If you show me your crotch, I will judge it.

Can we, as a society, end our relationship with leggings-as-pants?

I'm very happy for you if you are so thin that there does not need to be a distinction between these two garments. Allow me to show my joy by cramming this stick of butter down your throat. Remember to wash it down with a gallon of heavy cream, like all the supermodels do.

However, if I have to see anymore girls on the streetcar with sweat lines defining their most private of all areas, someone's getting rolled in a parking lot. Ass-sweat doesn't go with anything. These garments should be worn in dance classes, at the gym, under skirts to prevent chafing and flashing (dual purpose!), and at home while watching 'Glee' and eating frosting in embarrassing quanitities, as God and the media designed.

These are small steps that we, as a civilization can take towards our improvement. Today, no more leggings-as-pants, tomorrow, Israel-Palestine resolution.

Blow Canada

Really, are Leah Miller and Ben Mulroney the best that we, as a country, can do? They're on our front-lines, people! They're representing us. I know at least 100 people personally who would be much smarter, funnier, and less annoying than either of them. It's so frustrating!

Also, why am I not on Video On Trial yet?

Shock

I've lived my whole life thinking plain M and M's are superior to peanut.

How wrong I was.

No longer accepting applications for....

...movies featuring CGI animals with cutesy round bodies and rocking attitudes.

I'm looking at you, G-Force.

I think the multitude of insects with big dreams (A Bug Story, The Ant Bully, Antz, Bee Movie), of penguins with remarkable motor abilities (Madagascar, Surf's Up), of birds who fight the system (Chicken Little, Chicken Run) and the rest of the critters we've chosen to animate due to their bright color schemes and relatively simple composition are finished. We're done animating them.

I love you, John Ratzenberger, but if you never get a job again, that's a price I'm willing to pay.

Don't get me wrong, I love CGI. Toy Story 1 and 2, Finding Nemo, Monster's Inc, Ratatouille, WALL-E, Up...these are great stories. New stories. Exciting stories. With some pretty terrific animation, and terrific, very funny, smart, sensitive writing. And some of them have involved animals to great effect.

But seriously, anime animals with roguish charm? We're done.

(Exccept for Fantastic Mr. Fox. I'm excited for him).

More to Judge

One of the terrible things of not having a job, a boyfriend, or any other reason to live beyond the invention of new and exciting sandwiches is that you have a lot of time on your hands (did I say your? I meant my). One of the results of this sad state of affairs is that I watch a lot of TV.

Now, I love TV. I am not one of those people who was raised without it in order to spend more time outdoors or bonding with my family. No, my brother and I were safely parked in front of the TV to glean our morals and inspirations from Mr. Belding, Sam Malone, Cheer Bear, and Jeff the Mannequin from 'Today's Special'. I think there are lots of great shows that will forever have a place in my heart. But there's also a lot of excrement.

Tonight, I had the pleasure of watching 'More to Love', or what I like to call, 'The Fatchelor'. It is 'The Bachelor' plus sixty pounds. That's all. That's the premise. Same show, BUT BIGGER. I have never watched more than three minutes of 'The Bachelor' without wanting to vomit out my nose, but I wanted to give this a chance. Because....because sometimes I can't get off my couch. I don't know. What else am I going to do?

Now, obviously, this show spends a lot of time talking about how size and shape shouldn't influence how you feel about someone. Beyond the fact that OF COURSE LOOKS MATTER (also, for girls that want to be taken for what's on the inside, they sure did get dolled up. That was a whole lot of brightly colored satin and sweetheart necklines. I think I even saw some blow dried hair. What's the matter ladies? Couldn't you just fall out of bed and come down in your sweats to rassle up the feller? Just wrap yourself in saran wrap and duct tape like I always do!), while these girls tearfully confess how much they wish to be loved for themself, THEIR HEIGHT AND WEIGHT ARE LISTED NEXT TO THEIR NAMES. Because love doesn't have a size, but these chunksters do, and it's above 16! Because let's look past their weight, but first remind yo of it! Because let's not forget that inner beauty is only for those lacking in outer beauty!

Next! These girls are singlehandedly disproving the belief that chubby girls have great personalities. Why didn't you all cultivate your sense of humor while you were eating a box of Krispy Kremes and sobbing on prom night like I was? Multitask, girls. You should at least be funny! One is a rocket scientist, but she nullified any intelligence cred she initially had by immediately meeting the guy and saying, 'Hi! I'm (fat girl's name)! I'M A ROCKET SCIENTIST!'. Not smart. And you all should definitely not be cloying and annoying...ugh. They all use expressions like, 'Go, Girl!', and keep calling their Sweaty Sweetie 'cute'. You should have all been striking a blow for how awesome we bigger girls can be, if we're constantly given praiseThis is not helping me out at all. I also resent the fact that a lot of these girls only seem to carry weight in their boobs and butt. That's not fat. That's lucky.

Moreover, this guy didn't seem to find a personality at the bottom of that bucket of chicken. Apparently he's 26 and a millionaire. A likely story. He kind of looks like this guy I know who does Live Action Role Play where people put on fake ears and pretend to be elves and vampires and enact elaborate scenes of conquest and betrayal. It really creeps me out. The whole thing just smacks of asthma inhalers and orthopedic shoes. This Chubby Cutie gives them promise rings, and asks them, 'Will you wear this ring?', rather than the rose motif. There's something about a promise ring that makes me feel icky. I don't like to look at my hand and think about my crotch. That's just me. You can keep it closed and saved for each other, but keep it down where it belongs. I don't need the fact that you're growing cobwebs in your girls parts to slap me in the face everytime you wave to me.

But it might be worth watching just because I'm so pleased with myself for thinking to call it 'The Fatchelor'.

Coming up: THEY MAKE THEM GO TO PROM. Oh god. I hope the last round of this show is a pie-eating competition.

Subway? Sub-par.

There is a special circle in hell for people who are asshats on the TTC. What is it about hurtling underground in metal tubes that brings out the worst in people?

These asshats include, but are not limited to:

1) People who push to get on the train before people are off the train. It is a sealed car. There is only so far you can go. The advantage of being on first is relatively minimal. What, you're going to run to the other side of the car? Yes, it may grant you a seat, and I am well-accustomed to the desire to sit down being so strong I am willing to gnaw off my legs so I can rest on my stumps, but really. Let the people off the goddamn train. It is so unbelievably rude.

2) People who don't take their backpacks off. This applies to any kind of bag that is big enough to a)block the aisle, or b) knock a fellow passenger unconscious, regardless of whether it is carried on the back, in hand, messenger-style, or in any other fashion. Your back-pack exists in the corporeal world. Hence, it occupies spies. Do you not understand the concept of limited space? It means that there is only so much of it in a confined area, like a subway car. Your backpack means you take up more than your average amount of space. YOU ARE STEALING IT. But not only does your ridiculous connection to the shit that holds your shit mean that fewer human beings get on the train, get home, get to the hospital, get to work, etc. It becomes, in said confined space, a weapon. It smashes faces. You may not realize, as this happens behind your back. But it does happen. You are an asshole.

3) People who give their bags a seat when there are people standing. This is amazing to me. It almost seems like a challenge. As if they're saying, 'That's right, I've given a seat to this inanimate object, rather than you, a human being, or at least a highly-functioning and realistic robot. What are you going to do about it, fire your robot guns?' And when you ask them to move it, they look at you like you're the inconvenience. Like you're the sperm that shouldn't have made it through.

4) People who move slowly and/or stop in the walking lane of the escalator. I have to pee, and I can't do it in public places. Support my neurosis by letting me move quickly, I swear to God, I have to pee so bad.

Ugh!

Julie and Julia - Judged

Although the study of literature has heretofore largely been divided either by region (American Literature, English Literature, Tanzanian Literature), and time period (Pre 1900, Pre 1910, Pre 1930, etc.), there is now a new, much more efficient way to categorize what we read. I propose a simple system: books fall either into the realm of ‘Great Books, ‘Ok Books’, ‘Books that everyone says you have to read but really aren’t all that much, plus there is a BBC movie of them which will give you the gist’, and ‘Sharp Object Books’. A Sharp Object Book is defined thusly: I would rather jump into a barrel full of sharp objects naked than read it. Julie and Julia, by Julie Powell, is such a book.

This is the story of how one woman decides that cooking her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking is an activity that will somehow benefit her. Or something. I don’t know. Honestly, it was hard to pay attention over the sound of me grinding my teeth to pointy spikes in frustration.

I was so excited to read this book. The back cover promised me ‘a feast, a voyage, and a marvel’, all of which are things I am relatively keen on (except for the kind of ‘marvels’ like, ‘It’s a marvel you are alive, but you will now live the rest of your life with your stomach in this plastic bag and the right side of your face buried somewhere in Des Moines’). The front cover showed me Amy Adams and Meryl Streep. However, evidently covers should not form the basis upon which you judge a book. The first few pages indicated further promise. This is the story of a woman who is almost thirty, wants to have a baby but can’t, has a shitty job, and doesn’t feel like she has anything going for her except her acerbic wit. Hey! Me too! I was thrilled. This book was going to solve all my problems.

However, within a few pages, the asshattery of this diatribe was revealed. While at first I was looking forward to commiserate with someone who shared my hilarious bitterness and craptastic lifestyle, I soon realized that Julie Powell was a fake. I will itemize my complaints for easy hatred.

Item the first: Bitch lives in New York. I don’t care if it is rat and actor infested. I don’t care if you have to live in a pigeon nest behind the Times Square Coca Cola sign. You live in New York, you are better than me.

Item the second: Bitch is married. She’s complaining about the pointlessness of her existence, but SHE HAS SOMEONE TO DO IT TO. I have to complain to strangers on the Internet! However useless she may feel, she has someone willing to hang around with her. This husband never does anything wrong. Sometimes, after she throws pots around the kitchen and goes to bed, he cleans the whole apartment up. Sometimes, he travels all around Manhattan and the surrounding area for wacky ingredients. And then sometimes, his shrew of a wife whines that her life isn’t good enough.

Item the third: She eats nothing but cream and butter and organ meats for a year, and never gains weight. I gained eight pounds reading this fuckery.

Item the fourth: She consistently throws dinner parties. This means she possesses the following: a roof, furniture (or at least a modest assortment of sturdy, and various-sized boxes), money with which to buy food, and the instruments to prepare said food, time to do all the preparation and assembling of furniture-shaped boxes, and friends. People with these things don’t have problems and resulting book deals. They have martinis. Martinis and my never-ending wrath.

Item the fifth: Then there are all these pointless diversions into the equally vapid ‘non-problems’ of her friends, which involve finding marital bliss, having great sex, and getting fed duck which you did not have to debone. I have no idea what the point of any of those meandering thought-farts was, other than to flesh out this thing so that some of the movie producer’s prostitute girlfriends could have bit parts and make their entry into legitimate film. Not even her friends have problems. WHY DID I READ THIS?

Item the sixth: She owns items of clothing including but not limited to a Mongolian fur coat, and a Madonna-esque pointy bra corset.

Item the seventh: She, along with so many others, is a hyper-sarcastic, extremely wordy middle class girl who can occasionally make people laugh, and is totally charmed by her own quirkiness. These people should not be allowed to exist. They are all horning in on my racket. Don’t be the butter-loving, Buffy-watching funny girl around me, lady, that’s my bit, and you will lose.

(Additional reason for hatred: I can't blame this on her, but reading this book in public made me one of 'those women'. Because I was holding it in my hands, I immediately labeled myself as pathetic, and alone, because, clearly, only a single woman approaching thirty who loves to eat would spend money on such a thing.)

Wah wah wah, Julie Powell. Is the sun shining too brightly on your delicate, porcelain, blemish free skin? Are the bluebirds that wake you from slumber singing too loudly? Do you need your husband to go buy you another vintage Chanel suit because your boobs are too big for this one? These are not problems. You should not have a book.

I started hating this bitch around page 97, when the big problem was that her Orange Bavarian Cream tuned out in two layers of different (but equally delicious) consistency, and not like how Julia Child said it was supposed to. This problem was solved in about four sentences, and ended with a fabulous dinner party in which everyone at the Bavarian Cream, she realized how much love she had in her life, and adult-contemporary music played in the background under the sounds of their twinkling laughs and clinking glasses. Die in a fire, shitface. But then it became a personal battle. I had to defeat the book: it could not defeat me. However, finishing the thing did not leave me satisfied. It, like so many meals before, left me confused, sweaty, and full of vague anger. It is not enough to have finished the goddamn thing. Now, I must prevent others from following my tragic path.

Don’t read this book. Do not give this woman any money. You will become a person possessed, and for no reason. You will gain nothing. NOTHING! In fact, I almost guarantee that reading this note has provided you with more entertainment than the entire book provided me. However, this is true entertainment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWmvfUKwBrg

In summary, to recap:
Jessica Moss: Funny, pretty, a real catch, and very interesting and valuable.
Julia Child: No Jessica Moss, but certainly interesting and valuable.
Julie Powell: SHOULD BE EATEN BY FERRETS.

P.S. In the end, the chocolate cake did it.