Wednesday, May 28, 2008

From the desk of Christy Crank-ass

This morning, a guy who's been reading my blog came up to me and said, "My god, you hate EVERYTHING. Babies, men. I mean, it's hilarious, but I had no idea you hate everything."

First of all, if you're using this blog as the basis of any opinion about my psyche, you're retarded. This isn't a diary. It's a blog. If you expect people to read your blog, it has to be entertaining. And you can ask Lewis Black if talking about things that piss you off can be entertaining.

Second, the only things I truly hate are stupid shit like:

-Ambrosia salad
-Having to always pull the door handle (with your newly-cleaned hand) to get out of a public restroom
-The use of the term "milady"

And while I might not care for the majority of babies, I certainly don't hate men. I'm actually quite fond of them and even the ones I should hate, I don't. I wish them the best even when they're behaving like ego-centric jerkoffs. (I told you being sweet isn't very entertaining...)

But to further prove I don't have a lump of coal where my heart used to be, I'm gonna get all cultural 'n' shit and share some things I like:


Weezer's video for "Pork and Beans". No, this isn't a movie; but this is my list so I can categorize things however the hell I'd like. Anyway, this thing is awesome. I hope every top musical act is kicking themselves for not thinking of this idea for their own videos because it's brilliant.


Oh man, do I love Wife Swap. I love the irreverant children, love it when the husbands suddenly realize their wives suck, and I love it when the wives finally break. "I just," sob, "can't," sob, "DOOOOOO THIISSSS!!!" I particularly enjoy when the control freaks lose their shit as though they didn't realize what they had signed up for when they applied to be on the show. I actually had an old client that signed up to do an episode of "Wife Swap" a few years back. I was horrified by this revelation initially, but now that I've seen the show, I'm just bummed I missed that episode.


I have always been a huge fan of Lauryn Hill. So life has basically sucked for me since she's been in some creative cavern since 1998. I've gone to desperate lengths to get my fix of new Lauryn Hill music, even resorting to going in the search of old Lauryn Hill music. (The solos from Sister Act 2, for example.) So that's why I'm excited about Estelle. Love, love, love her new album. She's not Lauryn, but in a pinch, she'll more than do.


So there, I like all those things.

Oh, and Norah Jones' new haircut.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled bitch-fest.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Baggage baggage.

Several people have expressed outrage over American Airlines charging $15 to check one bag and $25 for each bag after that, and suggested I write a blog about it. Fine. But I assure you this will be one of my least popular blogs.

I love nothing more than catching wind of things that fan the flames of my hatred against American Airlines. They have a fleet of flying sardine cans they try to pass off as planes, Al Queda is more hospitable, and I'm fairly certain their customer service training is conducted by the Soup Nazi.

However, and this will come as a shock to most everyone, this whole baggage thing doesn't piss me off at all. In fact, I couldn't be happier about it. Here's why: Gas prices are raping all of us right now...up the ass...without lube. The airlines are no exception. (And really, if you insist on being pissed about this, focus your attentions on the profits and bonuses enjoyed for years by the oil companies and the fruitless Congressional hearings that were supposed to bring an end that horse shit. "Supply and demand" my ass, you wads.)

Anyway, as I was saying, the airlines are affected as much as the rest of us, so costs are going to go up somewhere. That's just a given. Now, they could hide them in service fees or in the rates, but applying them to baggage also makes sense because the heavier the baggage, the more fuel used.

At least ninety percent of all the travel I do is for business, which means I rarely check any luggage. Even when I'm traveling for fun, unless I'm going on a three-week safari to Africa, I don't check luggage. (It's called efficiency, bitches.) However, I'm related to a flock of the most inefficient travelers on the planet. To illustrate my point, I would now like to reference the time we met up with my aunt and uncle in France, only to discover they'd packed FIVE full suitcases, one of which was filled entirely with Evian water.

"Um, why do you have an entire suitcase of Evian water?"

"Because the water here isn't safe to drink."

"You do realize Evian is, well, from France?"

The other swell thing about that trip is that my aunt has a heart condition, and thus couldn't carry any of the suitcases they'd brought. So we each got stuck with our own bag, as well as one of my aunt and uncle's. Hopping on and off trains with two pieces of luggage got old after about 20 minutes, but alas, it wasn't until about five days later that someone had the brilliant idea to buy one of those portable luggage carts. Sadly, the cart lasted only one day as the weight of all our shit caused the metal support bar to buckle, drag along the cobblestone in Venice, throw off a mess of sparks, and melt the cart's wheels while our Danish foreign exchange student screamed in terror.

This is one of several reasons I no longer travel with my family, but it also brings me back to why I'm not opposed to this American thing. Because idiots like the ones I'm related to are going to be punished for not stopping to think that returning exported products to their countries of origin is completely imbecilic. So to the vacationing jackasses with fifty bags and matching Hawaiian shirts: Bend over, Grover! And if you need me, I'll be in business class with my purse.

God, I'm immature.

Last night, I went over to my friend Julie's house for dinner. She'd suggested this week would be good because her husband was out of town and she'd "love the company". And I'm an idiot because I actually bought that, despite the fact she has a three-year-old son. For future reference, if your husband's out of town, and you really just want me to help out with feeding, entertaining, bathtime, etc., just say so. I won't come of course, but at least it will be an honest request. (Why you'd want me to help out with your kid is beyond me anyway. You'd be better off trusting your child with Britney Spears.) All of this said, at least Julie was feeding me dinner, and I actually like her kid, Brendan.

Or I did until last night.

At the moment, I seem to be doing nothing but damage control in the boy department. In the past three months, I've had my heart broken, broke someone else's, then (in the latest episode of my sitcom-of-a-life) an ex moved into an apartment only eleven units away from mine. (Yes, I counted.) As it was with these other guys, things started out okay last night between Brendan and I. We were laughing, having a good time...he even asked me if I'd take a bath with him. (And given how long it's been since a guy asked me that, it broke my heart to tell him that unfortunately I'd "left my jammies at home.")

Then, after my refusal and very much par for the course, things took a turn for the worse. As he was headed for the bathtub he turned around and, pretending his wang was a gun, proceeded to "shoot" me with it, complete with POW!-like sound effects. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, while I was reading him a story after his bath, he released about 7 metric tons of hydrogen sulfide gas onto my lap. "Sorry," Julie apologized while laughing, "I gave him some prunes earlier." I was wearing designer jeans at the time, and while she was busy apologizing, I was busy panicking over whether or not this collossal fart would leave a mark. (It was just that strong, and I'm just that shallow.)

But victory will one day be mine. Before I left, I made Brendan look like a mental patient by wrapping his head in toilet paper and took pictures of him making ridiculous faces. Plan on those being showcased at his dress rehearsal. Mwahahaha...

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

The real loser of American Idol.

My dad grew up in Houston with a guy named Billy. According to my father, Billy was a total weirdo, though to date the only proof Dad has offered up to support this is that Billy wore tennis shoes to the prom...with his tux!!! (Apparently Houstonians were known for wearing "outrageous" things to prom even back in '68.) Anyway, Dad wanted nothing to do with him, despite the fact their mothers were friends and my grandmother was always nagging Dad to invite Billy to various things. But Billy was a freak, and my Dad was a shallow ass hole. (Apple didn't fall far, I know...)

Anyway, Billy might have been an outcast at Robert E. Lee High School, but he also went on to form one of the greatest rock bands of all time, and my father has been kicking himself ever since.

But the one that should be kicking himself tonight is Billy. I don't know who had to do what to get ZZ Top to perform on the cheese-fest that is American Idol, but whatever was done clearly worked, because there they were on stage rocking out with finalist David Cook. Good. Lord. I can only hope that Billy Gibbons never comes out of the drug-induced fog he lives in, because he'll no doubt off himself if he ever finds out about this performance.

The Dear Leader's day off.

In case any of you were wondering what Kim Jong-il does on his day off, he puts his evil cat in a pet carrier, heads to a gay bar in Houston, eats a bucket of crawdads, and then takes a the bar.

(Note: Be glad I took a photo of the napping and not the eating of crawdads as they're clearly not big on manners in North Korea.)

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

A lovely gift for anyone.

But an ideal gift for Richard Quest. Behold, the edible anus...

Monday, May 19, 2008

He'd jump soooooo high...

I had a conference call today in which we presented creative concepts to the clients, and had a ton of technical difficulties getting the call started. So by the time we sorted everything out, we only had about fifteen minutes left in the meeting, which is the only explanation I have as to why we all plowed ahead, trying to ignore the fact we'd somehow conferenced in the agency hold music.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to present creative while Jerry Jeff Walker is singing "Mr. Bojangles"?

Sunday, May 18, 2008

What would Jesus think, Joe?

Proof karma exists: Former youth pastor, Joe Simpson, gave away his pregnant daughter to marry her bisexual rock-star baby daddy last night.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Why you don't eat pizza past 9 pm.

I had a dream last night that Brandy drove by my house in a limo, popped her head out the sunroof and told me she was eating crab but really wanted some cheesecake.

I'm not sure what that was about, but is it just me or are Brandy's eyes ridiculously far apart?

Friday, May 16, 2008

How not to motivate people.

I was watching the news this morning and saw a story about this kid that's walking across Michigan (820 miles, for those interested) on a pair of stilts. He's doing this to raise money for cerebal palsy, a condition he actually suffers from.

Forgive me, but what the hell does walking on stilts have to do with cerebral palsy? Are people really going to see a man towering three feet above them with "Cerebral Palsy Fund" or whatever written on his pants and automatically pull out their checkbooks? Maybe I don't have the faith in humanity I should, but most people I know would probably think, "Huh. A guy on stilts. Shit, that reminds me. I need to get the hem taken out on my new pants." (Apparently, I only associate with other tall people.)

I sat next to this guy named Lewis on a plane from Cape Town to London. Lewis is a swimmer, and by that I mean, he swam across the English Channel as well as across the North Pole (in only a Speedo and swim cap). He's the first man to have completed long distance swims in all five oceans, and he once swam the entire length of the River Thames, hopping out only to run over to 10 Downing Street, meet with Tony Blair on how to move England towards a low-carbon economy, then hopped back in the river and kept on swimming.

(Quick side note: Lewis is enormous. I should also mention he was in the middle seat, which caused me to be crushed up against the window for twelve hours. It wasn't completely horrible because he was hot and interesting and has this retardedly sexy British/South African accent thing going on, but still. I don't care how charming you are, I have no desire to be smashed against anyone for that amount of time. The best part, however, was that his knees were jabbing into the seat in front of him, which was coincidentally occupied by none other than Lewis's college girlfriend. "You had better be thankful you had a friend sitting in front of you, Lewis," she said to him after we landed in this fabulously bitchy English accent. It was awesome.)

The point of all his swimming is to raise awareness of environmental issues that are affecting our planet's rivers and oceans. And again, I say, seriously? I'd be more likely to donate to his cause because he's hot and asked me to, than because he's doing all this swimming. Don't get me wrong, I think both the stilts and the swims are impressive in their physicality, as well as sheer idiocy. But there are other, better ways to motivate people to make changes. For example, I'd be more than happy to work on my carbon footprint in exchange for say...a brief make-out session with Lewis. Otherwise, why am I going to change a damn thing when the shitty state of our environment is keeping Lewis plastered across the internet in a Speedo? (Yes, kids, I'm just. that. selfish.)

And I'm speaking from experience. I used to drive a certain vehicle shaped like an enormous hot dog for the purpose of promoting a certain meat company. People would FREAK when they saw us, run up to the vehicle, look around, ask us for trinkets, etc. But did they immediately head to their nearest grocery store and load up on this certain meat company's products? They would...but only if we were giving trinkets away with a product purchase.

The bottom line is that Americans are lazy, selfish people. (Myself very much included.) So for the swimmers and stilt-walkers of the world, know your audience and put your efforts into things that will actually prompt change.

(You know, things like making out with me. Heh.)

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Shocking news.

Angelina Jolie has announced she's pregnant with twins. Which is weird because I'd heard she was smuggling Gary Coleman to and from his divorce hearings.

Obama-Uma, Uma-Obama

GodDAMN, I'm excited right now. Edwards has just announced he's going to support Obama, and I couldn't be happier. Mainly, because this will no doubt lead to the HOTTEST presidential ticket in the history of our country. But also because I'm beyond over this Clinton/Obama bullshit. It's almost as annoying as "Team Pitt" and "Team Aniston". Or even worse, when Letterman did his Oprah-Uma, Uma-Oprah thing.

So I'm thrilled to think this will soon be over, even though I actually like Hillary. Quite a bit, in fact. And in my personal opinion, she's got the best resume for the job out of all the three candidates. But John McCain scares the hell out of me, and the bottom line is Hillary would lose if she ran against him. And in that situation, I'd rather any Democrat win than risk John McCain. (Though truthfully, I'd feel better about a pair of Dockers running the country than McCain.)

And even though I think ol' Hill is more qualified, she and Barack share most all the same positions on the issues, so I'm more than happy to send Barack in. Plus, he's cute. And funny. And he smokes, which only endears him to me because I prefer men with vices.

So when I saw got spanked in West Virginia, I was beyond pissed. But now! NOW! There is light at the end of the tunnel. And it's shining brightly on two of the hottest guys in politics.

Back flip, toe touch, bitches.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Apparently the Rockets aren't enough.

Rare is the day that I travel through my city and don't see something telling me to "Keep Austin Weird." But I'm starting to think that slogan is more applicable to Houston. Sure, Austin has it's share of kooks - we have a town drag queen for godssake. But our kooks are funny, or at the very least amusing. Houston's got some flat-out nut jobs.

Let's start with the three teenagers that were arrested last week for...hope you're sitting down...smoking pot out of the head of a corpse. Please note, I'm not saying "skull" for a reason - specifically, because they actually DUG UP a corpse and used its head as a bong.

Do they not have apples in Houston?

And today, I was sent an article about the girl that went to prom dressed like a ho, though no more so than any given attendee of any given VMA awards in the past 10 years. That she was dressed slutty wasn't the story. That she was arrested after school officials wouldn't let her in (even after she offered to cover herself up), was the story.

Houston is the fourth largest city in the country. That means there's lots of shit to do there. In fact, I saw Chelsea Handler there just a couple of weeks ago, and she spent the entire time talking about masturbating at the age of eight, but that's another story. Anyway, you'd think people would have more to do than get high with a skull and arrest slutty teens trying to get into their proms.

Besides, I think her dress is lovely.


Oh my lord, do I hate Mariah Carey. Before I go any further with this, I will fully admit I have bounced around to more than one of her songs in my lifetime. In fact, was listening to "Touch My Body" just yesterday and (*gulp*) almost enjoyed it.

No, I don't mind her music, I mind her.

Remember when she was all washed up? When she was Pariah Carey, and we weren't subjected to the stories of diva antics, pictures of her in skin tight clothing, or news about her completely dumb weddings? It's like we've all jumped in a time machine and traveled back to 1993.

On second thought, I guess there are some key differences between now and then. For starters, she's a fat ass now. (Though still clearly wearing the same sized clothing she did then.) And instead of marrying giants in the record industry, she married Nick Cannon. WHO, it's worth noting, is TWELVE, and also gave Mariah the same damn ring he gave his Victoria's Secret-model-of-a-fiancee last year.

I saw her perform "Touch My Body" the other night on SNL, and I haven't seen that much lip-syncing since Ashlee Simpson performed there. And every camera shot came (this close) to showing all of America her business.

She sucks, and I'm going to stop writing about this before my eyes roll into my head and get stuck there.

But before I sign off, a HUGE thanks to "the nadmeister" for correcting me that the pair of balls showcased in my last blog are actually from Oh, and Nads (can I call you "Nads"?),'re this year's valedictorian.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Goodness, gracious, great balls of...rubber?

As we were driving to the airport from South Padre yesterday, we passed the valedictorian of Douchebag High.

In case you're curious what that is dangling from the bottom of his Jeep, yup, it's a set of nuts. Apparently painting your Jeep the color of a banana isn't douchey enough. You need to add a ball sack for maximum effect.

Please keep in mind that I was leaving South Padre at the time of this sighting. For those not in the know...South Padre is like Mecca for tools. And this still took my breath away.

For those interested, you can buy your very own set of rubber auto testicles here:

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Some drama for you mamas.

Clearly I've been a slackass lately, but I also made a three-week trip to Africa in the time since my last blog, so go easy on me.

I'm sure at some point I'll think of something funny from my trip that I want to blog about, but today is not that day.

Currently, I'm in South Padre celebrating Mother's Day with my mother, grandmother, sister and her French boyfriend, JP, who I have decided must be called "Jeep". (Mainly because it's just funny calling a 6'7" Frenchman that.)

As today is Mother's Day, I've decided to write some thoughts about motherhood. For starters, I make no secret of the fact that I don't like children, nor do I want them. Despite the fact my mother thinks I should have children because the vet praised my cat's good behavior once (a rarity, I assure you), I have about as much maternal instinct as a walnut. This means I will spend the rest of my child-bearing years having self-righteous bitches openly judge me for not making the most of my reproductive organs. The only reason I don't experience more of this at my nearly 30 years of age, is that I'm not married. At this stage, I usually just get dismissed with a simple, "You'll have children. You just haven't met The One."

And because women feel they can regularly judge me for my decisions regarding procreation, I would like to do a little judging myself today. (First, a disclaimer: If you are one of my friends with a child, for the most part the following statements don't apply to you. I like most all of my friends' children, save one whose children I have quite literally seen eat carpet after drawing on a wall. There are some others whose babies are ugly, but I won't hold that against them, as I started out a gremlin as well.)

Now for the judging: In the event you decide to have a baby, you should know that outside of your family, you're lucky if even five people care to see a website documenting EVERY. SINGLE. MOMENT. of your pregnancy. We don't want to see your nast belly button. We don't want to read letters you've posted to your unborn child signed "Love, Mommy and Daddy". Put that shit in a baby book, not on the internet.

Once your kid is born, please note that not all people want to hear what types of shits your kid is having. I sat one day listening to a co-worker tell someone about what the different textures and colors of her kid's shit indicated. When I kindly asked that she please go somewhere else to discuss this, she fired back with, "Oh calm down, Liz. This is a NATURAL thing. You'll understand when you have kids someday, and I know you say you don't want them, but oh yes. You WILL have kids."

First of all, fuck you. Second of all, maybe I should tell you about MY shits just so you can experience the same auditory delight that I have listening to your discussion of mashed peas versus cereal. "Man, I just took the craziest dump ever. Like, it was kinda solid, but not really. And almost, I don't know, orange? I guess it was the beer last night. OH, but you know, now that I think about it, it wasn't as crazy as this one I took on Tuesday. That thing went around the entire circumference of the toilet bowl! Seriously!"

Additionally, if your kid is sick with colds more than once a month, I am judging you. And so is every other child-free - because it IS freedom - person around you. Particularly if you participate in that horse shit known as a "family bed". Oh, and if I'm responsible for picking up your slack at work because you're out taking care of your overly-sick kid, I will not only judge you, I will become very bitter and very bitchy. You'll no doubt blame it on my single-girl naivete and lack of understanding, but a scientist once said that babies could start each day by licking a seat on a subway and not get sick more than two times a month*.

Finally, if for some reason I do find myself knocked up one day and actually go through with it, God bless the first woman who says "I TOLD you you were going to have children," because everyone knows that ninja skills are only enhanced by heightened levels of estrogen.

*This is a true statement until someone proves me otherwise.