Kimopolis

My kind of town.

Forever Rizzo

Posted by kimlno on January 7, 2010

Betty Rizzo, the tough and sarcastic leader of the Pink Ladies.

Facebook quizzes can be more than just a pointless waste of time. No, really. They can. Personally, I’d thought I’d taken all the interesting and applicable FB quizzes available, but yesterday the “Which Grease Character Are You?” popped up in my Live News Feed (btw, HATE that) after a couple of friends had taken the test themselves. Of course, I had to see what this deeply-probing, all-telling quiz had to say about who I am in relation to the stereotypical female cast members of Grease, a film that played a pivotal role in making me the woman I am today (scary, huh?). A couple of casual clicks later, *POOF* there was my result in black and white for all the world to see: Rizzo. And, just like that, it was as if a dam of memories had burst free of the constraints of time (not to mention, the massive brain cell slaughter of my youth), and it all came rushing back to me…the day I was cast as Rizzo (bet you never pegged me as a musical theater type of girl, did you?).

It should come as no surprise to anyone who grew up in the ‘70s that one of the musical productions put on by my class at school was a most likely ill-conceived performance of “Summer Lovin’”. Meant to be an ode to the upcoming Summer break, perhaps a promise of good things to come graduation day, my 3rd Grade teacher, Mrs. Van Bloom, assigned each of her students a part of the song to sing. As she went down the line handing out lyrics and sheet music (as if I needed either…I had the entire film committed to memory), I heard her give the boys ahead of me their roles. Then, the girl next to me was assigned to play Frenchie. So, as Mrs. VB’s gaze finally landed upon me, my heart leapt at the thought that she’d fulfill my lifelong dream (I was only 8 at the time, so give me a break) of portraying Sandy. Alas, that was not the name that passed her lips that fateful, smoggy day on the Montessori playground in Woodland Hills. Mrs. VB looked directly at me and said, “Kim, you will sing the part of Rizzo.” Rizzo? Was I hearing her correctly? Maybe the intense heat of the Valley (like, gag me with a spoon) was making me hallucinate, but surely she didn’t just tell me I was to play Rizzo, the drinking, smoking, “easy” girl who believes she might be pregnant for the majority of the film, right? I mean, that could potentially be the basis for a future filled with YEARS of profound psychoanalytical therapy for such a sweet, unassuming, innocent little girl like me. And when I asked her why, things went from bad to worse.

“Well,” she said, “you have short, brown hair and so does Rizzo,” as if her obviously logical decision would help me understand why I wasn’t cast as the winsome, pretty blonde and not the cheap, dirty whore. My goddamned hair. Damn you, mother, for making me have short hair! Curses to Dorothy Hamill and her wretched wedge cut that I so coveted yet could never obtain due to my full, yet fine hair! Why couldn’t I have been allowed to have long, flowing locks like Marcia Brady? And, now…look what this hair had gotten me. I had been cast as the bitter, mean-spirited slut even though inside, I wanted desperately to be the pretty, new-girl-in-town-who-everybody-can’t-help-but-adore, Sandy. No, I don’t blame you, Mrs. VB…I blame my hair, my mom, and Colleen (my hair stylist at Saks), all of which conspired against me on that one, hot, almost summer’s day in 1979 to be branded as Rizzo forever.

Thank you so very much, Facebook, for bringing up THAT painful memory. Next time why don’t you just give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?!?

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New Year’s Resolutions

Posted by kimlno on December 31, 2009

Oh, great. It’s that time of the year again. You know…resolution time. Usually, I don’t even bother. By the time January 2nd or 3rd rolls around, most of my resolutions have gone the way of the Dodo. But this year I’m going to try something a little different. This year I’m going to make some reasonable resolutions…ones I can actually accomplish. No more ridiculousness like “lose 50 pounds”, or “finish my novel”, or “volunteer in my spare time/donate blood/give to charity”. Such lofty goals are just a set-up for disappointment. This year my New Year’s Resolutions are going to be small, realistic…easy. So, without further ado, I give you, my resolutions for 2010:

1. Blog more often, at least once a week. They don’t all have to be good, or necessarily even entertaining, but a few paragraphs of my random thoughts ought to suffice.

2. Play less FarmVille. And by “less” I mean restrict visits to my farm to once a day (or less).

3. Finish reading Stephen King’s The Dome. Who knew he could write such a LONG book? And with SO many characters?!? My god, man, I get it. You’re a wonderful storyteller. No need to show off.  I’m 300+ pages into this tome and not much has happened and you’re STILL introducing new characters. Get on with it already. I mean, the title pretty much covers the main issue so how about you start revealing the reason behind the Dome? All I’ve got is: the Dome is impermeable, the hicks in the town are mostly crazy and all potentially dangerous, and the town children are all speaking nonsense about “Halloween” and “pink stars”. The next 600+ pages had better be riveting. RIVET-ing, you hear? (I have a confession to make…when I went to look up exactly how many pages long The Dome was, I couldn’t help but stop by my farm and harvest some crops. I know, I know. I could have just walked my lazy butt into the other room, where the book actually is, and checked, but…I had farm chores to do, okay? Get off my back! The resolutions don’t start until tomorrow! I still have one day of farming left. Which brings me to my next resolution…)

4. Go outside daily. I’ll be honest, in the past two months, there have been days where I haven’t left the house. Now, to be fair, I did have a back spasm that left me completely incapacitated for almost a week. AND I had the flu about ten days after that. THEN, I hurt my back again. And, as if God hadn’t punished me enough, immediately following that I came down with the nastiest cold I’ve ever had. Seriously. It was resistant to all forms of treatment including, but not limited to, massive fluid intake, “The nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine”, tomato soup and tuna melts (which, until this point in time, I believed could cure ANYTHING), and good, old fashioned bed rest. So, some days, perhaps more days than entirely necessary, were spent indoors. Barring any unforeseen illness or injury, I fully intend to adhere to this resolution.

5. Be less flaky. If you’re one of my friends, I’ve probably cancelled plans with you more than once (If not, then you’re my FAVORITE friend…kidding. I love you all EQUALLY.). I call it the “Cameron Frye Syndrome”. The full spectrum of CFS can be observed in the following clip from the seminal ‘80s film, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, specifically from the 3:03 mark through the end:

That last minute-long conversation Cameron has with himself in the car is the very same inner monologue I endure every time I have made plans to meet my friends. Although, not just limited to friends, CFS extends to doctor’s appointments, going to work, and really anything else that involves leaving the house and interacting with other human beings. I’m not anti-social. I’m just pro-me.

Well, there they are. I know, there are only 5 of them, and tradition dictates at least ten resolutions for such a list to truly be taken seriously. But, like I said, I’d like to keep all of these little promises to be a better Kimberly, so I’m starting small. It may not be much, but at least it’s a start. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even add more as the year passes and these simple changes become routine…but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a farm to plow.

P.S. Happy New Year!

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The Candy Cane

Posted by kimlno on December 15, 2009

See? Pretty.

Do you know what I have absolutely no use for? Candy canes.

Oh, I know that’s rather Grinch-like of me, but a co-worker gave me one this morning, and, as thoughtful as it was, I have no idea what to do with it. I mean, it’s a perfectly nice candy cane, as candy canes go…a real sized one, not those hinky “fun” sized canes which might as well just be a freakin’ mint because technically you can pop the whole thing into your mouth at once. Because, really, aren’t those round red and white striped mints they give you with the check after dinner just “fun” sized candy canes rolled into a ball and smushed? Think about it. They taste the same. Same colors. Same swirl. I have an inkling that every after dinner mint starts out as a “fun” sized candy cane, but after Christmas, the ones who’ve survived being crushed or completely pulverized into a fine minty dust, are recalled, reconstituted, and resold as peppermints. Perhaps not, but I guarantee you the candy cane people are in cahoots with the dinner mint people, so I wouldn’t put it past them.  I mean, it’s not like the candy gets stale or anything.  In fact, I’m pretty sure the peppermint has a half-life of about 85 years, give or take. It seems to me that no matter how long one of those things has been in the pocket of my winter coat (why is there always one in there anyway?), it still has all the same properties of a “fresh” mint. I can’t go so far as to say they taste good, and that’s exactly my problem with the candy cane itself, but an old peppermint is almost indistinguishable from a new one. You may not agree, but I bet in a blind taste test you wouldn’t be able to tell which one was which. Whoops. TANGENT. Sorry.

I want to be clear that I’m NOT a candy cane “hater”. Aesthetically, I think they’re very pleasing. They evoke a sentimental feeling of Christmas, and to be fair, Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without candy canes. I just don’t want to eat one. Ever. I honestly can’t think of a situation in which I’d be so desperate to actually consume a candy cane. Perhaps if I was stuck in a snow drift and the only thing between starving to death and clinging to life while I waited for my number one fan to come find me and dig me out was to eat a candy cane, I might eat one then. But, in general, candy canes are just plain disappointing. They’re a far better decoration than a food.

So, if you’re thinking of handing out candy canes this Christmas, ask yourself this first…would you want one?

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Might As Well Face It, I’m Addicted To FarmVille

Posted by kimlno on December 6, 2009

My Virtual Farm

Hi. My name is Kimberly and I’m an addict.

I’m not addicted to drugs or alcohol, nor am I addicted to gambling or even shopping. I’m addicted to FarmVille. Yes, FarmVille, that ridiculously time-consuming Facebook application that’s taken over my life. At first it was just a couple of crops here and there, and then someone gifted me a Cherry tree. It really didn’t start to spiral out of control until I started in with the livestock. The next thing I knew, I had enough chickens to fill an entire coop and a half (why can’t you have more than one chicken coop, FarmVille? WHY?!?), a dairy farm full of cows, not to mention the goats, sheep, ducks, pigs, horses, and the giant turkey I purchased at Thanksgiving. I’ve already expanded my farm twice, and I couldn’t even count how many different types of crops I can grow at once. I have so many trees, I can’t even see some of them anymore. The only way I know it’s time to harvest them is if my cursor turns into that little blue sickle telling me it’s harvest time.

What’s worse is now that Christmas is right around the corner, the FarmVille Market has a plethora of holiday themed items. I’ve already accumulated 8 reindeer and a special stray one I found wandering on someone else’s farm who I call “Rudolph”. I’m just waiting to save up enough Farm Cash to buy a sleigh, because spending real money is where I draw the line. Everything on my farm has been earned through hard labor, bringing in the sheaves, as it were. Sure the evil FarmVille geniuses try and tempt me with special offers, discounted Farm Cash and Coin bundles, but the moment I whip out my credit card…well, that’s when I’m definitely going to seek professional help. I’ve got to tell you, though, when I first saw the giant snow globe with the little barn inside, I almost caved.

And it’s not just the bounty of farm related items that can be purchased to make your farm more, well, farmier. It’s the secret gifts and the lost rare animals (like the pink cow I adopted the other day who, of course, yields strawberry milk) that drive me to check Facebook several times a day (okay, an hour) to see what my fellow farming friends have discovered or accomplished. I want that Mystery Egg. I want to share your Special Bonus for receiving the Yellow Ribbon in the Crop Whisperer category or a White Ribbon for being the King of Compost. Yes, I will visit your farm and pull weeds or shoo the crows before I fertilize your crops because I want the Experience Points, and yes, I want those Farm Coins and Cash. Because I don’t know exactly how I am going to earn 28 Farm Dollars in the next 27 days, but that snow globe will be mine. Oh, yes. It WILL be mine.

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Taking the Plunge

Posted by kimlno on November 12, 2009

plunger_final

The plunger is mightier than the sword.

I am not a patient person (although, oddly enough, I am a HUGE procrastinator…go figure). So when I don’t see immediate results, I can get a little irritated. Such was the case last night when, for no apparent reason, my toilet clogged. Now, bear in mind, my commode is over 30 years old, so it’s not exactly what you’d call “high tech”. You know that Kohler commercial where the horny guy is flushing everything but the kitchen sink down his toilet so that the pretty lady plumber (like THEY exist) will have a reason to visit? Yeah, mine can’t do that. It can barely handle two-ply tissue. Quilted TP? I might as well try to flush a hand towel down the drain.

It should come as no surprise to you that I am well acquainted with my plunger. In fact, I recently purchased a new one because I wore the old one out. No lie. The rubber vulcanized (or whatever chemical process was involved) into an inflexible solid that rendered it completely useless. Of course I didn’t find out this extremely pertinent information until I needed to use it. That was a pisser (no pun intended). Why is it that I seem to discover that my plunger doesn’t work in the middle of the night when everything is closed? Or, am I just lucky like that?

Well, last night my clogged toilet literally drove me to drink. As my first 10-20 plunging attempts were unsuccessful, I took a much needed breather and watched a little Glee. I can’t say I enjoyed the show as much as usual, because in the back of my mind, I knew the stubborn toilet waited. So, during the commercial breaks, I schlepped back into the bathroom for another round of “The Plunger in the Toilet Goes Up and Down”. Somewhere during round 3 or 4, I started to cry. I was way passed irritated and on my way to madness when the “Plunging Chronicles” stretched into the second hour of battle. If I were churning cream, I’d have had butter by now.

Desperation set in, and I began to doubt my plunging abilities. Was I doing it wrong? Was there some secret plunging technique I wasn’t aware of? So, I did what any logical person driven to the point of insanity would do. I checked the internet. Yes, last night, around 11:30, I Googled “how to plunge a toilet”. I think that’s a new low for me. Not surprisingly, there were a plethora of sites to choose from. I visited three separate pages, reading their directions carefully, searching for the secret solution to my problem. Y’know what? I was doing it correctly. There’s no secret. I just had to keep on plunging. That’s when I poured my first glass of wine.

After two more, I ventured once again into my bathroom to confront the beast. I made sure the plunger was perpendicular to the toilet, that no air bubbles were trapped in it, and that it fit securely around the drain. I plunged down slowly, then up quickly, and prayed.  My hands were red and raw. My shoulders ached. My back screamed, “Oh, please don’t bend over again!” And, in a moment I can only compare to sheer ecstasy, the toilet drained. Halle-fuckin’-lujah.

Then I finished another bottle of wine to calm my frayed nerves and went to bed. Kim-1, Toilet-0.

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Lucy, You Got Some ‘Splainin’ To Do!

Posted by kimlno on November 11, 2009

Cleaning supplies 008

Lucy's Deadly Arsenal of Cleaning Supplies

Why does my housekeeper think that spraying everything with different flavored cleaners truly CLEANS anything? It’s not ACID. If it were, it’d destroy the bottle it came in. Personally, I think she thinks the “scrubbing bubbles” are real and apply to all cleaning products (even Windex). She doesn’t seem to think any real physical labor should be involved when cleaning the house. To her, if it smells clean, it is clean. Okay, then why are there ten different spots of dirt in the grout in my shower? Because you need to SCRUB it, Lucy. Lightly spritzing with Tilex is NOT going to cut it. Plus, by the time she leaves, the air in my house is TOXIC. If all windows and doors are not opened immediately after she’s done, suffocation from lack of oxygen is a definite possibility. Apparently my incessant sneezing and hacking while she cleans hasn’t alerted her to the fact that she is ASPHYXIATING me. I know she’s secretly hoping one day she’ll kill me.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that someone else cleans the toilet (although, I’m pretty sure she just squirts in whatever the 99¢ Store’s version of Tidy Bowl is, and then flushes it a few hours later, because I’ve never seen her even hold a toilet bowl brush before). It’s great that I don’t have to dust the bookshelves (even though she usually gets the idea to go sweep the patio mid-dust and then completely forgets to put the books back on the shelves). And you’ll never hear me complain about not having to vacuum or mop (though you can never be sure she’s done either of these things unless you actually see her doing them). Honestly, it’s a good thing my house is never actually dirty.

I want a maid who comes into my house fully equipped: rubber gloves up to her elbows, knee pads, and a bucket filled with brushes, scrubbers and industrial strength cleaning products used only by professionals. I want “The Cleaner” from Point of No Return and Pulp Fiction. I want Harvey Keitel. I need a man who can destroy any traces of blood, hair, fingerprints and dead skin cells (and, if need be, an entire corpse). Harvey Keitel is my ideal maid. I’m sure if I told him that he’d have me whacked (or offed, or whatever it is those professional killers do). But, you know what? He’d sure as hell do a better job cleaning my house than Lucy.

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Rock Me Tonite

Posted by kimlno on October 30, 2009

Sometimes I forget just how totally awesome the ‘80s were. Then, I stumble across something that is so indicative of the decade, so radically tubular, like…so tripendicular, it just blows my mind. Fer sure. Today, I found this little gem, and it so totally rocked my world, I just had to share it with you.

I don’t know how I missed jumping on the Billy Squier bandwagon, but it was probably because I was listening to A-ha or Wang Chung instead (like, “Dance Hall Days” was a totally bitchin’ song, dude). To prove how little I knew about Billy, I thought he was Canadian. Turns out he’s from Boston. Eh, same difference. For some reason I just lumped him in with other great Canadian rock bands (there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one) like Loverboy and Triumph.

ANYthousandsofRushfanssendingmehatemail (ARE there thousands of Rush fans?), this video for “Rock Me Tonite” is probably the worst video catastrophe since “Separate Ways” by Journey. However, this was choreographed (and I use that term VERY loosely) by Kenny Ortega (of Xanadu and Dirty Dancing fame). Um, okay…if you say so. I kinda thought he was having a seizure most of the time.

Let’s break it down, shall we?

As the video begins, Billy is in bed, rolling around on his satin sheets. Ew, gag me with a spoon.

Are his armpits SHAVED?

Are his armpits SHAVED?

Next, Squier puts on a shirt. This is no ordinary shirt. In fact, it’s so extraordinary, I can’t even describe it.  It’s like sleeveless, but still manages to have one piece of a sleeve…you just have to see it to believe it.

BS1

The shirt that shall not be named.

Billy gets so pumped by his own singing that he rips off his indescribable shirt a la the Incredible Hulk. Who knew he had such upper body strength? Must be from all that “guitar” stroking. (For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Squier’s musical catalog, “The Stroke” is another one of his “hits”.)

BS2

Well, that shirt's ruined.

Because he’s actually very modest, Billy busts out shirt numero dos. This was obviously his girlfriend’s top that she left on the floor the night before, because, people, I OWNED that shirt in Junior High. No lie. But, even my shirt wasn’t as GAY as Billy’s. I mean, mine wasn’t Love’s Baby Soft Pink, for crying out loud.

BS3

Billy's shirt.

Me 80s BS

My shirt.

But, wait. If you thought the pink shirt was femme, wait until he straps on his matching guitar. What kind of MAN has a pink guitar?!?

BS5

Oh, look. He added a jaunty neckerchief to his ensemble. Cute!

Okay, I’ve avoided the subject long enough. We NEED to discuss Mr. Squier’s, ahem, “dancing”. This guy make’s Elaine from Seinfeld look like Baryshnikov. I didn’t know someone could dance so poorly who wasn’t handi-capable. It’s just so BAD. Honestly, he looks like he has a severe palsy or a twitch or something. I imagine it resembles what Michael J. Fox dancing would look like (going straight to Hell). That being said, I wonder when Dancing with the Stars is going to book Billy? Or Michael, for that matter. (Hey, it couldn’t be any worse than watching Tom DeLay, okay?) Regardless, no screen capture could possibly due justice to Squier’s moves, but this one comes close.

BS Dances

Richard Simmons, is that you?

Oh, wait. I almost forgot. The band makes an appearance at the end. Oh, dear. Talk about a motley crew. Allow me to introduce…

The Keyboard Player.

BS Keyboards

I feel like he's raping me with his eyes.

The Bass Player.

BS Bassist

I think this dude did time.

The Guitar Player.

BS aha

Obviously, this guy thinks he's in A-ha.

The Drummer.

BS Drummer

I know for a fact this doofus stole his outfit from the lead singer of Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Billy Squier and his band.

Band

Are we SURE they're not Canadian?

P.S.
He DOES shave his pits!

BS Pits

This image will stay with me forever.

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It’s A Dead Man’s Party

Posted by kimlno on October 20, 2009

It’s almost Halloween, my favorite holiday of the year. Not just because everywhere you go there’s free candy, or because it’s the one night of the year you can dress like a cheap whore and nobody cares, but because it’s the best time for spooky television. Late night viewing during the month of October is a dicey decision. There might be a movie airing that will scare you so badly that the thought of turning out the light and going to bed has you frozen with fear, curled up into the fetal position on the couch, and hoping that the power doesn’t decide to go out. How do I know this? Because that was me after finding The Omen (the original, none of that remake baloney) on some random cable channel last night. I don’t know what it is exactly about horror movies made in the ‘70s, but they totally freak me out. The Exorcist, Rosemary’s Baby, Alice, Sweet Alice…all of them frighteningly creepy in their own special way. Maybe because they all shared that eerie, evil children singing soundtrack to contrast the gruesome images. Here’s a perfect example of what I’m referring to:

Freaky, huh?

However, the only thing scarier than contrived horror is real horror. As it turns out, actual murders, and their perpetrators, are far more disturbing and twisted than anything Hollywood could ever produce. And when it comes to documentaries about murder and mayhem, nobody does it better than HBO’s Autopsy. Why? I’m so glad you asked…

Ten Reasons Why HBO’s Autopsy is the Best Documentary Series Ever Made:

  1. The Female Narrator. Marlene Sanders is like the Crypt Keeper of documentary specials. Every time I hear her voice, a chill runs down my spine, because I know she’s going to tell a spooky tale of mysterious death. She’s the best…and she haunts my dreams.
  2. Dr. Michael Baden. Although Dr. Baden was a key witness for the defense in the OJ Simpson trial, I have forgiven him because he is King of Autopsies. There is no crime he cannot solve if given access to human remains. Plus, he’s pretty scary looking. Coupled with eerie narrator lady, Autopsy will scare the bejesus out of you.

    Dr. Baden will autopsy the HELL out of you.

    Dr. Baden will autopsy the HELL out of you.

  3. Real Dead Bodies. None of this fake CSI crap. These cadavers are authentic (and either unsettlingly fresh, or decrepitly old and rotten). Naked corpses? No problem. Horribly maimed and mutilated corporeal remains? Sure! Extreme close-ups of unsavory images of butchered flesh? You betcha. It’s not a show for the faint of heart, to be sure.
  4. Crimes Solved in Minutes. Each episode is about hour, and in that hour, they solve at least four or five unsolved crimes. It’s like all those prime time TV forensic crime scene shows, but pared down to the essential 10 minutes. Plus, no commercials.
  5. Free Tips on Murder. Ever wondered how to kill someone and get away with it? Autopsy is like a “How To” guide for do-it-yourself murderers. Sure, the criminals on the show got caught, but unless you live in a major US city with an awesomely dedicated and well-equipped crime lab, chances are you can get away with murder. Did you know that anti-freeze tastes sweet and delicious? Just add enough to your husband’s orange juice in the morning and he’ll be dead by lunch. (Chances are that sharing that particular information isn’t going to attract a lot of suitors. Oh, well.)
  6. The Theme Music. Just like hearing Marlene Sanders voice, the music for Autopsy is equally chilling. Personally, I can’t hear it and not think of cadavers.
  7. Actual Crime Footage. No actors need apply to be on Autopsy. Only actual victims and genuine crime scene footage is used. None of that re-enactment crap. We’re talking 100% real, unedited police interrogations, court hearings, and bona fide criminals.
  8. Blood and Gore. And lots of it.
  9. The Typewriter Titles. There’s something about the sound of a typewriter. I probably watched too many episodes of The People’s Court when I was younger, but, to me, that sound of the keys, spelling out one word at a time…it sounds like justice.
  10. Write to Dr. Baden. Have an unsolved death on your hands? No fear. Dr. Baden to the rescue. I kid you not, there’s a link on their webpage to contact the King of Autopsies should you need his services. If you’re story is good enough (and he can actually provide an explanation for the unnatural death of your loved one), it might even be featured in a segment on the actual show.  I mean, barring the fact that you might possibly be implicated in the murder of a friend or family member, how cool is that? Note: Real murders should not submit their crimes just to see how good Dr. Baden is. He will figure out how you did it and you will go to prison. Believe me, I’ve seen all 11 episodes. I know.

For more information on HBO’s Autopsy, including an episode guide, click HERE. If you cross-reference the episode guide with YouTube, pretty much every case is available for your viewing pleasure. I was going to link one to this article, but decided against it when I was reminded of how gruesome and gory most of the episodes are. Feel free to check them out for yourself, but remember…I warned you. BWAHAHAHAHA!

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I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, Too

Posted by kimlno on October 7, 2009

If you see this man, RUN.

If you see this man, RUN.

It’s been a couple of years since I read I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell by the infamous cad Tucker Max, but I still remember it as being one of the funniest books I’ve ever read. For those of you who don’t have any idea who I’m talking about, allow me to fill you in. Tucker Max wrote a memoir about all of his most depraved sexual exploits and cringe-worthy asshole behavior and he makes no apologies for being brutally honest and happy to share. (Kinda like me, huh?)

Maybe at the time I read his book, I’d overdosed on Chick Lit and his unabashed misogynistic tales were just the antidote I needed to snap me out of my “Someday My Prince Will Come” fantasy land. Maybe I liked it because I’ve actually known guys that think and act like Tucker, and to read of the countless women who fell for his shtick over and over again made me feel less sorry for myself and more thankful that I’d never sunk that low. Believe me, you’ve got to have some serious issues if you actively seek out Tucker Max and actually want him to sleep with you. Because, even before he wrote the book, Tucker kept a popular blog that detailed his predatory actions and made no effort whatsoever to conceal his “devil may care” attitude about sex with strangers and some really strange strangers, at that. (One word: Midgets.)

So, it still surprises me to no end the amount of vitriol most women feel towards this guy. They not only hate him, they think he should die, and wish horrible things upon him. Why? Sure, he’s a dick, but at least he’s being truthful about who he is. It’s not like any female nowadays could possibly accidentally have sex with this guy. Personally, if you’re so uninformed as to not know who he is prior to meeting him, Tucker in real life makes no effort to hide his ultimate “King of the Asshats” status. Believe me, if you met this dude at a bar, it would be blatantly apparent that he’s a womanizer, a dick, and probably just wants to bed you so that he can have another sordid story to add to the hundreds of others. He’s a total prick who wears it on his sleeve.

Don’t get me wrong. In no way am I commending this guy for his complete disregard for human feelings. Tucker Max is just plain wrong and really has no redeeming qualities. Nonetheless, his stories are priceless. And any woman who doesn’t think so obviously has been fooled by a man just like him (if not actually him). To me, their bitterness stems from an inner self-loathing that they let themselves fall for, or at least have sex with, a complete dickhead. Hey, ladies…it happens to the best of us. Instead of blaming Tucker for society’s ills, why not thank him for giving us a window into the hearts of (some) men? He does us all a favor by detailing the tell-tale signs of what a guy like Tucker acts like, a list of probable places to find such a guy, and even how to avoid becoming “that” girl.

Tucker Max, I just want to thank you. For making me laugh. For making me see how silly and narrow-minded certain women can be. But most of all, for giving me the tools to never fall prey to an A-Class Tool, such as you. Keep up the good work.

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Stupid Cupid

Posted by kimlno on October 3, 2009

Because I am a glutton for punishment, I’ve signed up at OkCupid.com to subject myself to completely unsubstantiated criticism by a whole host of men I’ll probably never meet. I know, I know. I’ve tried the whole internet dating thing before, and it didn’t end well (see: Worst. Date. Ever.). So, what makes me think this time will be any different? Um, desperation? Loneliness? Boredom? Heck, I don’t know. But things haven’t changed much. Are people still afraid to reveal themselves accurately on their profiles? Yes. Are the majority of the guys not even worth a quick skimming of their profile? Yes. Do I really think I can find a worthy adversary on the internet? Maybe. Perhaps there’s the male equivalent of myself out there who’s thinking all the same things, and by luck, he happens to like the way I look and can at least appreciate the way I think. Well, it could happen! Point being, I won’t know unless I try.

So, I figured no sense in pussyfooting around, might as well jump in with both feet and not only did I fill out my profile AND post pictures, I sent out a couple of messages to test the waters. Know what? Those bastards didn’t even have the courtesy to write me back. You know you’re not going to hear from someone when you emailed them 6 hours ago and yet their status says, “I’m online now!” Yeah, you’re online now and you’re blatantly ignoring the fact that I took the time to compose a witty and interesting message specifically written for you. You DICK. See? This is why I’m no good at the internet thing…I need more concrete feedback than just you’re online now and you’ve not responded to my note so you must not be interested. I hate assuming (it makes an ass out of you and me, don’t you know?). My imagination is FAR too active to be left to its own devices.

And then, as I was writing this, I received the following email from OkCupid:

KimLNo: hello, good news.

Your login name:

 KimLNo

Your personality:

 really great

How bad OkCupid guys want you:

 so bad

Your profile, as of 8 milliseconds ago:

 approved!

What now?


 Since you’re single and female, we think you’ll like our matching system. There’s no pressure and it’s like one massive game of Q & A with millions of strangers at once. Try it!
Half-Cocked

Half-Cocked

By the way, the fact that you scored Half-Cocked on the OkCupid Test has caused a certain amount of automated commotion in our software. Nicely done.

–OkCupid

GREAT. Apparently they only JUST approved my profile, so all this conjecture was for not. Up until a few moments ago, no one could even SEE my profile. So, disregard everything I wrote above (most especially if I called you a bastard). I’m going to give it a few more days and see if things change for the better. However, if nothing else, the OkCupid software thinks I’m hot. Yeah, so I’ve got that going for me. Too bad I don’t want to date a COMPUTER.*

*Speaking of dating a computer, do you remember that ‘80s movie Electric Dreams with Virginia Madsen? Well, in the film, a computer falls in love with her after hearing her play beautiful music on her cello. I know, totally farfetched, especially for the early ‘80s when computers weren’t much more than glorified typewriters. But still, that’s the first thing that popped into my head when I read that a piece of software thinks I’m a good catch. Here’s the original trailer for the film which sums it up quite well. Enjoy!

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