Blatant Copyright Infringement is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

So, I get this email tonight from a very lovely reader, Tara. Okay, fine, fine, I use the term "reader" loosely, as there's been nothing to fucking read on this sad, sad web diary in about 43 years now. But, uh, anyway, back to the story, jerkoff. She wrote to alert me to another blog that has apparently stolen my material, word for word.

I'm pretty sure I should be mad or something. Pissed, even. I mean, it took me literally minutes to type some of this shit into a white box and press publish, and someone just goes all willy-nilly copyin' and pastin' this beautiful masterpiece onto their cheap ass webspace? What. The. Hell. Yo? Some people might call that COPYRIGHTING INFRINGEMENTATIONING???? HELLO????

But I can't get over it. I'm ridiculously flattered, I think. I almost wrote a thank you letter to this dumb pilferer, whose name, god strike me with lightning if I am lying, is "IMA WHITEY." Dear oh dear.

Plus, they weren't even bright enough to steal the good material. Oh shut up, there has been good material on here. God I really hate you sometimes.

So, anyway, if you ever get tired of me never updating this space, head on over to It's All In My Head, where It's All Been Fucking Written Before On Someone Else's Goddamn Blog.

Proof: My post. Their post. My post. Their post.

Awesome.

Remember the Little People, BeckEye

Just had to toot our girl's horn a little.

Today's piece she wrote for Starpulse.com on Adam Lambert is the #1 search result in Google news when you search "Adam Lambert." Check it out!



It was a fantastic article, I highly suggest
you read it!

Seriously, how freakin' cool!

Or perhaps I'm easily impressed. Shut up.

Return of the Jewdi

Hey goobersmacks! Say, do you guys remember my favoritest Jew in the whole wide worlds? No, no, you knucklehead, not that one. That guy is so 1st century A.D. Seriously. Someone totally needs to tell that guy to cut his flowy girl hair and ditch those hippie sandals.

No, I mean this Jew. Yeah! Remember him? Deadly handsome? Ridiculously witty? Stingy as fuck?

Although I may not have anything for you on this here terrible little innernets diary that has gone to shit, he's totally back in action! The kickassery is kickasserying again! So I suggest you go read about some racist chairs and free Arby's milkshakes and show him some love, okay? Tell him I sent you. No, I mean it, please don't forget to tell him I sent you. I'm not joking. This is actually a new blog referral program that I just made up and for every one of you clowns that clicks over I totally get a hundred bucks. I might even share it with you. Although it's entirely possible I was crossing my fingers behind my back as I typed that last sentence. I guess you'll never know unless you clickety click click, won't you?

And, hey, who knows. Now that my eternally unrequited blogcrush hottie Jewboy is back in action perhaps I'll, oh, I dunno, be inspired to irrigate this here dying desert wasteland of a weblog. If you know what I mean. Wink wink.

I have no idea what I mean.

Anyway, I love you guys. Mean it. I guess. Okay, okay, fine, I like you. Most of the time. Mainly when you're not around me.

(Seriously, I miss you. I'll write more soon.)

Don't expect me to pay attention in your meeting

So I was in a work meeting this morning, and the handouts were fastened with a large paperclip. I mindlessly started bending the paper clip to straighten it into a long metal wand, and all of a sudden I had a flashback. I flashed back to the time I killed a vagrant with a sharpened paperclip shank.

Just kidding, just kidding. But were you pretty scared for a second there? Seriously. Be honest, you nancy boy.

The real flashback was this - when I was a kid I used to straighten out paperclips and then bend them into a half circle so I could put it in my mouth and fit it around my teeth like a retainer. And then I'd go around showing everyone my completely fucking awesome retainer.

This led me to thinking of other ridiculous (read: ingenious) shit I used to do, and I remembered something else. In 2nd grade I was obsessed with taking Elmer's glue from my desk and slathering it all over the inside of my hands. Once thoroughly coated, I would proceed to shake my hands around to help quicken the glue drying and then, with the utmost glee, peel the dried glue off. It was like peeling sunburned skin. So. Much. Fun.

In related news, I may or may not have repeated 2nd grade three times.

Just kidding.

It does make me wonder, though, why Mom never questioned the obscene amount of glue I was blazing through given the paucity of macaroni art being produced. I'd have been like, "What the hell are you doing with all this damn glue, kid? Are you, like, selling that shit at recess to fund a bad Ring Pop habit or something? Jesus Christ, man. Give it a fucking rest with the fucking glue, wouldja?"


I know. I know what you're thinking. And you're right. I am going to be such a good mom.

Still Lots Better

Hey you know what's totally awesome? I haven't written shit on this blog in, like, eight years or something and yet it's STILL lots better than your blog.

Man. Seriously. How awesome is that.

Don't even get me started on this little bitch's blog.


P.S. Visit Fuck You, Penguin because if you don't the terrorists win. And also because it's funny and you will laugh and then thank me and I can be all like, "Well, you're welcome, it's the least I could do," and then maybe you'll send me a follow-up thank you note in the mail and I can hang it on my refrigerator.

Makes me fucking laugh

A friendly reminder

Please, beware of ShamWow!™ imitators.

I'll Read Anything on the Can

Listen, I realize ladies shouldn't talk about their bathroom business, but I have a serious confession to make. I, Falwless, absolutely, unequivocably, positively, unquestionably have to be reading something when I drop my precious kids off at the pool.

It matters not what it is. I've been known on more than one occasion to read the back of a shampoo bottle. The label on a container of Soft Scrub. Anything. Anything within reach with words belonging to the English language is suitable. If ever I had a ritual, this is it. Seriously. Pinching a loaf without something in my hands to read feels completely and utterly foreign and ridiculously uncomfortable.

Usually my missive of choice is the latest copy of Entertainment Weekly, as I am a subscriber. But often times I end up leaving the current issue in the pile with all the rest of my mail and later, as I settle in to drop a deuce, find myself frighteningly without new material.

More times than I care to admit I have reread (and reread and reread) articles in back issues of EW that were lying in the basket. But after, say, the fourth go-round, that gets pretty old.

For the past two weeks or so I have sunk to new depths in restroom reading desperation.

My brother, who once lived with me, is a guitarist. I regularly get issues of Guitar World magazine in my mailbox because he has yet to inform them he no longer lives here. Well, in a mad dash to the loo one evening I grabbed the issue that was sitting on a pile of mail and headed in.

Well, a couple weeks later here I am, and I am embarrassed to admit I have read this thing almost all the way through. Mind you I could give a crap about guitars. I don't fucking care how you tune them, what kind of strings to buy, or which brand of modulation pedals deliver the best vintage effects.

But I have sat there and read this ridiculous shit for two weeks straight. Go ahead. Ask me about the Bass Vector Pro Cabinets. Quiz me on the Boss BR-600 Digital Recorder. Or I could tell you all about the Rocktron Prophesy II processor if you want? Perhaps you'd just like to hear a nice story about the first record label dedicated to the fine art of shred? I've got that one almost memorized.

Seriously.

What. The. Fuck. People.

And, you know, I think I'd be all right with this if it were just this once I've trudged through some retarded magazine while wrestling the brown belly snake. But this has happened before, sadly enough. You see, I once had a good friend who loved horses and everything horsey-related. So for her birthday one year I bought her a horseshoe bracelet thing online. Well, fuck me if I didn't wind up on some godforsaken horse-lovers mailing list. To this day I get horse-related shit in the mail constantly.

Several months back, in a similar period of desperation, a catalog wound up in the ladies room with me. I guess what I'm saying is, if you're ever in the market for a nice blanket with a picture of two foals and you happen to find yourself in my bathroom, check out the lovely throw on page 37.

I think I have a real problem.