What Kind of Buzzfeed Quiz Taker Are You?

Oh Buzzfeed, so many questions. Is all this social media quiz-mania killing our brain cells or guiding us through our stagnant and unexamined lives? Here’s some help for you to understand the meaning of it all! Take this test and find out:

1. You scroll on your Facebook newsfeed and see that the goofy nerd from high school has posted his results to the Buzzfeed quiz “Which Gilligan’s Island Character Are You?” and he is, true to form, Gilligan, so you:

a) Pound your fat fist on that “Like” button and/or add a comment: “LMFAO! Little Buddy!” and move on. If you had bothered to take the test, you most likely would have been The Skipper. Even though you were his bully in high school, 20 years and the onset of the Type 2 Diabetes has mellowed you out a bit and now you have a lot of penitence on your plate, asshole.

b) Take the quiz yourself and find out your are the Professor AND Mary Ann, how did that happen? You snort, keep it to yourself, and scroll on for some cat video action.

c) Take the quiz yourself, find out you are Mrs. Howell, freak out, as if! You are still hot, you gave up gluten, 40 is not old! So you retake the quiz adjusting your answers, and you are of course: Ginger! You post it on your own wall and wait for the pokes to begin.

d) Are late to the proverbial party, in both life and on Facebook, and see all the likes and comments on whatever this nonsense is and notice that the one who calls herself Ginger was the girl who gave you an awkward handjob in back of the sugar shack in Grade 10. She’s 25 years older now but you recognize her smug face, you click on her profile photo album and land on the one where she is wearing yoga pants and is fully expressing “camel pose” because of course she is, you zoom in and catch the formation of a tiny bit of toe. The internet is a vast sea of porn but this!  This is what keeps you coming back. Sweet Jesus.

Castaways

 (art: Scott Scheidly)

2. Your sister takes the “What Color Are You?” Quiz and finds out she is “White” but says she would have “preferred another colour.” You:

a) Worry about her a little bit. Being White must be the worst thing ever, poor thing. Okay, it’s the worst, this signifies an unspeakable failure. You will not tell your parents even though being White is not nearly as bad as being Blue. Can you imagine?

b) Roll your eyes and review the questions. Snort. Of course she is White, all her walls in her house are beige for godsakes.

c) Clap yo hands! Take the quiz yourself, find out you are Purple. You pinch your nipples in gratitude and thank the gods for the details that they meticulously put in creating you. Tonight, in front of the mirror, you will practice winged eyeliner, with the liquid formula and a brush!

d) Get mad. WTF? White isn’t even a color, per se. Is Black even an option? You are 100 shades of grey! Why is this happening? Is this real life?

safe_image.php

3. In order to find out which city you should live in, one of the questions is “Which Beyoncé?”  You are stumped because there are like, 5 photos of  Beyoncés to choose from and you don’t know any Beyoncés, not because you aren’t cool, you just don’t listen to mainstream music and all that shrilling in the satellite radio at the mall sounds the same, so you:

a) Guess which Beyoncé is most New York because New York is cool and you should live in New York, everybody should live in New York at least once in their life because New York is where everything happens. You totally need to live in New York because…..

” …da da da  NEW YORK!

Con! Crete! Jung! Gull!  Where! Dreams! Are!  Maaaaaaade of

There’s la la  yuh cahhh do

Na-naah-nuh in New York

These streets will mah-muh-mah,wauh uhuha

Big luuhs-uh will ta la uuh

Huuuhla it from New York, New York, New York!”

That’s Alicia Keyes, stupid.

 b) You choose Afro Beyoncé because that is the only Beyoncé you recognize but it’s from Austin Powers which means Buzzfeed will send you to London. You are nervous to live in London because you hate the rain and are afraid of terrorists. What? Terrorists! Grow up! You shouldn’t be so afraid of things, and what do you mean you hate rain? You hate sun! You complain about it all the time: ” The sun, it’s so bright, I can’t see!  The sun, it’s so yellow, it offends my purple sensibility!” You should definitely move to London, don’t even bother finishing the rest of the quiz, just go, you chicken-shit idiot.

c) You download and listen to all of Beyoncé’s “greatest” hits, you really want to get the most appropriate answer, like a sign from the gods, because you are tired of living in limbo. Maybe Buzzfeed is the I’Ching of the Internet, a spiritual guide if you will. You light up a fatty, and blow the smoke out the window…of your parents basement. You end up watching 7 episodes Season 3 of “How I Met Your Mother” on Netflix and completely forget all abo

d) You choose any old Beyoncé and will probably, somehow randomly, end up getting Portland because that’s where all the roads arbitrarily lead anyway, so it seems, even though you retake the test, tweaking your answers. WTF, why is Portland even an option? Is is it because you are pro-pubes?

2701_Beyonce_Foxy

 

4. You’ve had a bad day, you take the “What is Your Spirit Animal?” quiz and find out you are a BEAR, you:

a) Take it literally, and drink some beers.

b) Take it personally, and drink some beers.

c) Take it philosophically, and drink some beers.

d) Drink some beers.

Gee28

5) You vow not to take anymore frigging Buzzfeed quizzes EXCEPT this one more: What Job Should You Have? Just for shits and giggles you take it and much to your surprise, it is straight forward, no dumbass peripheral Beyoncé-type questions that trip you you up, and you actually get what you want! So you:

a) Quit your job as a waitress and pursue actressing because you are a natural, sweetheart. Dreams R Made 4 U.

b) Apply for Teacher’s College because teaching is in your blood. And the summer vacations!

c) Clap yo hands! Finally you can parlay your OCD into a career of Computer Software Engineering. Your mother said you would never get a date being on the computer all day but hello?! Palo Alto, California! Why did you get Portland in that other quiz?

d) Keep on blogging, Writer, don’t stop, submit, submit, submit.

*welp*

SIGH! My internet kittens, what are we going to do with each other?

uTPZrlz

 

 

 

 

The Tale of the Lady and the Land of Smoke and Hogs

lASxWp9

 

This is a cautionary tale.

Once upon a time, like last July 30, 2014 at precisely 8:31 in the a.m, an ever-so-slightly wretched (in a hot mess kind of way), somewhat old (but not so old that you wouldn’t poke her on the Facebook in hopes she would poke back and you could have some casual Skype-sex with, good times) lady of a certain age was driving north up Bayview Avenue in her boxy Scion chariot. She had just dropped off her daughter, the fair maiden(ish) Evangeline, at her summer job at Bayview Glen where she taught music at the day camp for the wealthiest children of the Land of Smoke and Hogs. Taking public transportation to said job was bullshit, according to the fair maiden Evangeline, because you had to take a bus, then subway, then another bus that meadered like a drunk beast in and out of the glens and valleys and the rest of the fuckery that is the urban sprawl designed from the minds of evil white men WITH A PISS-POORLY EXECUTED TRANSIT SYSTEM. It takes over an hour and a half by TTC and only 20 minutes for her mommy to drive her so that is what the lady did that summer when she wasn’t otherwise occupied working at the iniquitous dusty box known as the Home Depot, which is a whole other tale of whoa-fuck-this-shit (see archives).

This particular day, the lady dropped off her daughter and continued her journey northbound to visit her parents who lived in the faraway land up the hills of new developments and Asian strip malls.

It was a fine summer day, sunny and warm, the roads were clear of traffic with exception of the ubiquitous construction clusterfucks in various spots jackhammering your tax dollars away for the sake of make-work projects. The lady was cool with that for the greater good, all this construction is a productive thing, she thought, whatever keeps their hands busy and those forearms so muscular!. As she made her turn from Finch to Bayview Avenue, a burly (plural) of men were working in the right lane, the jackhammers were singing the song of their people: rat-tat-tat-tat-fucking-tat at deafening levels. The lady stayed on the left lane, motoring along at her usual lady-like pace which is maybe only slightly faster than your grandma’s, because that summer she had 3 flat tires and one broken clutch and she was completely convinced that her engine would spontaneously explode or all four wheels will fall off at once and she would die a messy roadkill death and her precious but maybe slightly spent organs would not be intact so they would have to be trashed instead of donated to a needy recipient to start a new and better life, happily ever after. That would be tragic and the fair maiden Evangeline would have to take TTC or get her driver’s license once and for all. Oh my God, her younger brother, the dashing burger eater, Frederick, is just as feckless with this endeavour, if not more so as he still has to finish up his driving lessons after an entire year hiatus. Come on, children, help your old mother out. Honestly.

As the lady approached the intersection of Cummer and Bayview at the speed it took for you to read and process that last paragraph, she noticed the traffic lights were flashing red.

What does one do in this situation? The lady knew all too well because back in the day, when she was taking driving lessons at the tender age of 16, she was faced with the same scenario on a quiet Sunday night in some scuzzy industrial part of Montreal approaching the Champlain Bridge. She was nervously driving through the city in Lauzon’s Datsun hatchback with her instructor, Jean-Claude Diqueface, clucking like a fishwife at her for every little thing which in retrospect was for her own benefit, but at the time, SUPER ANNOYING. She was following another car in front of her, probably fuelled by copious amounts Pepsi, lol because it’s true, the driver sailed straight through the flashing red BECAUSE THAT IS HOW THEY ROLL IN QUEBEC. She did the same thing. Jean-Claude slammed on the extra set of breaks and turned and screamed at her until the veins popped out of his head: YOU NEVER RUN THROUGH A FLASHING RED LIGHT! YOU TREAT IT LIKE A STOP SIGN! YOU STOP! MAUDIT CRISS TABARNAC!

Oh, how the lady (as a young maiden) cried when he yelled at her. What a nasty motherfucker was Jean-Claude with his slicked black hair, thick 70′s moustache and his leather jacket with a pack of Export A peaking out of the pocket. Looking back at the situation in present day, the lady thought, would she hit it? Why yes, yes she would, that Datsun would steam, rock, and roll. Good times.

At the flashing red lights on Cummer, she stopped. For the briefest moment, in her imagination, she saw the thick, pulsing vein on Jean Claude’s forehead. Something deep inside her stirred as she looked to the east, then to the west. All clear, she released the clutch and gently pushed on the gas and rolled through the intersection. SIGH! Unbeknownst to her, the red light camera above took a picture of her chariot’s red hot ass and so the tale begins.

mauditcrisstabarnacmauditcrisstabarnacmauditcrisstabarnac

Many weeks later, the lady opens her mailbox which is always a nest of serpents, you know how it is in modern times. Nobody writes letters or postcards anymore, anything that comes in the mail has an envelope with a window on it and a demand for some minimum payment due in two weeks or else we will call you on your land line incessantly during Dr.Oz and then again during Modern Family.

The lady comes across an envelope that says “Toronto Courts” on the top left: ‘”Yes! It’s jury duty!” she squeals as she frantically  fantasizes about packing her lunch with strange and inconvenient fruit and being the twelfth angry juror with no air conditioning and Gregory Peck and Reese Witherspoon, like it’s a big Hollywood diversion and even if it isn’t, it’s better than working at the odious dusty box known as Home Depot.

She opens up the envelope and to her shock, it is a traffic infraction, and there it was: the photo of her car running a red light , clear as one of those hyper-realistic paintings that show up on your Facebook newsfeed by somebody with too much time on their hands and no social skills of a hairy man shaving his beard and his every single pore and hair follicle painstakingly etched with pencil: “You Won’t Believe What You Are Seeing!”  WELL, YOUR WORSHIP,  BECAUSE SHE WAS GOING LESS THAN 10K ON A FLASHING RED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT, of course it a was a beautiful, perfect, and incriminating shot. And they are requesting a payment of $325. Why, that literally is highway robbery.

“Of course I am innocent!” she thinks, “I am not worried at all! It was after all, a flashing red. The court will hear my story and understand totally and clear me of my falsely accused wrongdoing because we are living in a good and fair kingdom!”

She requests an appointment to discuss her case with a prosecutor. Surely he or she will see the truth. She has to find a stamp, when was the last time you mailed anything, seriously? She goes to the Shoppers Drugmart and buys a fucking stamp for $5,932 and with great confidence in the system, mails her request and goes about her day/weeks/months with zero fucks given UNTIL:

She gets an appointment to see the Prosecutor in December. Again she thinks: “I am not worried, the truth will prevail, and justice will be had!”

Also as a sub-plot during this time, the malevolent coque-suckers at the dusty box known as the Home Depot have sent her off on the ice floe and now she is piss-peasant-poor but still holds hope of justice.

If the court doesn’t have mercy, the lady thinks, the gods will pull something out of their intricately hairy asses. Right?

So the date with the prosecutor arrives. The lady takes the streetcar because she fears parking downtown will result in more highway robbery of some kind. The prosecutor, who is a lady of a certain age also, but even more wretched and probably not inclined to have Skype-sex with you so don’t get excited, tells the lady of our story, in a cryptic way, ‘Based upon the evidence, I cannot allow you to plead guilty at thispoint, you must request a trial.” In the meantime, she instills the fear of authority and the fine could go up to $1,000 if the court thinks you are liar pants on fire. YOU ARE GUILTY UNTIL YOU CAN PROVE YOURSELF INNOCENT.  Pictures don’t lie, so it seems.

WTF? If the lady pleaded guilty at that moment, she could pay a reduced fine of $200 instead of $325 with her Christmas money and be done with pompous charade of “Operation Get Money, Bitch” by the Kingdom of Smoke and Hogs, she could save herself time and energy. And the weird humiliation of being treated like criminal cattle.

Some weeks later, the nest of serpents produces a letter with her court date: March 17, 2014, 9 a.m. ARRIVE 30 MINUTES EARLY OR OFF WITH YER HEAD!

Whilst waiting her day in court, the lady tells various fellow citizens the details of her story, they all respond disbelief, as though she is making shit up. “Why would the camera go off if the lights are flashing?” The lady begins to doubt herself and slams on the breaks when the lights turn amber. She will get rear-ended soon, and not in the good way.

On March 17, she arrives at the court house, a half an hour early as per requested and checks in the with the prosecutor before her appointment with the judge. The prosecutor is a lady leprechaun, played with malevolent spunkiness by Amy Sedaris. It is St. Patrick’s Day after all and she has raided her closet of all that is green. Her sweater is minty green with a cartoon bunny on the front, her MINI skirt is loden, LODEN IS NOT ST.PATRICK GREEN, and she is wearing dangling earrings that upon close inspection are actually Keibler elves. Her eye shadow is green. Okay, and then this: She has a mullet. The front of her hair is short and brown and the back is a blond Mrs. Brady-flip with green bits. The prosecutor, who has been to law school and passed the bar, has on ombre mullet. AN OMBRE MULLET! From here on in and forever more, her arguments must be rendered invalid. You know, the citizens of the Land of Smoke and Hogs paid for her toddler get-up with their tax dollars.

The leprechaun asks the lady if she will plead guilty or what up?

The lady explains about the flashing red but before she could finish, the leprechaun interrupts squinting her cold black eyes:

“The City of Toronto GUARANTEES there were no flashing lights on Bayview Avenue. If you want a trial, you’re going to have to wait until afternoon to see the judge. If you plead guilty, we will request a minimum fine of $200.”

Really? Lies!

tumblr_mvys8jTTdc1shisepo1_250

“Well if the City of Toronto “guarantees” there were no flashing lights, then it must be true and I must be guilty, ” the lady said, resigned just because she wants to go home and stay there for ever more. By the way, the lady was tastefully wearing an emerald green scarf as an homage to St. Paddy’s, there really is no need to drag every mismatched thing out of the closet just because it is green or greenish. Mint and loden together on one body? Jesus Christ.

The leprechaun got her way but only for so long. The court room was filled with”guilty” red light runners and the first one was an immigrant woman who barely spoke English: “I am poor,” she told the judge, played with compassion by Robert Guillaume of TV’s Benson fame. His Worship reduced her fine to $100…hey, not bad, the lady would be happy that, although the leprechaun piped up: “Two hundred dollars is what we are asking!” Does she get a commission? His Worship looked at her like she was a frog on a highway; “One hundred dollars is appropriate and so this will be the fine set for today!”

Well that would have been the moderately happy ending to the story except the court room was jammed packed, a busload from the jailhouse arrived. One red runner needed a Farsi interpreter, another fainted, someone else barfed, it became clear the day would take over Guinness time.

The leprechaun read out a list of 12 names to go into another open court room. The lady’s name was called last. They all trotted across the hallway like a deflated chain gang.

The new judge was played by the woman from any given soap opera who is always sabotaging your favourite character’s chance at true love. She is bitter and vindictive although she would most definitely probably have Skype-sex with you so go ahead and fantasize about her, she was wearing a black robe. As it turned out, crossing the hallway just cost each of the red runners an extra hundred dollars, she was a stickler for the $200 set fine. The lady was last to approach the bench.

“How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” the lady flinched. You know her, she is not one to contain herself.

“Is there anything you would like to say to the court?” Her worship didn’t seem like such a bad egg. The lady went for it.

“Yes, Your Worship! I am poor! I am so poor, it’s not funny! I lost my job months ago! I am so poor! They fired me for blogging, seriously, there is no such thing as free speech in this country!” The lady’s voice cracked as she borderline hysterical at any given moment.

“Alright then, your fine is reduced to $150, do you wish to pay today or do you require more time?”

Getting it over with, the lady paid that day, grumbling about the extra $50 but then at least it wasn’t $200, she rationalized that she saved $50, which is like 5 or 6 pints of free Steamwhistle that afternoon at Murphy’s Law…although with fees and whatshit, the entire thing came to $180, it is still highway robbery no matter how you crunch the numbers.

It really was a flashing red. Crooks.

 

 

 

 

 

Girls in Bikinis and Boys Doin’ the Twist

9SfMwO8

Only one of you out there will get the reference of the title of this post and you and I will laugh together at the misery of it all. For the rest of you, suffice to say it’s SPRING MOTHERFUCKING BREAK and it is snowing projectile polar bear diarrhea outside, how’s that for IRONY? If there was actually school, it would be cancelled and declared a snow day for sure…oh, the weather trolls win at this one. Yesterday was sunny and warm and we were wearing shorts and waving to the light at the end of the tunnel and calling it in for some cocktails while we sucked in our stomachs and maybe shaved our armpits…and then today, jokes. Trololol.

*pulls grey sweat pants out of the laundry*

Something exciting happened last week though. I got a message from a reader named Erica from TASMANIA. I know y’all know your geography and are aware that Tasmania actually exists outside a Bugs Bunny cartoon and is the island state south of the main giant blob of Australia, but I am just grooving to the fact that she and her awesome flatmate (Hi, Meagan!) read this blog from such afarness and found it by googling “hot ginger men.” Hot. Ginger. Men. HOT. GINGER. MEN. Sorry, that’s my SEO whore coming out, stay with me and we will be discussing GIRLS. IN. BIKINIS.  

Anyway, Erica was on vacation and travelling through parts of Canada and the U.S. and asked if I would meet up for a coffee (lol) or a pint (YES) when she comes to Toronto. I love this kind of thing!  We bantered back and forth while she was in Quebec and I encouraged her to try poutine there because they have the authentic cheese curds and don’t get all pretentious and add foie gras and charge you $17.  I think Quebec is a nice place to visit, even in the winter because both cities, Quebec City and Montreal, have that old scary wretched architecture which compliments the brutality of the freezing cold, it’s like being in a thrilling Gothic horror film. Like you could be brutally murdered at any moment. In a good way. AND THE CHEESE CURDS SQUEAK ON YOUR TEETH! How magical is that?

But here in Toronto, the shite weather is an embarrassment.  I know that sounds weird because the weather is not anyone’s fault *per se* but on the other side of the coin, isn’t it strange to run around with Canadian Pride because “we” won at hockey in the Olympics? Seriously, the day of the men’s final, I did nothing but wake up at an obscenely early hour on a Sunday and drive around trying to find a spot in a bar that served beer at 7 a.m. I am so Proud of my contribution to the Olympic gold medal. As a Canadian citizen, I bitterly pay my taxes and enjoy the “free” healthcare and the rest of the time I grumble about the weather and the shitty potholes ruining my tires. Maybe I am Canada’s insolent teenager and should be Grateful (freedom! diversity! microbreweries!) but seriously, fuck this town. I do not belong and sometimes it takes a visitor to make you realize that.

I met her at the Eaton Centre, and we drove around the city, showing her some main bits that are normally charming but that day was all kinds of depressing shades of grey that don’t involve melting candle wax and orgasms. Who knew what the city really looks like when you actually look at it? I am a happy hermit, normally all I see in January and February is my tv screen. Kensington Market in winter looks like a bleak version Borat’s village but at least there were no righteous neo-hippies banging on my car yelling that I am “idling” and “ruining the environment” at a stop sign…But! Get this: As we were driving around, Erica said: “The snow is so pretty!” And I’m like, wow, this girl is CRAZY! She’s also hilarious and smart and if that’s what Aussies are like, I want to move to Australia. Anywhere but here.

Soon.

*scratches bum through grey sweatpants, opens new tab to Netflix*

brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Now it’s Spring Break, or March Break, whatevs, it’s technically not really spring yet and may never be if the weather trolls get their way. The level of despair here has given me my first ever actual  panic attack. Yes, I have anxiety like everyone else, I have insomnia where I ruminate, fret, and number crunch at night, and by morning I’m so beat up, I don’t care anymore. This little episode was different. On Sunday, the Golden Boy, aka Freddy, left for his school trip to Cuba. Cuba! So jalooooz! We got up early, had a leisurely breakfast watching Comedy Central because we both have impeccable time management and organizational skills and  then I drove him to his GF’s house to catch the cab to the airport. I got home, walked into the kitchen and noticed a puddle of water by the dog bowl. I had turned on the dishwasher before I left and was gone a half an hour and jumped to the conclusion that the pipes exploded and some plumbing disaster had occurred and I immediately got wound up so tight (like the Tasmanian devil!!!) that I went into a tailspin. I started to hyperventilate, I couldn’t breathe, and I lay down and made a whole lot of noise of some sort that Betty the dog took notice and jumped up and sat on my chest. Wagging her tail like a helicopter, she forced her snout in my face and licked furiously inside my mouth. Thank gods for furry friends and their awkward methods of resuscitation because otherwise this would have gone on a lot longer and seriously, once I came to my senses, I realized the puddle wasn’t a plumbing disaster of epic proportions but merely some tea kettle spillage. What the hell???  I can’t logically reason with my brain when I get in middle-of-the-night insomnia/fret/mathematic-number-crunching-manic mode, but this little meltdown was in broad daylight and for no good reason. Is this just the tip of the Titanic’s iceberg?  Is my mental state in peril? And why am I the only bat I know over 40 I know who isn’t medicated?

Thank gods of mental health for HBO and Netflix. Let’s cheer up now, shall we?

GIRLS IN BIKINIS!

You know what’s actually a good movie? Spring Breakers. It is chockfull of drunken party gratuitous frontal nudity that you would hope and expect because why else would you click on this:

url-4

I guess the American release poster made me think it was a trollop-in-training parade of ex-Disney starlets making duck faces but no! It was a cinematic masterpiece, who knew? Freddy knew. “It’s an art film,” he said when I asked him if he had seen it. Which meant no. I guess kids today don’t need to bother with “art” bikinis when there is so much floppage to scroll through on Instagram. It was dark and moody and really scary and James Franco is sinister as fuck. I had just finished watching “Freaks and Geeks” for godsakes, was not expecting postmodern Marlon Brando.

And then there was the episode of “Girls” where Lena Dunham wears a green bikini in almost the entire episode, even when they go grocery shopping, which now makes hilarious sense since it was filmed after Spring Breakers was released. Her character, Hannah, says “Spring Breakers was a beautiful blend of art and commerce.”  Genius:

SNL-Celeb-Cameos-Lena-Dunham-Girls-Spoof-Video

 

Go Hannah, shake yo jello. You make me happy to have HBO.

Also normally I like to  boost my slumping blog ratings with an homage to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue but I think we can all agree that not a single gym sock in any of the Americas was soiled with this year’s cover:

470_2759328

 

Ugh, it’s painful to even look at these starving girls. I am not buying the contrived sex appeal here. They are arching so hard, they look like 3 bony centaurs. And oh, how I laughed because my local magazine store opened up all the magazines and displayed the inside cover instead:

kate-cov-sm4

 

MUCH BETTER! Home girl, Kate Upton, the mighty blog whisperer herself! Go, Kate, spike my ratings!

Why do girls in bikinis sell? Hope. Hope for warmer days and sunburns on the top of your feet and bug bites and sand in your cracks and orifices. I think everybody should just shut up already and put on our bikinis and go walk to the store and hang out, Spring Breakers style. If we all stand united, maybe the sun will finally shine. Or we can just warm up and build a massive bonfire and throw our parkas in it.

SIGH

*spills wine on grey sweatpants, laughs, pours another glass.*

giphy

 

Inside a Snatch of Beavers

Shannon Szabados

Some hot dude on my Facebook newsfeed posted something the other day about women hating each other and listed ways that they sabotage each other by translating their back-handed compliments, this was one example:

“Is that your man? Damn, he’s gorgeous.”
TRANS: He must be part BLIND bc you are one UGLY bitch.

He listed 7 more, each one more brutal than the next, of what we say to each other with what we “really mean” which is always “bitch, you is fat AND ugly AND dumb AND did I say FAT?” … his statuses always have the “read more” icon on the bottom and ramble on with random caps and ghetto spellcheck…Seriously, get a blog like me, windbag, and I mean it as a compliment. His posts make me laaaaaaugh. I refuse to believe that he is your regular garden variety hot-but-dumb dude but a brilliant intellect whose Kanye-esque rhetoric provides us with insightful social commentary. Also I fell in love with him a couple of weeks ago when he blathered on about how the only way to please a woman is to go “deep sea diving” and then described the vagine as a “seductive pink grotto,” imagine that! *swoon.* If I was to describe my lady parts as a place it would be the scary burnt out church ominously surrounded by a swirling murder of crows in episode 2 of “True Detective.”  Omg, I found it on youtube, this is a metaphor of my abandoned poon, so poignant:

“There was a fire in here a long time ago,” Woody Harrelson  drawls. I AM LOVING THIS SHOW SO MUCH IT HURTS.

I am going off on a tangent though, back to Ghetto Jesus’ point, “WOMIN HATE WOMIN.” I have to agree to a certain point. There is something about being in a group of vaginarama that makes me very nervous.

A gaggle of girls.

It’s not like you’re socially conditioned as a child to be a bitch but I think it’s something inherent in our human nature to ostracize the weak and the freak. It starts in the schoolyard playground…Me in Grade 1 playing “Red Rover” however that goes, I forget, but it involves hand holding and shouting out names. I am holding some girl’s hand but I am dying of shame because I have a worry of gross warts on my palm that Compound W can’t kill. I think my older sister ended up gouging them out with nail scissors, that is right up her alley.  But then and there, I have a carbuncley cluster of them on that fleshy part at the base of the thumb and I am holding hands with this second-grade girl with blond pigtails…she looks down at our hands because it probably felt like all moist and toad-like and she saw my bouquet of verruca and she dropped my hand like anybody would and bolted to the other side of the game. Needless to say, I never got to play “Red Rover” again and spent the rest of elementary school with the other lepers banished to the back corner, building forts in the gravel. THIS IS HOW IT GOES, BITCH, GET USED TO IT.

A conniving of cunts.

Sometimes when you are in a small group of women friends, say a trio, at some point, two of them might turn on you. This is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is typical high school girl behaviour and can range from the subtle to the all-out cruel. My worst one happened in CEGEP (that is Quebec’s version of Grade 12 and 13 fyi, my foreign friends) when I had inadvertently “stolen” my best friend’s crush. I know that sounds bad, but this girl had a panty-raid of crushes and a new boyfriend every week and I am not exaggerating, I can count on one warty hand the number of sad dates I have been on in high school, so what if I poached her crush? Grow up, there’s a surfeit of dicks out there (no, there’s not), choose another one. So she had our other friend pretend to be on my side so I would confide in her so she could report back the things I said. So after she warmed me up with charlatan sympathy, I told her I thought she was being selfish and why can’t she throw the one bone, and I am going to lose my virginity once and for all. When bitch ratted me out to the crush hoarder, our friendship ended in a huge fight where a boiling pot of mac ‘n’ cheese was hurled in my general direction. For the rest of the school year she would stare at me like a wounded cow from across the caf. The guy in question ended up dumping me not once, not twice, but three times over the course of two years so she had that to be smug about. Serves me right, I guess, plus I got fat when I had to go on the pill.

A hag of hens.

Fucking book clubs. Do I even need to elaborate on this one? What is it about a roomful of wine-drinking middle aged ladies that fills me with anxiety? There is always one rotten apple in the bunch. Once, during the infamous battle of “Eat, Pray, Love”  I got angrily shushed by one when I interjected a remark in agreement to her raging tearful rant against all the haters. We were the only two who liked the book and she shot me down when I was trying to support her. What a dumb, ugly bitch.

A racket of  cooch.

A group of tennis ladies eating salad for lunch, a terror of twat or what? A horror of snatch! A fright of gash! A while back, before you knew me, I took up tennis because my beloved friend JHo described our future: Old ladies who play doubles in the morning and drink pitchers of iced Pimms  in the afternoon on the veranda  in our tennis whites, cable knit cardigans wrapped around our bony shoulders, we leave red lipstick stains on our glasses, and we talk in old timey mid-Atlantic Hollywood accents and say things like: “Shall we ring round the waiter and have another round?” until we start slurring. Good times! Well that dream died quickly. I joined a round robin which was kind of fun because everyone was the same level of  crappy and we played and laughed and went home. But then something happened and cliques were formed. Some of the women became obsessed and made up teams. It was just like high school and these grown women reverted back to their 16 year-old selves where there was a hierarchy of social standing. There was no room for goofball round robin. They became viciously elitist. Seriously, it’s a gym where people waddle on treadmills, not a Slavic tennis farm. All the hos were getting private lessons and I was left behind in the land of tennis misfits, the wretched ones who missed the boat, the old and the crazy. And those bitches weren’t so nice either. I overheard one old lady in another locker bay talking trash about me: “She always misses the ball, she swats it like she’s trying to kill flies.” Fuck her and her thicket of varicose veins, I never played after that. Now I just watch the chosen ones, they take over the restaurant after their vigorous court play, glowing and giddy like they just fucked a Serbian tennis pro all morning. How do they even tell themselves apart? They are all blond with horse faces and you just know that when they finish their lunch salads, they hit the drive through on their way home. One good thing though, JHo and I are enjoying our afternoon pints together, which means our future is on the right track. I love her so.

So while certain groups of women scare me, presently I do cherish and find all my comfort-slash-mental health therapy in the company of my true lady friends. Unlike what Ghetto Jesus might say on the Facebook, we don’t have hidden agenda when we compliment each other. In fact the other day,one of my friends said: “I am loving the colour of your hair, KP, but fuck, you need to wash it. Girl, it is greeeeeeezy!” Oh how I laaaaaaaughed. Power to the sisterhood!

A riot of pussy and a team of hockey players, how about them bitches? Huzzah!

Dr. Internet’s Cheap Tips for Health and Beauty

kuiErnf

So I changed the title of this blog the other day, partly in a fit of rage and also because I want it to be less localized in this fucking shithole city of Toronto that I plan on escaping as soon as the kids leave and the dog dies…and be more of a citizen of the World Wide Internet, to attract a broader audience who gets me. I started it a few years back as a real estate blog…you know, showcasing pretty little over-priced pimped-up houses and twee local businesses destined to fail in the gentrified Stepford neighbourhoods that no one can really afford to live in because of our modern day fixation of wanting the same shit as everyone else, GRANITE COUNTERTOPS, I’m looking at you. Over the years, the blog evolved to something else entirely, which has been me talking to you about every else besides granite counters. Fuck them and their stainless steel appliances. Heated floors, seriously?

Onward: Last month I had my annual checkup, and while everything was reasonably A-OK, my doctor did call me to say she wanted to retest my “bad” cholesterol because it was “borderline.” She gave me some number that I promptly forgot. Yes, I can remember my old crush, Sweaty Man’s, license plate number from 1998 but I forget the important ones, don’t even ask about my chequing account.

“What does that mean, borderline?” Me, clutching my wine-stained blankie, like suddenly my world has come crashing down for having too many nuggets of cholesterol in my bloodstream that I didn’t even know I had two seconds earlier.

“It’s a tad higher than I would like to see. Did you say you’ve been eating cheese over the holidays?”

“Yes…,” I have been eating cheese constantly, not just to celebrate the birth of the Baby Jesus, c’mon.

“Well I’d like to get you re-tested in a couple of months….also, how many drinks would you say you’re having per week?”

Of course I lied. I don’t even remember what I said because you can’t really toy with that doctor, my lie crushed me. You know the old joke about how you’re only an alcoholic if you drink more than your doctor, who drinks like a sailor on shore leave…that joke is from the 1950s when your doctor kept a bottle of Canadian Club in his drawer and smoked a cigarette while he gave you a prostate exam. Well my doctor is a Lilliputian size triple 0 (she shops at Gap kids!) who would probably throw up if she drank my Monday intake.

I lied to her then but I am on a mission now. I’m down to 5 units a week! No more bacon! And cheese! Also, I looked up on my beloved Internet ways to improve one’s health all around. I am super sceptical when people tell me about herbal remedies. Like some crazy bitch told me to take Primrose Oil when I had a case of the sadz. Fuck, I am depressed because I am unemployed, celibate by circumstance because nobody in this bullshit city gets me and I am all alone AND NO AMOUNT OF EXPENSIVE URINE WILL CHANGE THAT. Come on.

Although one thing that did stand out was the power of Apple Cider Vinegar (ACV fo’ short from here on in). I know, I know, junk science, old wives’ tale blah blah blah. But! as I transform into a wise old bat, I am more and more into the folk remedies and a simpler way of life. You know, lots of things are making me sneeze and giving me patchy rashes these days and I have that daughter who nips at me in righteous socially aware buzzwords that are sounding less like gibberish each day: GMO* MONSANTO* ORGANIC* LOCALLY SOURCED* SUSTAINABLE* SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION WHORE.

ACV (apple cider vinegar! did you forget already?) is supposed to help lower cholesterol, decrease belly fat (Dr.Oz says so it must be true), help alkalize the body (do I care? so does red wine by the way), and helps decrease the appetite because it’s so fucking foul, you want to pucker up your pie hole and run out of the kitchen, never to return. It’s supposed to promote all over good health which is worth a try, especially since it’s cheap, and all you need is a couple of tablespoons diluted in a glass of water to shoot back first thing in the morning.

So I’m on Week Two of ACV regime. You have to get the organic, raw cider, Bragg brand, because it contains “the mother,” with all its enzymes and living bacteria. I know it sounds very “Alien” but I just do what I’m told, I don’t question. Contrary to what those bitches on the Internet say, I have not gotten “used to” the taste. Every morning it is a tortuous swallow-ordeal, I’m not a gulper but I am learning to be now (dudes, call me!). It burns going down but I will say, I feel virtuous afterward, like I have sedated all the screaming candida and stifled out their raging inflammation shindig for the day.

So far, ACV has made me pee a LOT, like a ton. This is good, I am a water hoarder. We live in the first world where clean drinking water comes out of taps in any given lavatory…Evolution, I’m talking to you, why do you bloat us so? Don’t answer that, sodium, you troll motherfucker. Salt, too little and you get goiters, too much and you blow up. Whatevs.

Also ACV has made my poop stellar, according to the Bristol stool scale. Every morning, rather than plopping out angry inconsistently messy clumps, it slides out stealthily in the shape of a snake. If they weren’t my own babies I’d be afraid of them.

I’m trying this out so you don’t have to, I will let you know next month if my cholesterol count goes back to a proper lady-like amount.

More crazy ACV action, and I am diffident (don’t judge just yet!) to tell you is that I have joined the “no-poo movement.” WTF? is that, you ask: It turns out there are people in the world who don’t use shampoo, of any kind, any time, any how. Shampoo and styling products, with its sulphates and silicones, tampers with the hair’s natural ability to be its own magnificent crowning glory. Half the time my hair is lank, limp, and stringy, and when it’s not, it’s out-of-control and flyaway. And then I have to put shit on it to make it look less puff-tard. It’s a vicious and frustrating cycle.

My son Freddy is a card-carrying member of the “no-poo movement” since last summer. Aside from the fact that he is lazy and hates showering, his hair is curly and needs a place to go that only styling product can make happen, or so we thought. A few of the kids at his summer camp job are on the no-poo bandwagon, not because they are savages but because they are neo-hippies, and their manes are soft and shiny. Yes, they are young and swim in fresh water lakes, but there still must be something to it. Freddy’s hair is in a perfect natural pompadour that you can run your fingers through and mess up a bit and it still looks good.

So I googled: Should I bother to use shampoo? And I got all the answers I wanted from The Hairpin’s dirty hippie, Lauren O’Neal “How To Quit Shampoo Without Being Disgusting.”  For cheap and lazy hos! In a nutshell:  Wean yourself off shampoo by washing your hair with a paste made of baking soda and water and then rinse with ACV (apple cider vinegar, you forgot again?), a couple of teaspoons diluted in a bottle of water. There is a period of 2 to 4 weeks where you suffer through a period that looks like you have bathed in Kraft Italian salad dressing but soon enough your natural oils will come through in a more tempered fashion and you won’t be such a greasy, frizzy mess, and you will be shampoo-free and no longer a slave to the system.  Huzzah!

What’s with the picture of Mona Lisa, you ask? Those eyebrows are a vast improvement aren’t they? Just a reminder that we will never let the inner hippie overtake our aesthetic sensibilities because that would be just awful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things To Do in February Because It’s So Boring

0_14c9df_d7bc1155_orig

It’s February now so let’s everybody get out of this frozen funk, shall we?

That Polar Vortex was crazy town. I have completely forgotten how to wardrobe. I am no longer wearing grey sweatpants, they are too formal…I am wearing stained (!) pyjama bottoms and an Old Navy tshirt. I may or may not be wearing a bra, I can’t tell, I am numb from a layer of warming blubber. That’s the beauty of Nature, it’s so intuitive, it bestows you with your own flesh version of a bulky Canada Goose jacket. I have fattened up quite a bit during that cold snap but I am grateful for the extra layer because I am a survivor, bitches. The lady at the gym who is proudly maintaining her thigh gap but wearing a Snuggli in spin class might die from hypothermia in the parking lot but I will reign as Queen of the Polar Vortex, so what if my bra broke and just flew across the room? Roar.

Highlights of January included: My annual physical concluded that that blobby thing in my belly button is not an alien fetus but a petite hernia, not to worry, it’s gross but harmless. But a real baby was born IN MY DOWNSTAIRS APARTMENT. Polar baby was two weeks overdue because warm womb is like Turks and Caicos and why would you want to come out? Interesting though, is a home birth. What goes in the green bin? I am afraid to know but happy to report that the baby is healthy and very, very cute.

That deep freeze was pretty crippling but now that it’s warmed up to icy slush outside, it’s time to shake things up. I’ve got some ideas I will share with you. Of course carry on with your usual winter activities like power-watching tv with back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-infinity episodes of your favourite shows even if it does have a deleterious affect on your life. I’m going to be watching “American Horror Story Coven” in one sitting and I’m scared already. I actually think I am witch, my super power is manthrax. Lock up your chickens, I might be getting some ideas. Here are some activities I am also going to partake in this month and maybe you will join me, gather round, kittens:

1. Did you know, according to Jezebel, that it is The Year of the Clean Person? For many years, my friends and I would make a theme for the year that would be our guide, like “The Year of the Smart Cocktail” where we would go out of our way to add extra ingredients to regular booze. A smart cocktail has to have three ingredients or more which is what Cointreau and Triple Sec are for in case you were wondering. You know how always at some point you end up with an empty bottle of vodka or bourbon, and have a few slugs left in a supplementary liqueur stash? Well fuck that. For me a third ingredient in a rum and Coke is my own backwash, it’s too much for me to deal with a third of a rogue bottle of Blue Curaçao hanging around past Labour Day. Another year was “The Year of Deception” where we lied all the time and played deleterious pranks on each other, one involving a hefty fine for “improper leaf disposal” typed on City of Toronto stationary stolen from the rec centre and my ex-husband putting on a thick Romanian accent pretending he was a city worker. Oh how we laughed. Then there was “The Year of I’ve Got Nothin’ To Prove,” that pretty much ended all the years and became my life long mantra, it’s so Buddhist, pretty much nothing can top that.

But Jezebel, and yes I read that AND Gawker, AND xojane (It Happened to Me! is my porn) which all good, harmless toilet reading…it is pouring over the comment sections of these on-line rags that has a deleterious affect on my life, oftentimes sending me into a venomous rage. Why do people hate Lena Dunham so much? I just love her so much that it hurts my soul when she gets trashed. Back to the topic though, Jezebel had a post about cleaning your bookshelves by Jolie Kerr who wrote My Boyfriend Barfed in My Handbag…and Other Things You Can’t Ask Martha which I am definitely going to order. I would love to be a clean freak, but I am not which is why I can’t have nice things. I am thinking that maybe if I start cleaning, even just a bookshelf, some karmic energy will flow. Maybe I’m being blocked by an army of dust bunnies? We shall find out. I am going to start with my fridge which needs more room in it for vodka.

2. Pistol squat progressions. What?

Why? Because this:

Unknown

Jen Selter, that’s why.

I know you’re probably thinking “give up already” but I will not. If Helen Mirren can twerk, there is hope for me yet.

3. Henna you hair! I did this yesterday, it’s so boring I almost died though. I know it’s such a seventies thing and hairdressers will hate you for it: “You completely coated your hair with orange shit and now we can process our chemical fuckery over top of it!” They will for sure yell at you but trust, they are wrong. First of all, henna is not just orangey red, it comes in all colours of the fecal rainbow, including black (get that checked). And it doesn’t “coat’ your your per se, but it is a permanent die. It smells weirdly funky at first but I’ve gotten used to it, I feel very earthy-like, like a white witch should. It is also really shiny and feels thicker and the silver chards at the temples are sparkly red, phew, because I was worried they would go green. The boring part was that you have to glop it on your head for about four hours and you are stuck at home texting your friends who are out brunching and won’t come over to hang with you. And you wouldn’t really want them to see you wearing just a towel  with green diarrhea dropping on your back from on top of your head unless they really loved you for who you are, which they probably don’t.

4. Speaking of love it’s Valentine’s Day month. I know some of you hate this “Hallmark holiday” but I assure you, it is not. It originated 1500 years ago as a day to honour Christian martyrs, dudes who were tortured to death with fire. That makes it much more meaningful. I say don’t worry about your shitty love life which is either non-exisitent or stuck in a one-way train ride to Delusionville, I say go out and buy yourself something and be happy, all martyrs unite! I’m going to get a pedicure and maybe a manicure if I can sit still long enough. And perhaps a little Botox, dem elevens are starting to deepen. Martyrs gotta look calm and cool, no furrowed brows on the burning stake.

5. The Winter Olympics! I know, it’s a potential hot mess, politically stupid, and scary but! the athletes can’t help that and the Winter Olympics is always the most fun to watch, so hopefully it goes smoothly. I saw these CANADA Olympic hats at Roots over Christmas:

securedownload-3

And yes, I laughed and took a picture and Facebooked and Instagrammed it because I am twelve. The other day I saw a man in a parking lot wearing one and I smiled at him and he smiled back. I really need to get one, how else am I going to get a date?

 

Oscar and That Cat

Llewyn-Davis-main

Ask me what I’m wearing.

Gray sweatpants and a brown cardigan. Every. Single. Day. I GIVE UP COMPLETELY. This is the January Polar Vortex, kids, and I’m just trying to get through it alive through diversionary tactics.

I’ve made it my mission to see all the Oscar nominated films this year because I like to get emotionally involved during awards season. I am only a Philomena and a Nebraska away from my goal and I am hoping that Putlocker website gets both those up soon so I don’t have to endure the grossness of a Sunday afternoon matinée at a sticky repertory theatre, add that to the list of Things White People Like. You know, like standing in line for brunch and farmers’ markets.

Being a white bitch, I enjoy a lot of things that fellow whiteys like, farmers’ markets are awesome for meeting young farm hands, but movie houses with sticky floors and crusty cum-covered upholstery, I stop there. I do like to go to a theatre for the complete movie experience but now that I am old (and crusty and cum-covered), I have my standards and rules:

1. I have to see movies in the day time to avoid crowds, especially people on dates who have the tendency to talk, titter, and stuff their gob holes with popcorn and DO I EVER HATE THAT SMELL. “Buttered” popcorn smells like the slow release farts from those people who are trying to hold them in because they are on a ridiculous movie date. You cannot tell sickly wafts of warm golden topping end and the deep seeping farts begin. And also stop sucking your ice cubes like your life depends on it, they have free refills to maintain your diabetes.

2. I like to see movies alone, YES, LIKE A WEIRDO,  with the exception of going with my daughter, Evangeline. She likes to sit where I like (second tier, first row to the very right) and she doesn’t eat, drink, or hog the arm rest. She is also a walking imdb guide and will be able to hiss where we have seen a certain actor before without anyone being disturbed and even if they were, they would be grateful to know how the mute boy from “Little Miss Sunshine” has grown into a fine young diligent slave driver in “Twelve Years a Slave.”

3. I now need to go to theatres with proper parking which means I go to Cineplexes out in the suburbs, with the exception of The Carlton. Back in the day the Carlton was the kingpin of multiplexes and even though the actual theatres were tiny and absolute shite with those level seats and mini-screens, it was all glamorous and showed all the good foreign movies and had a cafe that sold actual cafe cappuccino and six-dollar Nanaimo squares! Fancy. Well now that it is 2014 and that Vegas-strip Scotiabank theatre has Imax, a wine bar, and a New York Fries, fancy, the ye olde Carlton looks like a tired old legion hall with the matching patronage (old people love matinees! I love matinees! I am old!)  but it’s SEVEN DOLLARS to see a movie, I LOVE IT SO! Also I found a secret parking spot right downtown that is free before 6pm and you will have to kill me to find out where it is.

This is not a bunch of  film reviews, relax, but here is some of the criteria I have as a theatre goer and what I believe to be Oscar material:

1. Fuck-worthy performances. I’m stuck looking at a screen for 90 minutes or so and if I am by myself, my hands are free to wander because I am not holding poopcorn or your dumb hand so hopefully something up there catches my imagination. I play that game “Would You Hit It” with myself, here’s this year’s contenders although I still have yet to see “Nebraska” and I have always loved me a Bruce Dern and am looking forward to my senior fap sessions, so pardon if he is not on the list yet:

1. Christian Bale in “American Hustle.” Time and time again, I search the internet on dating websites for the perfect fat bald guy and lo and behold, here he is. I just want to write him a fan letter saying “Don’t ever change,” but you know he will, method douche. Dammit. I like him just like this:

935381-american-hustle

2. Leonardo Dicaprio in “The Wolf of Wall Street’ and I offer no apologies. He is the cat’s ass(hole).

35c6b4251b94f0d7_leo_dance_1_.xxxlarge

3. Michael Fassbender in “Twelve Years A Slave.” Obviously.GINGER BEARD I CAN”T EVEN BREATHE! Look down but don’t look too hard or you will get lost in your dream. Or just click here real quick, you’re welcome.

twelve-years-a-slave-michael-fassbender

4. ScarJo in “Her.” I would like to have an OS that wasn’t such a haughty cunt like that beeyutch monotone Siri. As far as the film, I tried to make it work with Joaquin Phoenix because normally I like him so, he has a certain profile angle that reminds me of someone I used know, but I couldn’t get past the high-waisted tweed trouser slacks they wear in the “near future.” Men are fucked. Girlfriend in a pocket, it’s really serious.

Her

5. Cate Blanchett in “Blue Jasmine.” GIRL CRUSH!!!

catejackingoffsagman

2. I need my emotions to be toyed with. It pisses me off that “Inside Llewyn Davis” was not nominated because why not? I thought Golden Coen Brothers had an in on all the awards, even though some of their films are just weird. This movie made me want a cat. That is saying a lot. I grew up with a dogmatic doctrine (ha ha) that we are DOG PEOPLE and CATS ARE EVIL. The cat in this movie charmed me! I got very upset at one point, I almost walked out, worrying about a fictional cat’s safety. I am a crazy cat person, who knew? I WANT A KITTY! LOOK HOW CUTE:

PL4y8uS

“Gravity” and “Captain Philips” toyed with my emotions, made me chew my nails off, and the latter also provided the anecdote for all the white guilt foisted upon me from “Twelve Years a Slave.” I think white people love the slave film genre because they secretly enjoy being shamed. I am probably one of those people because I saw it twice.

3. I need to laugh at least once in my 90 minute cinematic commitment. Fucking “Twelve Years a Slave” clocked in at 2 and a half hours and not once did I even get to snort some kind of emotional relief from all the misery, although I delighted silently to myself at a close up of a pig-faced white man. Director Steve McQueen (!) generally speaking must be a man of little mirth. His other two films, Hunger and Shame, are a festival of grim. LIGHTEN UP A LITTLE BIT, STEVE-O, other than that, keep up the good work:

Sv8Yo

 

Wheee!

 

4. If you are going to be an Oscar winning film, I better be thinking about you the next day. I forgot everything about “Dallas Buyer’s Club” the second it was over INCLUDING THE TITLE that I had to just look up on IMDB under Jared Leto because I can’t ever spell Matthew McConaughey-hey-hey. That might be me in a state of exhaustion because that was the third film I saw in one day but still. Meh. Would not hit it. Hey, hey, no, no.

5. A finely crafted film must be able to suspend my belief system so I’m not questioning every detail. For example, if you were to believe to “The Wolf of Wall Street,” you can suck cocaine smoothly out of a butt crack. Would it not get all moist and gunky and create an unsnortable paste? I hate when I have to obsess over logistics like that. I have no problem believing the astronaut, the slave, the captain, and that cat got home from their misadventures safely but there is just no way that a hooker’s sweaty ass can be a proper vessel for gutter glitter. Don’t make me prove it.

And with that, here is the best 3 minutes of cinema that Oscar forgot: