Today in the news!

It's Friday! Here are today's top news stories as decided by my cat, who just *graduated journalism school.

*emerged from inside a wine box

Today in Please Just Stop Talking You're Making It Worse, America's Favorite Dad Rapist Bill Cosby appeared on Good Morning America (which I'm assuming is now searching for a new booking agent) to promote his new campaign to improve upon education in Alabama.

Hello friend. I am in total control of this interview just as long as you ask me zero questions.

But things went south fast when anchor Linsey Davis asked Cosby what he might say to a child curious about the endless sexual assault allegations leveled against him. He responded:

"I am prepared to tell this young person the truth about life. I’m not sure that they will come like that. I think that many of them say, well, “You’re a hypocrite. You say one thing, you say the other.” My point is, okay, listen to me carefully. I’m telling you where the road is out. I’m telling you where, as you’re driving, you’re gonna go into water, and it looks like it might only be three inches deep, but you and your car are gonna go down. Now you wanna go here? Or you wanna be concerned about who’s giving you the message?"

Then, unsure his point had been made, he thoughtfully added, "Listen. Lets talk about the big white airplane here. It has four walls, a roof, a pool, a second bathroom. Okay? Listen to me carefully. You look out the windsheild. Fish are coming at you, but they have teeth, the teeth may actually be robots, do you understand? Do you want to go there? Or you wanna be concerned with who's giving you the message? Look. I could tell you where the road gives out, but you're in an airplane and all the roads are down here. Where are you? You're a hypocrite. Do you understand? My point is, piranhas are gunning for you and the plane's going down and you're nowhere near the highway. Niagara Falls is burning and where are you?  In the air underwater. Fudityblughtfibitit Jello Jello Jello Jello." And then he just crawled under a chair where he said only his real friends could see him, and asked if somebody could please be so kind to send for that delightful intern with the nice ass and tits who seemed kind of interested in show biz, he'd like to make her a drink. This story is ongoing.

In WTF Are You Even Talking About News, Fox has once again bravely protected the viewing public from deviant rampant sexuality --this time, from 19th Century Cubist and Known Pornographer, Pablo Picasso, whose Les Femmes d'Alger sold for $179 million at auction this week, making it the most expensive painting on Earth. Luckily, a local Fox News affiliate managed to get the real scoop on this "painting"--namely its controversial, pornographic and lewdly realistic depictions of deviant female sexuality:

Fox News protecting us from the rampant slutty whorishness of this painting

I just want to say, thank you Fox News for censoring this painting. For a minute there I was worried I might have to explain to my children why cubed women always flounce around with their three breasts flapping about. And what an uncomfortable conversation that would've been.

Finally, in Jobs and the Economy, for those of you looking to spread your professional wings and fly off in search of  "new challenges" I ask you to please direct all inquiries to Amtrak, who --despite some very minor recent struggles -- is totally hiring! So if you're looking for the PR challenge of a lifetime that  will be totally worth the shitty pay once all the various body parts and brain matter have been hosed off the tracks, Communications Lead at Amtrak is the job for you! Just like they say in the job description, your success is just a train ride away!

So that's all the humanity I can be bothered to pay attention to this week. Here's a video of Ariana Grande and Miley Cyrus wearing animal-shaped Onsies doing a (pretty good) cover of Crowded House's Don't Dream It's Over, because really, can there be anything more apropos than that?

Enjoy your weekend, guys. I know it's hard leaving this blog for a few days, but try not to jump off any buildings.

The Hammer Weilding Maniac is Dead! That's The Good News!

The bad news? Literally everything else.

Did you know that the Universe is slowly expanding and that Earth will eventually destroy itself?

Seriously. Which shitty awful thing do we want to read about today? The horrible Amtrak derailment in Philadelphia or how we probably could have prevented the horrible Amtrak derailment in Philadelphia? The fire that killed over 70 workers at a slipper factory in the Philippines because bars over the fucking windows prevented workers from escaping, or the fact that probably this factory made your beloved Isotoners? Also, just FYI: US honeybees are disappearing, Australia would like to kill Johnny Depp's dogs and we now live in a world in which The Craft is remade without Fairuza Balk and The Simpsons exists without Harry Shearer. Also you kids get your damn ball off my lawn or I will keep it. You hear that, kids? KEEP YOUR DAMN JOYFUL RACKET ON YOUR OWN LAWN OR I WILL KEEP THIS BALL.

But hey, at least the Hammer Wielding Maniac of Union Square is dead.

Dance Moms: Proof that humanity may not deserve to live

So I'm a huge fan of Sia's Chandelier video, which features the adorably talented Maddie Ziegler from Dance Moms, a reality show about horrible middle-aged women and the mature nine year olds who raise them.

Maddie Ziegler in Sia's Chandelier. She is the only sane person on this entire show.

And while we're on the subject of insane musical works of art starring Maddie Ziegler, let's drop Elastic Heart--Sia's sister video to Chandelier--right here, because you must enjoy the two of them together like cheese paired with a fine wine:

ART!

So, Dance Moms. You guys, I tuned in expecting to see little Maddie Ziegler and instead what I saw was an Amtrak train wreckage of middle-aged horrors; some sort of bedazzled crazytrain of shrieking and hair-pulling and absolute madness sandwiched in between the occasional wide-camera shot of dancing children. Like what is even happening here?

If your kid beats my kid at this meaningless local dance competition I swear to God I will SLASH YOUR MOTHERFUCKING THROAT.

As I watched this televised black hole of catty stupid misery, I couldn't help but realize that this is all we as humans have now to represent us to our eventual alien overlords. Just imagine it, okay? It's the future and visitors from a neighboring galaxy have just touched down. They emerge from their glittering space capsules in search of information about the crux of humanity, and some asshole in nowhere Kansas hands them a video of the season four finale of fucking Dance Moms, and they immediately destroy us.

An eight year old covered in blood playing Carrie White at the prom (PS: This routine will win or I will SLASH YOUR MOTHERFUCKING THROAT.)

One of the final dances of this particular episode is called Citizenship. It is about a little girl's ability to triumph over adversity but also somehow about the glory of a little girl (AKA an adult coach's) desperation to get revenge against her enemies but also, truly, it's about America and oh who am I kidding, it's about absolutely nothing, you guys. The girls all wear American flags here because PATRIOTISM! and the instructor's adopted daughter from Bolivia runs in at the end with a literal American flag. She climbs a ladder and all the other girls salute her as a metaphor because ART and AMERICA and TRIUMPH! Or absolutely nothing. Later, the moms of these impossibly talented children all go fucking insane and instigate a physical fight with the other moms of other children on other teams because women be crazy bitches. ART! AMERICA! TRIUMPH! This is the lynchpin of Lifetime's "television for women" Tuesday night lineup, you guys. This and a show about lady midgets who dress sexy and love to party. Welcome to twenty-first century pop culture, fellow humans. This is what we're offering now to the universe.

I may never stop throwing up.

Today in the news!

Good afternoon! Here are today's top stories as decided by me because there's noone else in this living room.

Second Amendment Mascot George Zimmerman, the gunman who shot and killed unarmed black teenager Trayvon Martin two years ago, was himself shot in a road rage incident in Lake Mary yesterday in what members of the local community are describing as both "a delightful turn of events" and "completely hilarious." Matthew Apperson, the shooter, insists that Zimmerman threatened him multiple times and that Apperson was merely defending himself, while Zimmerman's lawyer, Don West, insists Zimmerman himself was not the aggressor. Members of local law enforcement responded today to West's claims, stating, in between full-belly laughs, "Sure, there's one we've never heard before." Zimmerman is unfortunately expected to make a full recovery.

Moving on to Reasons To Not Ever Leave My House, a woman was randomly attacked in Union Square last night by a hammer wielding stranger because apparently my nightmares have begun to leak from my brain. WNBC reports that among the five billion people clogging Union Square like a toilet, not a single person noticed a woman being bludgeoned practically to death with a hammer, because sorry it's rush hour and I was looking at my phone, what were we talking about again? Oh, right. A hammer-wielding maniac. With so few leads and details to go on at this point, the NYPD has put out an APB for either an 8-bit Nintendo turtle or the first available black man they can find.

If you see either of these dangerous hammer-wielding turtles, please call the NYPD. They're right on top of it.

In a related story, I will be nowhere near Union Square.

Finally, in News That Will Definitely Fuck The Environment But Who Cares Because America! Capitalism! Freedumb!, the Obama Administration has granted conditional approval to Shell to begin exploratory drilling in the Arctic, which will allow the oil company to begin drilling in earnest this summer in the Chukchi Sea off the northwest coast of Alaska. Shell's drilling plan proposes up to six wells in an area about 70 miles offshore, a move scientists and really anyone with a working brain describes as "mindblowingly stupid," although proponents of the move like former Alaska Governor Sean Parnell and South Park's Satan and Saddam Hussein have all praised the strategy, insisting, "This is totally perfect for our plan to turn Earth into a horrific fiery molten lava hellscape."

"Congratulations. You're doing great work, America." - Satan

Shell, for its part, maintains that the work they're doing is top notch and totally safe, seriously so safe, like really super SUPER safe, so please don't worry you guys or pay any attention to any of Shell's previous environmental catastrophes because that would be unfair, like really, really unfair to Shell because they're 100% all about thoughtfulness and safety now:

"We have taken a thoughtful approach to carefully considering potential exploration in the Chukchi Sea, recognizing the significant environmental, social and ecological resources in the region and establishing high standards for the protection of this critical ecosystem," BOEM Director Abigail Ross Hopper said in a statement. She then added:

"We here at Shell are committed to getting you to your extinction not just on time, but early. This is our thoughtful approach. Whether it's making sure you never use biofuel or drilling in the arctic against the advice of literally every climate scientist on Earth, we're committed to fucking the environment right in its pretty little asshole. And in fact our commitment to excellence requires that we fuck not just the environment, but literally everyone on planet Earth, all of the species currently living. Here at Shell we believe this is part of our mission, and drilling in the Chukchi Sea will provide us with an unparalleled opportunity." She then smiled and finished, "So get ready to bend over, Antarctica." And then paused thoughtfully to add, "A little further than you're already bent."

So. Depressed yet? Aren't you glad you're alive? Isn't it beautiful, being part of this giant quilt of human interaction that we call life? Well, here's something to either cheer you up or make you feel way worse. It's Jimmy Fallon and U2 performing U2's greatest hits on the 42nd Street subway platform, which really only goes to prove that regardless of who you are -- whether U2 or a hammer wielding maniac-- nobody gives a shit about you during rush hour in New York. Enjoy! Happy Tuesday!

Happy Mothers Day, Mom

Here's Mommie and I at my fifth birthday party: 

Oh, Mommie.

Even though Mommie made me give away all the presents but one, I feel like I learned an important lesson about selflessness and how to clean up after a belligerent drunk without dirtying my pretty dress. Later on we would play the wire-hanger game. Classic Mommie.

This is us a few years later, doing the Burlesque circuit:

Sing out!

Sure Mother and I fight sometimes over why I have to be the ass of the cow costume or why we're sleeping in the loft over a goddamn Chinese food restaurant again, but mother's always got big ideas and she always includes me in (most of) them. Sometimes we do big musical numbers together and sometimes I cry alone at night while contemplating our own murder/suicide. It's a real rollercoaster! Mother and I have a great relationship.

And here we are now, thirty-five years later:

The cats are always getting away, but at least we're together.

Here we are at home. Even though we've allowed the big beautiful house to fall into disrepair, my relationship with my mother is stronger than ever. We have lots of friends (cats) and lots of enemies (cats) but Mother darling and I are best friends.  We live in a pile of our own garbage inside a crumbling house of sadness and sometimes we listen to the radio as mother berates me for being an enormous disappointment. Our relationship is the strongest its ever been.

For anyone who's ever had a complicated relationship with their mother, this one's for you. And for my own mother, who is a weirdo lunatic nutcase and helped make me the weirdo lunatic nutcase I am today, thank you. Our relationship isn't some Hallmark card ideal, but imperfect and bizarre and real. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks, Mom.

I Am Not Liz Lemon and Neither Are You: A Rant For Single Ladies

So I'm coming up on t-minus 20 days until my 1st wedding anniversary and sometimes I still can't believe that someone actually accepted this job.

First off, I'm a lot of work. I require maintenance. Like, MAINTENANCE. Also it's long hours, terrible pay (technically no pay), a ton of manual labor and dangerous heavy lifting (well it's not my fault I can't reach any of the cabinets), and a guaranteed slew of uber-uncomfortable, terribly awkward  situations in which definitely you will want to kill yourself but unfortunately you won't be able to. Which I suppose makes me that Craigslist ad people share on Facebook with the caption: OMG check out this hot mess insanity. Also, I was frankly the kind of single girl who had been single for so long that her singledom had begun growing mollusks and coral and moss, like some sort of Yacht that sank long ago to the bottom of the ocean. At one point I think I agreed to marry my Chinese food deliveryman because at least he smiled when he brought me my wonton soup, and that was better than nothing. This was where my bar was set. Like I was Liz Lemon on the couch in a Snuggie happily munching on her night cheese.

This is how I see myself

Because I was such a mess (and by mess I mean a woman who has told herself she is a mess, because we women are raised to be queens of self-recrimination) I ended up dating a bunch of doucherags who, in retrospect, only validated this mythology I had written that I was a terrible person. I'm not sure if my intent there was to actually prove to myself that I was a terrible person by dating terrible people, but it felt like I needed to win at Fucking Myself Over. Like I was loading up the bases to hit my own ass out of the park so that I could collect my Congratulations You've Sold Yourself Short trophy, and my Yes You Were Right You ARE A Fat Ugly Loser medal, and be on my way in my sad old maid's clothes to knit sweaters for my three hundred heirloom dolls.

Except usually it was the barista at Starbucks.

At some point, my net worth became so entangled in my inability to date that I WAS a mess. And like plenty of other women I just lost all sense of myself. What I didn't realize, of course, was that I was looking at myself and everything all wrong.

Just as soon as I realize I am not actually horrible or disgusting.

The man who would later become my husband asked me out four times and I turned him down all four times, all the while chasing other men who had zero interest in me. That's like constantly turning down delicious chocolate cake to stuff empty candy wrappers in your mouth, sorry I can't help myself with the food analogies. But to give you an example, the last guy I chased before I dated my husband actually hit on my sister while I was in the hospital. Literally, a nurse was shoving a foley tube up my vagina and my sister turns to me and says, "You know your boyfriend just texted me to ask if I would jump on his dick." True story. Also TMI. Moving on.

Each time my husband asked me out I remembering thinking to myself, "What the hell does he want from me? Why is HE coming after ME?" like I was fucking Orphan Black or Agent Scully and any man who showed any interest in me could only be a contract killer or a degenerate who wanted to skin me and wear my breasts as a hat.

What do you want and why are you calling me?  I'm assuming you saw my TV ad?

As a woman I was taught long ago that my personality, such as it was (weird, tom-boyish, sarcastic, blunt) was wrong. My body, such as it was (short, stout, top-heavy) was wrong. It would not land me anyone. No, if I truly wanted a man I would have to give him a reason to want me back; I would literally have to justify my worth to him. I would have to twist myself into an emotional and aesthetic pretzel, I would have to just stop focusing on who I was and what I wanted and focus instead on what a man might want from me. Which is just as much of a horseshit strategy as this:

You're never going to get her, Pepe. This is futile, surely you realize this by now.

 The truth is you are fucking great exactly the way you are. And I get that you've probably seen that written on cat posters, but it's true. You are a weird, beautiful, imperfect person and that's great. Basically what I'm saying it's time to re-write your own false mythology. Because you know what my husband was actually looking for? He was looking for ME. Not the me who was convinced she only deserved assholes but the me who thought she was great.  And I feel like as women we tend to just assume we're not all that great. We downplay all of our strengths and pretend we're losers. Like we walk around literally telling ourselves we're awful people for no reason at all.  And then, what's worse? We actually start to believe our own lies.

In the end I found my husband only after I found myself.  And sure that sounds cheesy but the truth is in the cheese, my friends (sorry, more food metaphors.) Because, amazingly, it turns out that when you actually feel you are worth it you tend to attract people who believe you are worth it. I know that sounds like something Danny Tanner  once told DJ on Full House to a bunch of AWWWs, but just go with me here. Or else think of the fabulicious diva RuPaul: "If you can't love yourself how the hell you gonna love somebody else?"

Because I am great.

In any case, my point is that I was more in control of my own destiny than I thought, which means that so are you and so is everyone. Which means you won't be single forever if you don't want to be. Even if you're sitting there on the couch in your pjs reading this and eating your night cheese and wondering whether this is all there is. I promise you, there's more out there.

Just start doing terrific things for yourself and something else terrific will happen, I guarantee it. You just need to say YES to it regardless of whether that scares you. It only took me thirty years of telling myself NO and YOU'RE AWFUL and SHUT UP FATSO to figure that out -- that actually, I am pretty great. And now, while I still require a lot of work and maintenance and I still can't believe there's another human on this Earth who is super into that, I no longer question my worth. And that's huge. Happy 1st Anniversary, me!

And to my husband, if you're reading this, I love you. Thank you for loving me just as I am. Also, bring home cat food, we're out.

And now if you'll excuse me...

Things That Are Brilliant: 12 Angry Men Inside Amy Schumer

I think I may just change the name of this blog to Marry Me Amy Schumer And Birth All My Comedy Babies, for this week's Inside Amy Schumer offering is truly next level. Really, it's like there's the normal ground-level bar where most comedy is set, and this sketch (below) just rockets clear over that lowly bar and sets a whole new bar in fucking outer space. And for those of you wondering whether it's even possible for a comedy sketch to be not just good, not just funny, but artistic, truly a work of art-- the answer is yes.  And perhaps that's what's so exciting and refreshing about Amy Schumer; her sketches are NOT the same old packaged sophomoric bullshit geared towards a universe in which only straight white males live. Her sketches have resonance and weight.

"See that face? That is a butter face, damn it!"

FYI: the sketch below is 20 minutes long, takes up the entirety of Amy Schumer's run time, and is a pitch perfect play on the classic black and white movie (which is based on the play) 12 Angry Men. And I promise you, it is worth every second of your time.

Here, instead of the defendant being tried for murder, Amy Schumer is tried for the egregious crime of not being attractive enough for her own prime time TV show. The fate of Inside Amy Schumer then is left to a jury of old, paunchy, unattractive men who must decide whether Amy gives them enough "reasonable chub" to allow her to stay on the air. (Hilariously, the question of whether or not Schumer is funny is dismissed immediately. She's a woman so of course she's not funny. The question is would you want to fuck her? Would you want to mash your face between her breasts and make helicopter noises? Would you want to jack-off on the couch while picturing her face?) Once again, Schumer takes an issue most women deal with on a daily basis and turns it into next-level comedy; Why is it OK for men to put women on trial when male attractiveness is never ever an issue?

Guys, this is a tour de force. It's rare that I get the chance to say I feel like I've seen something new but truly, I feel like I've seen something new. Give this one a watch and then watch all of her other sketches because she's a genius and I wish I had written all of them.

Today in the News!

Good afternoon! Today in REAL news (that's REAL news - AKA news that hasn't been intercepted by our shadow government, the mainstream media coven, the Illuminati, our inevitable alien overlords and/or our Muslim Kenyan Illegal Socialist Warlock president, Barack Voldemort Obama) Texas has saved us again! That's right, The Sovereign Six-Shooter Cowboy Yee Haw Nation State of Texas has once again uncovered a sinister plot against its own citizens -- this time in the form of a "military exercise" (AKA death panel) called Operation Jade Helm (AKA Operation Murder All Texans But Make It Look Like An Accident.) Jade Helm, of course, is the brainchild of the U.S. Military under the control of King Barack Saddam Hussein Adolf Hitler Benghazi, but if you don't believe me (or would like to know more,) please just follow me into this tiny windowless backroom behind a secret wall so I can ensure our chat is unencumbered by CIA listening devices.

My very reliable source tells me that Texas is under attack

The hullabaloo started on Monday afternoon, when Lt. Col. Mike Listoria hosted a press conference in Austin to brief the public on some "joint Navy Seal/Green Beret training exercises taking place on a military base in Texas, called Operation Jade Helm." (REAL AMERICANS KNOW THAT'S NOT WHAT'S ACTUALLY HAPPENING SOCIALISM BENGHAZI.)  And while it's true that Texas has enough military bases to casually attack China, and that the military has conducted regular training on these bases ever since the battle of San Jacinto, the tea-partying public took enormous issue with Operation Jade Helm because--and here is where the Illuminati doesn't want you to make the connection-- six Walmarts (SIX WHOLE WALMARTS!) all closed at the same time prior to the press conference, supposedly "for renovations" (AKA to be remodeled as Terrorist Hubs ISIS SHARIA LAW DEATH CAMPS NUCLEAR WINTER BENGHAZI.)

Terrorism at low prices! This video will tell you all you need to know about our future Muslim overlords' spacious Walmart headquarters

And don't even get me started on the barrage of international political prisoners that our warlock vampire smoke monster president plans to shuttle in to West Texas and settle into FEMA deaths camps until all of Texas is basically just a Middle-Eastern Terrorist stronghold, and the Kardashians are covered in head to toe burtkas (how will we be able to slut-shame the circumference of Kim K's booty?! HOW??!) and we're all just praising Allah and blowing ourselves up in effigy instead of getting fat and watching cat memes-- shit is someone listening in on this? Are you wearing a wire? WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??!!

Actual text from a letter sent to a conservative talk show by an anonymous Texas Ranger. Oh who the fuck am I kidding? It was this dude:

Chuck Norris will protect us.

Which was why rookie Republican Governor Greg Abbott, in an understandable effort to keep his citizens safe from the inevitable Alas Babylon Dystopia about to be imposed upon them, announced he was ordering the Texas National Guard to keep watch over the United States Military during Operation Jade Helm. Because at the end of the day, Texas understands better than anyone else the glory of ill-conceived unwinnable battles.

So, to recap, Texas is the new stronghold for ISIS. Prison camps will be erected by FEMA. Weapons will be provided by Walmart.  (Frankly not such a stretch for Walmart) This information is 100% accurate. THANKS OBAMA.

Please see below for the full(er) report from Jon Stewart and then please excuse me,  I'd like to head out to my spaceship now so I can JUST LEAVE THE EARTH.

Happy Wednesday, friends!

But Seriously, I Have A Great Relationship With My Landlord.

You guys, I think it's time to pull up stakes and just go live someplace else, like maybe Seattle or London or the moon or some far-off outer galaxy (what's the rent like in space? Better than NY? Worse than SF?) because I just cannot anymore with these landlords. Seriously? I cannot. I might as well have a disabled monkey or a really stupid chair watching over my apartment. (Not just any chair, mind you, but a stupid chair. Like a chair with two legs or a chair that thinks its a table.)

Anyway. Here's what happened.

"Picture it: my apartment, three days ago."

It's two days after my bathroom ceiling has been "fixed" ("fixed" being the loose term we'll use for something that is no longer actively dangerous) and my husband and I are sitting around being serious grownups doing serious important grownup things (playing the new Mortal Kombat, goading the dog into attacking the cat so the cat will bite the dog, etc) when the Landlord calls.

"Sorry to bother you," says the landlord, "But I need a copy of the rent."

I ask, "Why? Is something wrong?"

And my husband, who's clearly eavesdropping but incredibly busy with the serious business of figuring out how to achieve a fatality, asks, "Is that the landlord?"

I nod.

"Nothing's wrong," says the landlord. "I just need a copy of your rental contract. I'm asking all the tenants to include a copy of their agreement with this month's check."

So at this point I'm still kind of worried. The rent in my neighborhood has, for the past few years, begun to hover around the Fuck-All Insanity mark. Is he planning on raising my rent? And what happens if I don't have a copy of said rent? How the fuck much will he raise it then?

"Okay," I say, "But might I ask why you need a copy of the rental agreement?"

Which is when the landlord and I, officially, launch ourselves into the Abbott and Costello Long-Lost Slumlord Variety Hour.

"I'm asking all tenants," says the landlord unhelpfully.

"A copy of the rent?" asks my husband, still knee-deep in Mortal Kombat. "Why doesn't the landlord already have a copy of the rent?"

"Aren't you the landlord?" I say. "Shouldn't you have a copy of the rent?"

"Are you saying you don't have a copy of the rent?" The Landlord's tone sounds positively scandalized, which (I'll give him credit for) is pretty damn ballsy. "How do you not have a copy of the rent?"

"How do I not have a copy of the rent? How do YOU not have a copy of the rent?"

"You should really keep copies," says the landlord.

"Didn't you CREATE the copies?" I point out.

"Yes," he says, "But I lost my blue folder."

"What does that even mean?" At this point I'm livid. "What the hell happens if I lose MY blue folder?"

"I don't follow."

You... don't follow.

So, to recap: my landlord is missing important paperwork for (not just me, but) literally everyone in my entire building because my landlord has but one --ONE!--blue folder that apparently IS NOT secret code for "computer" where he keeps all his important documents. Next up he'll ask me to calculate next year's rent for him because he can't find his abacus.

So I say, "What if I can't find my copy?"

"What do you mean what if you can't find your copy? How do you not have a copy of the rent?"

"How do YOU not have a copy of the rent?"

"Glad to see you're getting somewhere," says my husband.

And here, guys, is the reason why I desperately need to move, or buy a house, or just shoot myself out into fucking outer space or something. Because then it just gets weirder and he says, "You're welcome, by the way. For the bathroom. You didn't call me or anything to say how much you liked it."

Really?  REALLY?

At this point I'm unsure why we're even still talking and frankly I'm angry and I have a lot of agitating my animals to get done, so I say, "Thank you?"

"It was a lot of work," says the landlord. "We worked really hard on your bathroom."

"Okay."

"We were there for eight hours."

We?

My landlord wasn't even there when the ceiling was patched.

For the record, my Landlord opened the bathroom door, took one look at our moldy, bulbous ceiling and then promptly exited, leaving us in the hands of "his very capable, very professional, very trusted team." (FYI: Team = One Dude With A Fake Name Who Used To Live In Our Basement But Is Now Fixing Our Bathrooms Apparently, and nobody else.) That said, we did in fact thank Mr. Fake Name Dude (who also painted our bathroom tiles the same color as the wall, by the way) although I suppose in hindsight I could have reached out to my overly sensitive landlord --perhaps via flowers or singing telegram or personal string quartet, because if nothing else, my landlord works very, very hard at avoiding ever having to work very, very hard.

"What's he saying?" asks my husband, who at this point has mastered the art of the fatality because I've been on the phone an abominable amount of time for no reason at all. I roll my eyes.

"Thank you for fixing my broken bathroom," I say loudly, "Thank you so much for finally fixing it, we very much appreciate our new working bathroom." (which is part of your job, I should have yelled, which you avoided doing for over a year, but hold on, let me buy you a bouquet of flowers and a six foot tall fucking greeting card and a ticker tape parade because I'm so crazy grateful my ceiling did not cave in.)

Finally, mercifully, the conversation ends and my husband and I are left stupefied on the couch. "Give him a copy of the agreement from 2010," he suggests. "We'll pay less rent."

Except the truth is we'll pay MORE! MORE RENT FOREVER! hahaha HILARIOUS!

Welcome to Queens, everyone - Slumlord/High Rent Capital of the United States. Remind me to check Zillow for better deals in outer space.

Not That I Care What You Do With Your Life Or Anything, But Definitely Watch Inside Amy Schumer.

Who could have imagined that the next female sketch comedy visionary would come NOT from the hallowed ground of SNL, but from the middle of the pack of NBC's almost, kind of, not-quite watchable cringe-fest, Last Comic Standing? You know, that show your sixty-one year old Mother  brings up every single time she calls because she's convinced that not only do you fervently watch it, since you've studied comedy and live in New York, clearly you must also know some of the comics?

"His name is John Landon, honey. He was very charming, he talked a lot about masturbation."

"No, Mom."

"What about that Tucker fellow? The fat Asian man who wanted to fuck his computer game?"

"No. Mom, please stop."

Anyhoozils, Amy Schumer placed fourth on season five,  just oh-so-short-of-the-finale, which surely would have been disappointing... had she not dusted herself right off and kept on going, as befits the working mantra of the creative professional: wipe off the blood (bury the body) and keep on going.

Inappropriate and proud of it

So who could have imagined that just a few short years later, one of Reality TV's lesser-known cast-offs would be a viral comedy sensation, with material to rival SNL and (hopefully) long outlive anything on NBC's Last Comic Standing? Perhaps it was that her rise to the top was simply fated -- perhaps Amy Schumer is the a modern day Vagina Empowerment Prophet we needed.

If the sketches feel new, like new-car-smell-new, that's because the perspective certainly is. Inside Amy Schumer, ever the edgy underdog, often tackles the uncomfortable scraps left behind by hamstrung mainstream powerhouses like (the often disappointing) SNL; subjects like abortion and rape and body-shaming and birth control and ageism.  Getting the actual funny out of any topic, hot-button or not, is hard (just ask the often-flat-footed SNL). But here Amy Schumer manages to create beautifully rendered comedy while at the same time drawing attention to the media's unfair treatment of women in Hollywood, and how that treatment is often a mirror for the larger, more disturbing cultural sentiment. (Also, it's just funny shit, you guys. Seriously? This is some tight, well-done, unapologetic, funny shit.)

So come for the funny, stay for the political outrage; it's a two-fer deal!

All that said, I now present, for your viewing pleasure, two delicious Amy Schumer delights - sure to be instant classics. Watch, share, trade with your friends, collect your favorites. Happy Monday!

"Be sure to ask your doctor if birth control is right for you."

Here is the One Direction Parody you didn't realize you were so desperately waiting for:

"Just take off your makeup, you're pefect when you wake up..."

Amy Schumer: still confidently doing the lord's work.

The Shakespearean Tragedy of my Bathroom Ceiling

Let me tell you a tale of woe - that of Tragic Hamster and her wrecked bathroom ceiling-o. (Shut up, I'm still working out my iambic pentameter.)

I keep waiting for the day when the tub in the bathroom above mine just falls through the ceiling

So the ceiling itself is fixed, assuming the definition of "fixed" is 'To be held together with rice paper, fairy dust and/or prayer.' The bulbous tumor over the tub is gone, although now only a thin layer of plaster separates the bathroom proper from the poisonous insulation and rot in the ceiling. But hey, I figure that's just one of those NYC Shakespearean trade-offs; die slowly from breathing in rot or let the ceiling cave in and die immediately. I choose 'die slowly.' So really, I've won this battle.

(Oh, woe, but I have also lost! Allow thee to grumble and hit the sauce!)

More good news: our rotted window ledge has also been "fixed" AKA painted white, because white paint is the recommended professional treatment for window ledges that are falling apart. Did you know this? I did not know this. White paint is miraculous! It also removes mold and and mildew and cuts perfect waffle fries and will babysit your kids for free if you play your cards right. White paint is the swiss-army-knife of household repair! And if I squint just so, I almost don't notice the shredded wood or the haphazard swaths of paint all over the surrounding tiles or the the fact that the ledge itself is now just a weirdly cut slab of shitty marble. No problem at all. Because, again, at least the ceiling isn't caving in.

(Trade-offs are a fickle bitch. Oh, if only I was shitty and rich!)

"Oh God, this looks terrible," my husband whispered to me. "What's wrong with the ledge?"

"It's a piece of weird looking rock now."

"Is it supposed to look that way?"

"You mean awful?" I asked.

"Why did he paint the tiles?"

"Sometimes tiles need a fresh coat of paint?"

"Oh. How thoughtful."

"Yes," I said.

"You know I think this is the same dude who used to live illegally in the basement? I guess he's fixing bathrooms now."

"Didn't he give you a fake name?"

"Yeah."

"Oh good," I said, examining the light-switch that had been completely painted over for no reason,  "I guess it's good that we at least know his fake name."

So now our stuff is all piled up around the living room like a toiletries bin exploded and our bathroom smells like a combination of glue and dirt and rot and paint. The cat I think is having some sort of prolonged panic attack and the dog has taken to wandering around with my tampons in his mouth. On the bright side, we can move everything back into the bathroom today. On the downside,  literally everything I just typed in the above paragraphs.

Living in NYC without a trust-fund is a lot like living inside this moment from The Money Pit

We concludeth now with a ceiling repaired, a tragic victory if anyone cared. That it wouldn't be perfect is something we full knew, for you cannot have your cake and eateth it too.
(My iambic pentameter is great now, thanks.)

Happy Thursday!

My Bathroom Ceiling is Caving In

Today is Fix it Felix Wednesday -- an exciting holiday I made up just now to celebrate the fact that someone has finally come to fix the giant bubble of plaster about to burst over the tub in my bathroom. Hooray! My husband and I have been waiting and waiting for this for a Hot NYC Renter's Minute, which for all you normals outside of NYC is the equivalent of roughly one year of the phrase "OK, I will come by to fix next week." And even though the professional currently fixing my bathroom is technically just the landlord's brother's first cousin who has no verifiable credentials and should probably not be fixing ceilings at all, I'm pleased that my bathroom will at least no longer be in a state of imminent collapse (or else it will remain in a state of imminent collapse but will look really nice), which is all you can ask for when you live in a matchbox shitscape underneath the train tracks in Queens.

Here is a dramatic recreation of my maintenance issues

I actually asked the landlord to please remove the mold as well, although I might as well have asked him for dancing leprechauns or singing pandas. I said, "Since the apartment was never renovated and there's like 10 years of mold it would be great if you could clear that out."

"OK," he said, "I will repaint."

"Repaint? No, I need you to remove the mold. It has to be removed at least six inches below the baseboards."

"Yes, I will remove the wallpaper and give it a nice coat of paint."

To be clear, my landlord speaks perfect English but acts as if there's some insane language barrier between us. Like when I asked him to please replace the kitchen fixtures which have been broken since before Obama was elected, he was all, "Replace? OK, I will fix." And when I replied that the fixtures don't need fixing they actual replacing he was like, "What was that? OK, I will fix, they're perfectly good fixtures, sounds good, OK, talk to you later, bye bye," which is the shitty-landlord equivalent of AHHH I CAN'T HEAR YOU I'M GOING INTO A TUNNEL AHHHH NO STATIC NOISES.

But like I said, I'm grateful that anyone with eyeballs and hands and tools is in there at all, ripping apart my ceiling and replacing it with, I'm pretty sure, some sort of insecure cardboard. All that matters is the ceiling will be fixed now, if by fixed you mean haphazardly patched with unsafe materials, and really what more could I ask for? (An actual contractor who replaces ceilings.) Nevertheless! Three cheers for Fix-it Wednesday!

So before my NEW bathroom ceiling inevitably caves in on me, here's a fun little oldie but goodie from Will Ferrell and the gang at Funny or Die called "The Landlord," which is an accurate representation of NYC landlords. Enjoy and don't forget to show your appreciation for the glorious intact ceiling in your bathroom because truly, there's nothing like coming home to a nice glass of Cabernet and a mold-free bathroom ceiling. FYI, this is how low the bar is set now.

Fuck you, Hope Floats.

HBO's Women's Empowerment seminar continues today with Hope Floats, the Sandra Bullock 1996 shlockfest that people like me still watch because we once got dragged to see it when we were in high school, but now we're old and home in the middle of the day on a Tuesday--plus our rheumatism no longer allows us to properly use the remote. (Hope Floats, if you'll recall, also gifted America with Garth Brooks' repulsive Make You Feel My Love which I'm humming right now because this song is a disease, I have no idea why, fuck this movie.) Also, Harry Connick Jr. wears incredibly tight clothes and Gena Rowlands wears a bunch of stupid hats. These are important plot points.

Resume skills: stupid hat wearing, bizarre amateur taxidermy

This "lady driven 90s movie," like all "lady-driven 90s movies," portrays a woman who "truly finds herself" only by finding herself the right man. Because at the end of the day, all a woman needs in her life is to be loved, like a dog, queue sunset and flowers and Harry Connick Jr.'s tight abs and Garth Brooks who will MAKE ME FEEL HIS LOVE.

Resume skills: stupid hat wearing, being beautiful, desperation to be loved

Birdie Calvert is down on her luck after leaving her philandering husband and taking her eight year old daughter to go live with her eccentric mother. Which means the only solution for Birdie Calvert now is to go back to college and set herself up for a steady career find comfort with a nice, hot Harry Connick Jr. type.  Birdie is beautiful you see, which means she must also be vaguely incompetent, which is a typical trope of 90s romantic comedies; that ugly girls are smart because men don't like them and pretty girls cannot be smart or capable because men find them desirable. So basically you can't have both, ladies. It's either brains or boobs. Skills or sex appeal. Modern man simply cannot handle both, so choose or perish. These are the rules! Do not get mad at Hope Floats for knowing the rules!

Despite the many allusions to Birdie's needing a decent job, despite the many references to Birdie's rekindling a passion she once had for photography, Birdie doesn't really do anything at all but focus on whether or not Birdie will find love again after her failed marriage. Will she succumb to Harry Connick Jr.'s tight, tight shirts and tight, tight jeans? (Yes.) Will she fall victim to his piercing eyes, his dumb hats? (Yes.) Will she allow him to carry her off into the sunset? (Yes.) Because that is literally how this stupid movie ends? (Yes.) With Birdie literally carried off into the literal fucking sunset? (Yes.) Because women will forgive a movie anything as long as it ends in a literal fucking sunset?

My tiny lady brain is enthralled with this! Oh, if only my tiny, tiny brain was not so filled with sunflowers and glitter and tiny pink hearts and Garth Brooks begging me to let me feel his love.

(No.)

But here are some more 90s romantic comedy rules for women: Women may only be hysterical or manic. They may at times be charming, but only in a manic, hysterical sort of way.  Women must be desperate for love at all times and should not entertain any other thoughts (Unless those thoughts concern plotting against other women as a consequence of falling in love, which is also cool.) Also, ugly girls should remember that their smarts will only get them so far if they're not endeavoring to be beautiful and loved. And beautiful girls must remember that they're not really meant to be smart; they're meant to be hood ornaments. But really, the most important thing for all women everywhere to remember is that regardless of aesthetic beauty, we are all of us only fuckable for a very, very short period of time. (FYI: Hope Floats was filmed during Sandra Bullock's prime fuckable years. Peak Fuckability, if you will.) So really, fuckability should be our focus, ladies; Enjoying said fuckability and turning it into love before we become old maids and die of feminine hysteria. Hooray! Also, Fuck you, Hope Floats.

That said, I present you with another gem from Amy Schumer's toybox called "Last Fuckable Day," which features lady powerhouses Julia Louis Dreyfus, Patricia Arquette and Tina Fey. Give it a watch while you can, as these ladies won't be fuckable for long. (Which of course means they will be jailed and then set on fire, as is tradition.) Happy Tuesday, everyone.

The Fucking White House Correspondents Dinner.

Each year, major players from politics, celebrity and the media -- otherwise known as the Venn Diagram of Oh Fuck-All -- gather together in Washington for a night of self-congratulatory star-fucking and cocksuckery. This once a year mutual masturbation party is called The White House Correspondents Dinner, and it's basically a night for old rich white assholes (from inside the pockets of other old rich white assholes) to congratulate each other on the absolutely stellar job they're doing, but maybe also get their dicks as close to Mila Kunis as possible.

"Say, how close is your dick to Mila Kunis?" "Oh, my dick is pretty close, like only centimeters away. How close is your dick, Wolf Blitzer?" "Oh, my dick is always pretty close to Mila Kunis."

This year, celebrated White House correspondents (like the cast of Modern Family) paid tribute to the victims of the recent devastating earthquake in Nepal by getting super drunk and simply not mentioning it at all in any way.  This is called "journalism." However, all were agreed that Sophia Bush  (who is an actress?) and got word only hours prior that her boyfriend was killed in the Quake, gave the most touching three-sentence Instagram tribute before taking the red carpet by storm with Connie Britton in resplendent teal Balenciaga.

Which brings us to today's eye-candy-- the only two things worth watching from this year's White House Correspondent's Dinner, which I am 100% proud to say came from the genius brains of two of my favorite former teachers. First up we have President Obama addressing the audience with his special guest, anger translator Luther. (The climate change rant at the end is especially fun.)

Next up (and the highlight of the entire night, in my opinion) we have SNL's Cecily Strong absolutely killing it in a set co-written by SNL's Josh Patten. Give it a watch and then weep for the sorry state of American journalism. Happy Monday!

Fuck This Court and All It Stands For: The Single Greatest Legal Brief Of All Time

Tamah Jade Clark has problems. Way back in 2009, her husband Jason Clark was convicted of a multitude of crimes and sentenced to thirty years in prison. So Tamah, equipped with the impressive unearned confidence of a room full of drunk Kanye Wests, did the only thing possible - she cocked her AK 47 and grabbed her .52 caliber and all of her wilderness survival gear (did I mention this is Florida? That Tamah is from Florida? Is it all making so much more sense to you now?) and went to bust her husband out of prison. She was subsequently arrested and charged with conspiracy to escape another and conspiracy to commit reckless abandonment and conspiracy to be a stupid idiot, and a multitude of other crimes.

Which is when Tamah, armed with the blind and unhinged self-assurance of a thousand Donald Trumps running for President, wrote the legal brief (below) that will go down in history as the single greatest legal document ever written by man.

(Many props to internet/legal enthusiast Sarah Jeong who uncovered this random gem.)

Let me present you with some highlights:

NOTICE: FUCK THIS COURT AND ALL IT STANDS FOR.

Moving on to legal arguments:

More things you should know: Tamah is a "Floridian American" from the Sovereign Idiot's Nation State of Florida:

"I AM Justice, Motherfucker." - Samuel L. Jackson:

But don't worry, y'all. Tamah takes all of this as a compliment. Tamah is not deterred by legal arguments. Legal arguments do not apply to Tamah. Tamah is The Great Mariska Hargitay of Justice who will BACKHAND YOUR ASS into the middle of next week:

"Time for a history lesson, Motherfuckers." - Samuel L. Jackson:

 

And by the way, you can burn for this shit for all I care:

And finally, in closing, DIE. NOW. THANKS:

Tamah DROPS MIC.

Please click here to view the entire thing (which is totally, 100% worth your time I promise) or click here to read the judge's order that sparked The Greatest Legal Document Since The Declaration of Independence.  And in fact I believe it was Thomas Jefferson himself who once wrote, in the original draft of that glorious legal declaration, that "all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of GO FUCK YOURSELF."

Thomas Jefferson and Tamah Clark: true American heroes.