell him,  "look, I wasn't going to say anything but I'm having girl issues. Like, GIRL ISSUES." After some minimal blinking, he figured out what I meant and basically told me he was cool with it if I was, and we could do "other stuff." Works for me! Let's get a cab!

NYC Cab Driver and Elevator Personnel- if you are reading this, I apologize. That is all.

The last time I was in a guy's apartment, he acted like a total pussy and pretended that he hadn't invited me there for a session of deep railing (no, I don't want a snack, just take off your damn pants already) so I was seriously impressed by how Bacon did not waste ANY TIME. He didn't offer me a drink or anything, he just turned off the bedroom light, picked me up and like, practically threw me on the bed (that shit hurts, yo. I'm small and frail. Like a Smurf).

Come on, now. That shit ain't right.

Sidenote: his boxers said "Canada" on them. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

What I did not appreciate is how he kept telling me that there would be a "next time" and that he would pay me for me to fly back to New York whenever I wanted. I once hooked up with this guy I thought was my friend and I was expecting nothing else- just a fun night that could possibly (but probably not) lead to some interesting, sporadic hookups. The guy had the tendency (and by "tendency" I mean "constantly") to treat women like doggy chew toys, so I didn't even want it go any further. Then he totally ruined everything by declaring his "feelings" for me and spouting off a whole bunch of other shit that I knew wasn't true (he admitted it later), and basically treated me like all the little 20-year-olds that follow him around and actually believe that they're going to be his wife or something. It wasn't what he said that pissed me off, it was the fact that he said it. BTW, I did confront him about this and we no longer speak. Guys, seriously- not every girl needs you to fall in love with them. Some of us really just want to acquire a booty call or- try not to fall over- really do want what you refer to as a "hookup." Get over it.

Anyway, back to the Bacon. We had already come to the mutual agreement that we weren't going to do what he had previously referred to as EVERYTHING, although things were getting pretty hot (dude is a dirty talker, which I have to admit was making me curse my girly problems even more). What made it even worse for both of us is the fact that he had an immaculate bedroom and white sheets. We got as far as we possibly could without actually going as far as we possibly could. Bacon got a little stingy when it came to the give-and-take; like, we already knew I wasn't going to get any; but he expected me to do everything (and I mean everything) else? I think emphatically not. I wasn't that much of a hard-ass, but all his begging made it even worse and I almost walked out. Oh, also: what I got WAS pretty good, but the constant self-accolades were seriously annoying. I don't need a "preview," I get it. You're awesome. Let's move on.

Here's where the night got weird: My gross menstrual state left a lot to the imagination (hey, I was ABSOLUTELY willing; but I definitely understood his issues). I get that. Why, though, when he was totally willing to, ahem, make good use of his hands, was he so adamant about the no-sex clause? Wouldn't that be like, less disgusting? Was it a no-sheets thing? I don't know. That was totally bizarre. Has this ever happened to you guys?  I'd really appreciate some insight here because I am seriously confused.

Oh, Canada. Thanks for tarnishing my final memory of my home and native land.

At least I have a hilarious story to blog about. 

SMAC: CEILING CAT EDITION

ZOMIGOD, you guys.

Not only is it the six-month anniversary of SMAC, but to celebrate, we have a fucking amazing list. For some reason, the June Edition is all Nip Clique or Nip Honorary, so just click through the links and don’t jerk it too hard.

PS- for those of you that are pissed that you didn’t get an email this month, note that on May’s edition I instigated a new rule in which I clearly stated that if you do not let me know, by email, that you’re in the ring, YOU’RE NOT INVITED. I seriously can’t keep track of everybody, so you need to help me out. I need to hear from you by the 20^th of the month, and the swap list goes out on the 21^st. That’s it. Done.

I love you.

This month I’m posting for Harley, who not only is incredibly hot but has the accent to go with it (SO jealous), so if you head over No Pressure No Diamonds you’ll get to read my assessment of why Aladdin has ruined my future in procreation.

Before you do that, though, scroll down to capture Sara Nips' review of the eye-bleeder that is Space Jam. You lucky bitches get a double does of Nips and I since I posted for her last month, so...hooray?

BTW, Nips has now opened my eyes to a world of possibilities for baby names. If I have a son, I'm naming him Basketball Jones. Middle name Andy.

Andy and I originally set out to watch the movie Space Jam, so I could write my shitty movie review post. We rented the movie, popped some popcorn, and hit play.





We literally made it through less than a minute. (Special Nugs Commentary: Clearly, Nips neglected to partake in the "Two-Disc Special Edition" you see up above, because then they may have gotten through a good five minutes. Or maybe not.)

After the movie opened with the most amazing ballad of all time (“I Believe I Can Fly” by R. Kelly), Andy mentioned that he owned the soundtrack to Space Jam and used to rock that shit on a regular basis. Obviously, my only reaction was to press pause and listen to the entire Space Jam soundtrack, beginning to end. And to be honest, the soundtrack to Space Jam is where the real magic is happening.


It was impossible to play "Basketball Jones" without 90s dancing all up in the living room and freaking out our dogs. Space Jam has the most perfect humping soundtrack I've ever heard. And I fully intend on testing this out in the near future.


The soundtrack to Space Jam is the perfect representation of 90s music. The songs on that soundtrack have beats that make you feel like you’re in a night club you can never escape, creepy ballads sung by creepy people, and songs that remind many of us of Friday night skating rink parties or kissing with braces.


Everyone knows the movie Space Jam is shittastic because we were all forced to watch it a millionty times in elementary school. (Seriously, is this the only movie my school had for rainy days?) But the hidden gem in all of this is truly the music that comes along with the movie. Do yourself a favor and have a listen.


P. S. I realize that I didn't actually review the movie at all because I'm super lazy and distracted easily by dancing like an old person in my living room for hours at a time. Don't hate.


P. P. S. I get to host my best bloggity friend on my blog for the movie review this month! I may have cried a few tears of joy when I found this out. Obviously I had to clean up the place, light some candles, put on my Space Jam soundtrack..... you get the idea. If my blog is rockin', don't come knockin', yo. (Plus Lor (roxanneandlorraine.blogspot.com) actually did a movie review post like we were supposed to. Go figure.)

PERSONAL FOUL

First of all, I don't want to hear any shit about how my football season is now over and how the Jets are an epic fail. We got further than you did, Pats fans, and we knocked you out anyway, so fuck off.

I spent NFL Championship Day with Bad Monkey and a bunch of her co-workers, bar hopping for 10 hours straight and hosting our own Sad Celebration in Hermosa Beach. All of the rest of my friends were rooting for the Bears, so at least I wasn't totally alone on my ledge, in theory.

Bad Monkey is the only acceptable companion I've found in SoCal. She's the only female within a hundred mile radius that didn't drop off the planet because of a sugar daddy boyfriend or care too much about how her fucking ankles look in Prada (read: phenomenal. She's 5'11, blond, thin and I HATE YOU).

Bad Monkey waitresses in Hermosa Beach, so I went to visit her at work and watch the Championship games. I had just dyed my hair the day before (oh yeah- I'm kind of a redhead now. You'll see it when I finally record my vlog, which I will do now that I bought a Flip), so I hadn't showered that morning. I was also coming off three hours of sleep, hadn't bothered with makeup and was wearing a football jersey. I had almost been vain enough to shave my legs, but since I would be wearing long pants, it was Winter Leg FTW. In short, I was a hot mess, minus the hot.

Almost immediately upon arrival I was assaulted by some  Moronasaurus who thought that by agreeing to speak to him, I was already freezing my eggs in order to create a 50% perfect hatchling (half-perfect because hello- it's my kid, yo).

I couldn't transform into full-on bitch mode because this was, after all, my friend's place of business, so I tried subtlety. I attempted to squirm out of his grasp a few times, but he was too stupid to figure out that I wasn't feeling it. He kept trying to rub me and give me massages and shit, and then he (HELL, NO!) drank from my straw. I wanted to whittle the top into a point and stab him in the throat. I thought that tossing said straw into the trash might make him go away, but then the Bears scored a touchdown and he got extra handsy. He also told me, unsolicited, how tall he was, consummated with the declaration, "I'm a man." I just laughed and advised him that generally, "men" don't sip daintily from a straw.

When he tried to follow me into the line for the bathroom, that was finally it. I went into the back to find Bad Monkey and let her know that if this asshole tried to kiss my forehead again I would rip off his balls and fashion them into a stylish coin purse. In between fits of laughter, she and her manager accosted some regular customers to be my bodyguards. This was going well until one of them started rubbing my back and calling me "babe." Even when Bad Monkey clocked out and met up with me, all of my future alimony checks decided to invite themselves along. Come on, man, what the fuck? I just want to scream obscenities about my sorry-ass losing team without having to worry about a marriage proposal.

His hanger-ons were also pretty annoying- at one point Bad Monkey and I were engaged in an intensely aggressive air hockey battle and the two dillholes kept trying to throw me off by knocking on the window. You've probably figured out by now that the fastest way to piss me off is to break my concentration, especially during a competitive event, so if any of these guys had a glimmer of a shot of seeing me naked (they did not), they basically blew it in those two minutes.

Despite having to fend off aging frat boys, the rest of the night was pretty awesome. Bad Monkey's co-workers are all just like my friends back home, and I fit into their group within five minutes. It was one of those nights where you wake up with bruises on your arms, beer in your hair, dirt between your toes and NO recollection of how anything got there, but you know you want to repeat it next weekend. No one was threatened by the fact that I'm a walking Wikipedia page of football trivia, although that could have been due to the fact that the drinking had started around lunchtime. The only major party foul? I'd forgotten my camera. OF COURSE. The only genuinely amazing night I've had in LA thus far and I have absolutely no documentation. I fail at life.

Fortunately, I hang with Bad Monkey pretty frequently, so these characters will more than likely make a few repeat appearances. Despite the Jets' depressing loss and some uninvited grabbiness, I managed to make some killer new acquaintances and discover exactly how much alcohol 10 people could pack away in a day (hint: A LOT). And as for the AFC Championships, well there's always next year- to fuck up again.

BLOGRING: TWO "THUMBS" UP

So here's a shocker: I get jealous sometimes. I know, what could I possibly have to be envious of?

I totally want to join in on this Karaoke Blogring of Death that all my friends are doing every month, but I don't have a webcam, so I decided to make my own swap. I asked a bunch of my fellow Bloggi (I'm totally going to pimp that word, yo) to pick a terrible movie of their choice and review it, then stick said review on another unsuspecting blogger's page. First up for 2011: Shitty Horror Films.

I got to post for the sex-tastic Christina, and you can read my post on the Citizen Kane of direct-to-DVD's Thankskilling here. Before you do that, read Brian, from phonon505, right under me (RAWR). This was supposed to go up yesterday, and it is TOTALLY his fault that this is late, but he's forgiven because he promised me pie later on (Double RAWR). Whatever. Just enjoy.

Oh, PS- Brian is really smart and there's lots of engineer-y stuff in here, so my head kind of exploded. I'm SO going to check out this movie.

Hey all, so my movie review of the month is of this awesome move entitled "Primer" , which turns out is nottt exactly a horror movie. But it is a crazy movie, and everybody loves le crazy. But hey, it was between that and Twelve Monkeys, and who wants to talk about the possible destruction of the human race via biological warfare?

This movie opens up with a bunch of guys sitting around a table trying to formulate the next get-rich-quick scheme. These are pretty smart dudes, too, the kind of people that mere mortals would call an engineer.

WOOT Engineers!

They want to solve some of the worlds major problems, but to make a long story short, they build a really shitty time / aging machine. It's basically a box with some awesome pseudophysics going on, and inside of this box an object experiences time at something like 4000 times the normal rate, so you can put a piece of apple pie in here for 5 minutes, when it comes out it's going to be disgusting and nasty, so nasty that I really just can't let you have a piece, Nugs. You'd get sick! But whats even cooler about this box is that is makes absolutely no sense - because een though you would mega-age if you got in here, if you get out at specific intervals of time, you don't age at all and instead go back in time to the time when the machine first got turned on. Essentially, they realize that their machine ages things really fast, and say "Hey, we can use this to go back in time" and it works. I just want to re-iterate, it's a really crappy time machine, because if you crawl out of bed at the wrong moment, you age hundreds or thousands or days instead of going back in time 4 hours.

One of the rules in time travel is that you never go back to visit yourself. Well, this machine can only go back in time to the day it was last turned on, so that doesn't really work here. These dudes start going back in time a few hours, knowing what happens in the future (aka stock market going up) but what's really creepy is that there are "doubles" of them. This is where things get really, really strange, and your head explodes.

Plot Flow-Chart, Courtsey Randall Munroe

It turns out that because you get stuck in an endless loop of time travel you end up with lots of time to make spare time machines, and that's really important because you can only use a machine to go back in time when it was first flipped on. So these dudes keep whipping out these time machines that they have turned on earlier and earlier, and getting attacked their doubles. But the really, really sad thing, is that once you decide to travel back in time, you're sort of, well, dead, and it's actually a duplicate person who appears back in time. Like I said, this is by far the biggest piece of junk time machine ever invented. But the movie is actually pretty good if you can prevent your head from exploding int he last third of it. Lots of emotional crap with the doubling, fun pseudo scientific talk, a little Wall Street. On my scale of movie ratings, this move is "The Best".
Cheers!


-Brian M


OK, so I understood like seven words in this review, but I'm a gigantic nerd, so I still find time travel talk to be pretty hot. Call me, Brian. <3

If you guys want to participate next month when we do crappy rom-coms in honor of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, drop me an email at thataintkosher83@gmail.comby January 20th. I may do a vlog because apparently that's what you guys voted on last month, so I don't really have a choice.

AND YOU GUYS THOUGHT I WAS BITTER...

I've spent the last few days on the dreaded job hunt, which you guys will hear about sooner or later. So in order to avoid a million years between blog posts, I forced Lynn at Thoughts of a Randomista to write a post for you while I take a nice, long nap because now I'm fucking exhausted (PS- she's actually returning the favor- I wrote one for her a few weeks ago which she swears will be up by tomorrow).

We gave each other free rein on the topic, so now all I can say is, WOW.

HOLY SHIT. If you guys thought I was angry, this chick has a shitload more grievances than I do. I'm Little Miss Fucking Sunshine compared to her. But what she sent me is hilarious, raunchy and REALLY controversial (and totally justified, BTW), so read it, love it, get pissed off, whatever, and feel free to post your comments, because I am definitely bringing her back.

And I'll see you all again ASAP, as soon as my hand feels like it's not going to fall off.

From filling out applications, people! God, you guys are sick.



BEHOLD: THOUGHTS OF A RANDOMISTA

Ignorance at its FINEST!

Muahahaha- Randomista TAKEOVER. I’m TOAR and you have to endure my random rants because That Ain’t Kosher went to be a regular Jew today. You know, a “kosher” one. So now you have to read my raunchy, scandalous writings. I love my new Jew friend. She frickin rocks for letting me steal her followers today!

Please Note: My post contains racist slurs – and I don’t care. My white side is from Ansley, Nebraska (STRAIGHT EUROPEAN) and the black side is from Atlanta Georgia (HAHA THE N WORD GOES HERE).

Have you ever had an itch that was so bad that you scratched and scratched and you broke skin? You know, to the white meat? That’s how bad this particular thing is getting to me…

HOOD RATS & 5 STAR CHICKS

How come if I am looking at you, I gotta be staring? Then I get some hoe ass comment like “What the fuck you looking at?” My next reaction is: “BITCH I'M LOOKIN AT YOU!” Which in turn, starts some shit; the kicker part is, that might not have been what I was doing but since TOAR is IGNORANT, that is how she will address it! Why can’t I just admire something you have on like a pair of shoes, or I notice how your hair – weave and all – looks better than my real long pretty hair. Get over yourself. You should take it as a compliment if someone is “staring” at you. No need to be nasty.



By the way, 5 – Star chicks are just uppity ass hood rats.

NON-DISCRIMINATE RACISM

Black people are more racist than white people. Ok, ok – let me rephrase that. They are equally racist but there are some subtle differences.

Black People

Are openly racist – don’t care who you are, what color, or anything – they will talk about you.

First to pull the RACE card when things don’t go their way (ie. jobs, school, the responsibility for their future)

White People

Northern White People will be your friends in your face then stab you in the back

Southern White People will tell you to your face to stay away and no one will get hurt.

GENERALLY SPEAKING

TOAR is ignorant. I know everything above is not true but that is some of the things that I deal with living the mixed life. On the white side of my family, I am the black girl. On the black side of my family, I am the white girl – Identity Crisis, definitely. To me, people are mean in general. You cannot meet a stranger that will be nice to you, start a regular conversation with – someone that will be genuine and open. NO MATTER THE RACE.

Have you ever been the victim of the “Hoodrat Attack?” or were you the one who jumped down their throat? Also, what kind of cultural differences do you face in your home or everyday life?

The World Sucks and so do you!

Sincerely,



Follow TOAR’s raunchy ass at Thoughts of a Randomista!

So anyway, WOW. I've never experienced anything like what Lynnorra's been through, probably because my Jewiness on both sides is something like 10,000%. But it's good to know that there's someone else that's as pissed off as I am.

Anyway, I'll be back soon, and if you can't wait that long, here's something almost as adorable as me to tide you over:



Don't forget to check out my post on her blog, whenever it goes up (cough).

UPDATE: My post is up! Go check it out- you know it's gonna be a pants-shitter: Is It Just Me?

THE RELOCATION CHRONICLES, CHAPTER FOUR: POPPED CULTURE

One of the things I miss most about my New York apartment is that, no matter which direction I turned, I was always within walking distance of some kind of museum, theater, foreign restaurant or, to be fair, some unidentifiable odor. In short, I was never at a loss for culture at its best.

Even LA natives seem to agree that this city is severely lacking in that department. Unless you're in the mood to eat, shop or drive up the coast, there's really nothing to do here. Maybe it's because I was exposed to so much of the arts at such a young age (and not the kind of "exposed" that Los Angeles is so familiar with), but this really annoys me.

It's also totally obnoxious that a lot of people here really don't seem to care. I literally get really excited every time I'm introduced to something that constitutes a "cultural" occurrence. Take, for example, my friend Tina- she's in her mid-twenties, but already makes my life seem like an epic fail. She's a sought-after electric cellist that was considered a prodigy in elementary school and has played all over the world, including in the orchestras for movies and TV shows. She's also performed at the Grammys and MTV awards, appeared in music videos, been nominated for a bunch of shit and has basically made me question what the hell it is I've been doing with myself. You can check out her stuff here. It will blow your mind.

Anyway, I went to see her perform with a jazz band last week and she was gracious enough to put me on the guest list and give me a "plus one." It was short notice, but the few people I asked to attend the show with me "didn't like jazz" so they wouldn't go.



Are you serious? I mean, I'm not a huge fan of the genre but I can appreciate the amount of talent it takes to learn the craft. Second, I don't care if it was a two-hour show where I had to listen to her recite the Dragon Tales theme song, beatnik style. Tina is my friend, and I'll support her. She asked me to go, so I went, and she sounded unbelievable.

BTW, one of the movies that Tina was featured in was Inception. I just saw it on Friday, and dude, seriously, see this fucking film. It's one of the greatest cinematic achievements of the last ten years. I'm a huge Christopher Nolan fan, especially after what he accomplished with The Dark Knight, and after this whole sequel/remake cataclysm Hollywood's been insisting on lately, I'll pretty much check out any original project they come up with that isn't in 3-D. Plus: sci-fi!



Note: I have an on-going competition with my brother over who sees awesome movies first. So far he's beaten me with Batman Begins, Spider-Man 2, Watchmen, The Dark Knight and Star Trek (by half an hour!). This time I finally won by TWO WHOLE DAYS, and now that I wrote this he's probably going to post some dickhead comment about how I always lose anyway.

A-hole.

HA HA!

My brother, as well as my friends back home, would throw the girls in this building in front of a speeding train. The other day I was in the elevator, and some bleach addict in nine-inch heels stepped in. She was carrying three shopping bags and a tiny purse with an even tinier dog inside, and was also balancing some 1,000 dollar drink from Starbucks while she nursed an iPhone under her chin. BTW, she looked like she was about 16, which probably meant that she was either 12 or 25.

Legally Stupid

The ridiculous conversation she was having on her cell went like this:

"Oh my God, I know... Oh my God, I know... Oh my God, I know... TOTALLY! OMG! Oh my God, I know." It was the longest elevator ride of my life. I wanted to push her down the shaft. If this moron saw Inception or anything with a remotely original concept her head would explode like that dude in Scanners.

What really pissed me off, however, is when I went to dinner with my dad this weekend. We went to this sushi place that has really awesome spicy shrimp that I love, and we were seated next to this group of guys that I knew immediately were total douches thanks to their beanies and Ed Hardy shirts (the unmistakeable symbol of douchebaggery). My dad and I tried to carry on normal conversation and enjoy our food, but I couldn't but help but overhear these assmonkeys discussing an unlucky group of girls that unfortunately weren't there to defend themselves.

During the next half hour, I learned way more than I cared to about these girls' favorite sexual positions, "sexting" abilities, and booty call rankings. The youngest female in the group had just turned 21 and this winner assumed that he was "definitely more mature" than she was. Also, all these girls were all apparently "all over" these guys' "flavor." I almost spit out my drink.

First of all, I think not. The only one of them whose physical appearance didn't make me dry heave resembled a gargoyle in heat.

I'd tap that.

And really- "flavor?" This is Beverly Hills, and it isn't 1992.

One of the other losers then started complaining about how girls can't tell the difference between sex and love, which of course is true, because I've wound up proposing marriage to every guy I've ever slept with. Then he went on to explain how this is why cheating is bad when girls do it, but doesn't mean shit if a guy fucks somebody else, because men don't ever love anyone they have sex with. Hear that sound? That's my pants unzipping for you, right away! If I hadn't been with my dad I would have dropped my plate facedown in his lap. Luckily our check came and I didn't have to listen to any more of these clowns' brilliant witticism.



That's an astonishing amount of asshole that I didn't even know existed. If you're going to insist on being a complete retard, do it in the privacy of your own house, not in a public forum where people can hear you and have access to knives. Not only was I sitting next to them, but there were two other tables full of women within earshot of their imbecilic conversation, and I know we all heard them. Miraculously we all managed not to poison their food.

What the fuck is going on in people's heads? Has it really reached that point where everybody has just stopped trying? Does no one have any original thoughts anymore? When I listen to my friend play the cello, or see a movie like Inception, I actually think about how pathetic it is that I'm energized by projects that don't try to replicate something that I've already seen, sometimes as recently as three years ago (take a hint, Spider-Man franchise!). I hope this movie is the box office hit of the year, because maybe idiots like this will learn something.

Probably not, though.

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

Before I get into why these past few days have rained down the FAIL!, I have a few minor, more uplifting announcements:

I'll be doing some heavy guest posting in the coming weeks for three pretty awesome bloggers (bloggesses?): Ashley at What Sources Say, Heather at Boyfriend Challenged, and Lynn at Thoughts of a Randomista. I'll of course be alerting all of you as to when my posts go up, but in the meantime, you should check their shit out- it's pretty entertaining.

Plus my blog got its tenth follower. Say yes to double digits (and no to The Clap)!

Seriously, don't get TOO excited.

I also had a mildly exhilarating lunch that could maybe lead to a potentially awesome job. So we'll see if anything comes of that. Legs crossed.

Other than that, this week pretty much brought on the suckage. My current role as Verizon's favorite punching bag continued when my Droid broke and they had to send me a new phone- again. I had to go all the way to the Verizon store, and of course the problem wouldn't repeat itself. The douche behind the counter basically accused me of lying, but he did order me another phone while looking down at me from behind his $1,000 shades. Hey, asshole, only two kinds of people wear sunglasses inside- blind guys and dicks. And I seriously doubt you're blind.


Dickface.

So my new Droid arrived and I realized they forgot to send me the memory card for my phone- again. After I ordered ANOTHER card (for the third time, BTW- the second time was because the genius that took my order in the first place forgot to actually put it in, and BTW congratulate me for not laughing at "put it in"), the guy told me where they sent it and I was like, "What? That place doesn't even exist." Seriously, why didn't you just send the stuff to fucking Narnia? It would probably have gotten here faster. So I gave them the address again, and at least they credited my account. Let's see where this new adventure takes me (to a clock tower).



Speaking of idiots, a new restaurant is opening here in LA and I was looking forward to at least getting something part-time while I look for something that will actually pay me. I was an assistant GM at a bar for years so even if I had to downgrade, I figured it was at least something. I had seen a sign for a walk-in job fair at said restaurant that went through Saturday, so I called the place just to make sure I could still come in. The Einstein that answered the phone told me that they're no longer hiring, but are "currently accepting applications." I knew what that meant- I better hope that someone quit, got fired, or came down with a nasty case of Ebola.

OK, first of all, why would you stop hiring in the middle of a job fair? The operative words here are "job" and "fair." And second, why the hell would you tell people that? Dumbass. Luckily, the place is a chain, so I figure I'll just submit my application online.

In non-related, but just as shitty, news, a couple of my girlfriends told me that I should text The Architect and find out what he's up to over the next couple of days. This kind of crap always leaves a bad taste in my mouth; I was the last one to call; technically, he should reach out to me, right? Anyway, I took my friends' advice, dug his number off of the scrap paper that had burrowed its way into the little pocket of my purse and asked him if anything was going down this weekend. An hour later (!) he wrote back, "I don't know, I'm doing my own thing with Annette this weekend."

Excuse me? Who the fuck is Annette? And why does she have such a whorey name?

I know that guys sometimes do that thing where they collect numbers like some people collect communicable diseases and then don't call, just to prove that girls find them hot. Women do this too, I'm not gonna lie. But why actually follow up and call me if you're already dating someone? What the hell does that accomplish? I forwarded the text to M and she was like, "WTF? Don't even answer that." Right there with ya.

I should order him killed.




Oh, well. Time to start over. The World Cup final is this weekend and I plan on indifferently rooting for both teams. M is super pissed about LeBron leaving Cleveland so maybe I can convince her to get sufficiently soused with me. I'll keep you guys updated.

PHONING IT IN

No one is perfect, but I will be the first to toot my own horn, which lately is all I've been doing because I've been single for the past eight months. But ANYWAY. I may sometimes be a little too loud, anal, overprotective, and swear like a motherfucker, but I'm also loyal to a fault, which is why I've been with the same cell phone company for ten years.

My dad got me one of those Zack Morris huge-ass monstrosity calling devices from Verizon when I was in high school, and I've been with them ever since. For the most part, their customer service is great, and their reception is amazing. I rarely drop a call, and I always get texts within a second of them being sent.

My real first love

When I landed an internship, while I was in college, I got a Blackberry for emails, which is pretty much the worst out of all the Smartphones. Trust me- all Blackberries are suck-ass pieces of shit that break all the time and have piss-poor Internet. I went through three different models and five different phones in the span of four years, and in a moment of anger-induced weakness, terminated my contract and switched to AT&T. I got an iPhone, which I was obsessed with.

My deal with AT&T lasted four days- they are fucking awful. Their customer service is deplorable, their range is laughable, and their contracts are riddled with hidden fees. No wonder they have an exclusivity deal with the iPhone- that's all they have going for them. Everyone I know that has AT&T hates them.



When I left, AT&T informed me that conveniently, there was a no-fee charge after three days- I was one day too late. I paid them and told them to get them the hell out of my life. I won't even get into everything here, mostly because I blocked it out, but it took me two whole days on the phone with both companies to switch back to Verizon. For my trouble, they gave me a Droid Eris, which at the time had just been released.



Over the next four months I went through three piece-of-shit Erises. I finally called Verizon, told them that every phone they sent me had something wrong with it (which they knew anyway, because at this point they had kept exchanging phones with me), and they upgraded me for free to a Motorola Droid, which is what I had almost gotten in the first place but didn't because it costs a zillion dollars.

I was really excited- the Droid supposedly blew the iPhone away. It was still touch-screen, but with a keyboard, which was considerably less obnoxious and meant no butt-dialing ever again. The apps were awesome, which I already knew from blowing off work to play Solitaire and do word searches for hours on my Eris (I'm a huge loser). Also, not only did the Droid sync with Facebook and Google, it also saved photos and music just like the iPhone. The Internet was apparently ridiculously fast, too. So not only would I have everything that the iPhone had, but I could call almost all my friends and family for free, because 90% of them have Verizon, also.

Here's the original commercial for the Droid, where it basically eats the iPhone alive.

I got my Droid in the mail from FedEx last week, complete with absolutely nothing- no back, no charger and no battery. I called Verizon, and they were at least apologetic. I was going away for the weekend for work, so I agreed to the regular standard shipping. I sat around all day today and waited for the FedEx dude to show up, and this time everything came, but they had sent me the wrong battery.

This was getting ridiculous.



I called Verizon back and they told me I could go to the store and get the battery there, and that they would also activate the phone for me. I did so, and figured it was all taken care of. I got home, anxious to charge my new awesome phone, and realized that they had also sent me the wrong charger, and no memory card.

WHAT THE FUCK?????



So I phoned Verizon AGAIN, and gave them my name AGAIN, although I did tell them that I was surprised they didn't know me by my voice by now, seeing as how I called them more than I called my own mother. I explained, not very politely at this point, what had gone down over the past few days, and the woman on the phone actually told me that she was pretty embarrassed. Well, you should be. She immediately ordered me the accessories, although she did tell me I would have to pay for the SD card and the overnight shipping.

Asphincter says WHAT?

I tried reasoning. I tried bitching. I tried crying. I tried threatening. I almost told her I would come over there and pour Tabasco sauce into her eye, but she wouldn't budge. So for $15, I have to wait another day to use my awesome, technologically advanced Droid that has so far caused me nothing but anguish and pain- and I can't even make any calls yet.

Damn you.

This is definitely a testament to how much I value the sanctity of the bond between a girl and her wireless provider. Verizon has had me in a psychological choke-hold for the last ten years. That little red checkmark is my Pavlov's bell- I see it and come running. Can you imagine if it roofied Apple? Their kid could get me to do whatever it wanted.

Don't get any ideas.