My money is on up-and-down. Apparently, however, that's not scientific enough, so a team of researchers needed to conduct in depth research on the topic, complete with a slide show. Ladies, The Sun would like us to know that this may just revolutionize bra technology. And do you know who we have to thank? One busty blonde who was willing to put it all on the line and jog while a team of horny researchers took photos.
I'm going to go out on a limb and make a contentious statement that might alienate some people - I fucking love centaurs. They are my favorite mythical creatures.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be a centaur. In fact, I have a centaur related question that I believe reveals a lot about a person. Ready? If you woke up tomorrow and you were a centaur, would you feel obligated to wear pants/underwear in public?
I asked a co-worker this once and she said to me, "no...I don't believe I would...why would I? That's just beautiful...that's a beautiful thing." There was mist in her eyes.
I can't think of many things that would make a centaur better. They're pretty amazing on their own, but someone else found a way.
Reader, that is a Patrick Swayze centaur. Do you understand what you're looking at? A PATRICK SWAYZE CENTAUR IN A CHIPPENDALE'S UNIFORM! I need to know the story behind this tattoo more than I have ever needed to know the story behind a tattoo in my life. This is not a life half-lived, I am sure of that much.
And, yeah, I took this weekend off. Get off my back and remember:
I admit, when I first heard the "buuuurrrrr" it seemed clear it could be nothing BUT a fart. Tim Russert certainly doesn't look like a man capable of holding in his farts. In fact, I'm willing to wager that he let one right at the moment this book cover photo was taken.
After reading the update and some of the comments, I realized upon a second viewing it very well could be someone agreeing with him. I do not want to live in a world where Tim Russert DOESN'T FART ON AIR, and so, I refuse to yield.
I was a chubby kid in the 1980s. This meant a lot of things for me: t-shirts over bathing suits, a shameful two year run of performing in nursing homes and community theaters as Shirley Temple, and overfed corduroy thighs rubbing against each other loudly in school hallways. Mostly, I found a way to make chubby work for me, which is probably why I haven't strayed too far for too long from it in life.
As I got older, the chubbiness came to be a worry. It became something that my mother decided must to be dealt with. In a spirit of misguided camaraderie, my mother decided to sign us up for a Jazzercise class. This both depressed and enraged me.
Why was I stuck in a local school's gym with middle-aged housewives doing the grapevine to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" when I could be sitting at home, finishing my stack of Ramony Quimby books? Why were these women using soup cans as weights? Why did my equally sedentary video game addicted brothers not have to partake in this hell?
The good news was, the classes stopped. My mother's dislike of group activities was, I thought, a win for me. I envisioned aerobics free Saturdays for miles. Peaceful afternoons spent reading in my room or drawing. But those dreams were smashed when she showed up with a newer, even more sinister fat-busting weapon in her arsenal.
I was familiar with the concept because I was inundated with their ads.
These tireless, slim, long haired tween succubi had spent weeks taunting me on TV with their belted leotards. How was I supposed to enjoy my episodes of Jem and Little House on the Prairie with these sluts prancing around and "working out" with fucking pom poms? (If you would like to contest me on the slut charge, I offer you seconds :10 through :12 of blatant whore moves that baton girl is working in addition to the commercial's denouement - a preteen girl closes out every commercial with a perky bending over motion.)
Hope you're in shape enough to hold that position for the rest of your life! Because you're fucked!
I was conflicted. The toy was purchased and a shame spiral began - maybe it really was this easy! Maybe the only difference between me and the skinny girls was that I hadn't twirled batons!
I did not half ass this. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, these kits were the key to a new me I decided to go all the way. Equipped with a battery operated boom box, I marched to our front lawn, sweatbands firmly fixed to my forehead, weighted bracelets on my wrists, ready to usher in a newer, bouncier, slimmer Diana. The kind of Diana that would no longer have to go to the husky department at Sears or have to play Santa at the next Christmas play.
At the time, I was sure that my moves were unrivaled. I thought I may well have been tapping into some unknown source of grace and talent that would have otherwise never been discovered. This was finally my ticket to being the sexier child the ads had promised!
What my neighbors witnessed, however, was an afro-ed, tubby eight-year-old furiously waving a rhythmic ribbon, several palsied attempts at baton twirling, and the heart-wrenching sound of me singing La Isla Bonita.
Mercifully, at some point I realized that light baton twirling and multiple failed attempts at the bicycle were not going to turn me into someone else. I would give up Get In Shape, Girl! for Sit On My Ass, Girl! which I could do with little risk of public humiliation and only slightly less self-loathing.
OMFG, why is Gossip Girl such a central force in my life right now? First, the Gossip Girl Summit, then the accompanying Gossip Girl tumblr blog Sara Benincasa and I write together, and now Heather Fink and Sara B are killing me with this Gossip Girl parody (NSFW).
I don't have tattoos. I have not been entirely consistent in my feelings towards them. But one thing is sure - I'm now no longer on the fence after seeing this one.
I want to see more tattoos like this, because it is inspiring. You understand that the dolphin has a tribal arm band, right? That he's sitting on a ripped barc-a-lounger and smoking a bong? You've explored the rich tapestry of this tattoo, yes?
Woah, dudes, it's been a whirlwind weekend. First off, I was a part of an awesome show on Friday night at the PIT. It was hosted and produced by the tireless Sara Benincasa and thanks to her and Hillary Buckholtz, the event was PACKED. The theatre had to turn away 25 people. What was so great about this show? Oh, it was just about Gossip Girl, that's all!
NY Press blogged about it and you can see the little video intro Sara whipped up (with me and Chris Rovzar from NY Mag).
This pretty much must be done again. In the meantime you can catch up on some Gossip Girl Tumblr action from me and Sara.
Also, I spent Saturday through today in D.C. where I got to perform with my favorite lady-friend-comics Erin Jackson, Aparna Nancherla, and Andrea Fuller from last summer's Broad Minded Comedy. Andrea's good friend Joy Gohring joined us, and the both shows were an absolute blast. Nothing beats packed shows with comics you love! Much thanks to the Atlas Theater/Indigo!
And we come full circle, friends. I am going to make like Vera Drake and put my breeding desires on low.
Why? Well, firstly, I found out that Great Mama Duggar (she of the "it's a vagina not a clown car fame) is expecting her 18th child! I'm intensely disgusted by this factoid. What can possibly be the state of that woman's uterus? Does she need to buy it an extra seat when she flies?
It was almost two years ago that I believed that America, as a nation, was doomed and would continue on a breathtaking downward slide in almost every arena. What brought me to this conclusion?
Someone named "Sumthin" shitting on a floor on Flavor of Love.
Greenlit cable dating show from established production company seeks mentally disabled male and female contestants of all ages and races.
"Single and Special" will be a tasteful mix of "The Bachelor" and "Life Goes On." "Single and Special" already has the endorsement of the Special Olympics. Pilot available upon request.
Tri-State area contestants preferred. Will have mental health care professionals on set at all times.
Please email photo and short bio, with dating history, to SingleandSpecial@gmail.com.
Thank the gods the day has come when I can do another Wilford Brimley post. It has been too long. Blogging about Wilford is the right thing to do, and a tasty way to do it.
Brimley has been 65 years old as far back as I can remember - which is at least two decades. That stache, that perfectly round head, that straight talk - it is a heady mix. He just won't go away. Everytime there was a dip in Brimley exposure, he found some new product to shill, and inject himself back into our collective unconscious. And now we can combine all the pleasures of Brimley with all the loveable furriness of LOLcats.
Serendipity smiled on me once more because as I was searching for a Brimley video clip to go with this, I found this charming remix of Brimley saying "diabeetus" repeatedly to the tune of "Amadeus."
My money is on up-and-down. Apparently, however, that's not scientific enough, so a team of researchers needed to conduct in depth research on the topic, complete with a slide show. Ladies, The Sun would like us to know that this may just revolutionize bra technology. And do you know who we have to thank? One busty blonde who was willing to put it all on the line and jog while a team of horny researchers took photos.
I'm going to go out on a limb and make a contentious statement that might alienate some people - I fucking love centaurs. They are my favorite mythical creatures.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be a centaur. In fact, I have a centaur related question that I believe reveals a lot about a person. Ready? If you woke up tomorrow and you were a centaur, would you feel obligated to wear pants/underwear in public?
I asked a co-worker this once and she said to me, "no...I don't believe I would...why would I? That's just beautiful...that's a beautiful thing." There was mist in her eyes.
I can't think of many things that would make a centaur better. They're pretty amazing on their own, but someone else found a way.
Reader, that is a Patrick Swayze centaur. Do you understand what you're looking at? A PATRICK SWAYZE CENTAUR IN A CHIPPENDALE'S UNIFORM! I need to know the story behind this tattoo more than I have ever needed to know the story behind a tattoo in my life. This is not a life half-lived, I am sure of that much.
And, yeah, I took this weekend off. Get off my back and remember:
I admit, when I first heard the "buuuurrrrr" it seemed clear it could be nothing BUT a fart. Tim Russert certainly doesn't look like a man capable of holding in his farts. In fact, I'm willing to wager that he let one right at the moment this book cover photo was taken.
After reading the update and some of the comments, I realized upon a second viewing it very well could be someone agreeing with him. I do not want to live in a world where Tim Russert DOESN'T FART ON AIR, and so, I refuse to yield.
I was a chubby kid in the 1980s. This meant a lot of things for me: t-shirts over bathing suits, a shameful two year run of performing in nursing homes and community theaters as Shirley Temple, and overfed corduroy thighs rubbing against each other loudly in school hallways. Mostly, I found a way to make chubby work for me, which is probably why I haven't strayed too far for too long from it in life.
As I got older, the chubbiness came to be a worry. It became something that my mother decided must to be dealt with. In a spirit of misguided camaraderie, my mother decided to sign us up for a Jazzercise class. This both depressed and enraged me.
Why was I stuck in a local school's gym with middle-aged housewives doing the grapevine to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" when I could be sitting at home, finishing my stack of Ramony Quimby books? Why were these women using soup cans as weights? Why did my equally sedentary video game addicted brothers not have to partake in this hell?
The good news was, the classes stopped. My mother's dislike of group activities was, I thought, a win for me. I envisioned aerobics free Saturdays for miles. Peaceful afternoons spent reading in my room or drawing. But those dreams were smashed when she showed up with a newer, even more sinister fat-busting weapon in her arsenal.
I was familiar with the concept because I was inundated with their ads.
These tireless, slim, long haired tween succubi had spent weeks taunting me on TV with their belted leotards. How was I supposed to enjoy my episodes of Jem and Little House on the Prairie with these sluts prancing around and "working out" with fucking pom poms? (If you would like to contest me on the slut charge, I offer you seconds :10 through :12 of blatant whore moves that baton girl is working in addition to the commercial's denouement - a preteen girl closes out every commercial with a perky bending over motion.)
Hope you're in shape enough to hold that position for the rest of your life! Because you're fucked!
I was conflicted. The toy was purchased and a shame spiral began - maybe it really was this easy! Maybe the only difference between me and the skinny girls was that I hadn't twirled batons!
I did not half ass this. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, these kits were the key to a new me I decided to go all the way. Equipped with a battery operated boom box, I marched to our front lawn, sweatbands firmly fixed to my forehead, weighted bracelets on my wrists, ready to usher in a newer, bouncier, slimmer Diana. The kind of Diana that would no longer have to go to the husky department at Sears or have to play Santa at the next Christmas play.
At the time, I was sure that my moves were unrivaled. I thought I may well have been tapping into some unknown source of grace and talent that would have otherwise never been discovered. This was finally my ticket to being the sexier child the ads had promised!
What my neighbors witnessed, however, was an afro-ed, tubby eight-year-old furiously waving a rhythmic ribbon, several palsied attempts at baton twirling, and the heart-wrenching sound of me singing La Isla Bonita.
Mercifully, at some point I realized that light baton twirling and multiple failed attempts at the bicycle were not going to turn me into someone else. I would give up Get In Shape, Girl! for Sit On My Ass, Girl! which I could do with little risk of public humiliation and only slightly less self-loathing.
I am adding this blog to my "Top Ten Things I Love About Diana Saez" list. We were already buds, but I think our shared Get in Shape, Girl! experiences have brought us even closer.
Don't know if I've ever told you this, and it really has nothing to do with this blog but I think I love you most because you say the things that are in my head. Now if I could only say the things that are in my head, I'd be in business ;) You're my [comedy] touchstone, Emma -- um, I mean D... I watched Terms of Endearment Wednesday nite.
OMFG, why is Gossip Girl such a central force in my life right now? First, the Gossip Girl Summit, then the accompanying Gossip Girl tumblr blog Sara Benincasa and I write together, and now Heather Fink and Sara B are killing me with this Gossip Girl parody (NSFW).
I don't have tattoos. I have not been entirely consistent in my feelings towards them. But one thing is sure - I'm now no longer on the fence after seeing this one.
I want to see more tattoos like this, because it is inspiring. You understand that the dolphin has a tribal arm band, right? That he's sitting on a ripped barc-a-lounger and smoking a bong? You've explored the rich tapestry of this tattoo, yes?
Woah, dudes, it's been a whirlwind weekend. First off, I was a part of an awesome show on Friday night at the PIT. It was hosted and produced by the tireless Sara Benincasa and thanks to her and Hillary Buckholtz, the event was PACKED. The theatre had to turn away 25 people. What was so great about this show? Oh, it was just about Gossip Girl, that's all!
NY Press blogged about it and you can see the little video intro Sara whipped up (with me and Chris Rovzar from NY Mag).
This pretty much must be done again. In the meantime you can catch up on some Gossip Girl Tumblr action from me and Sara.
Also, I spent Saturday through today in D.C. where I got to perform with my favorite lady-friend-comics Erin Jackson, Aparna Nancherla, and Andrea Fuller from last summer's Broad Minded Comedy. Andrea's good friend Joy Gohring joined us, and the both shows were an absolute blast. Nothing beats packed shows with comics you love! Much thanks to the Atlas Theater/Indigo!
And we come full circle, friends. I am going to make like Vera Drake and put my breeding desires on low.
Why? Well, firstly, I found out that Great Mama Duggar (she of the "it's a vagina not a clown car fame) is expecting her 18th child! I'm intensely disgusted by this factoid. What can possibly be the state of that woman's uterus? Does she need to buy it an extra seat when she flies?
It was almost two years ago that I believed that America, as a nation, was doomed and would continue on a breathtaking downward slide in almost every arena. What brought me to this conclusion?
Someone named "Sumthin" shitting on a floor on Flavor of Love.
Greenlit cable dating show from established production company seeks mentally disabled male and female contestants of all ages and races.
"Single and Special" will be a tasteful mix of "The Bachelor" and "Life Goes On." "Single and Special" already has the endorsement of the Special Olympics. Pilot available upon request.
Tri-State area contestants preferred. Will have mental health care professionals on set at all times.
Please email photo and short bio, with dating history, to SingleandSpecial@gmail.com.
Thank the gods the day has come when I can do another Wilford Brimley post. It has been too long. Blogging about Wilford is the right thing to do, and a tasty way to do it.
Brimley has been 65 years old as far back as I can remember - which is at least two decades. That stache, that perfectly round head, that straight talk - it is a heady mix. He just won't go away. Everytime there was a dip in Brimley exposure, he found some new product to shill, and inject himself back into our collective unconscious. And now we can combine all the pleasures of Brimley with all the loveable furriness of LOLcats.
Serendipity smiled on me once more because as I was searching for a Brimley video clip to go with this, I found this charming remix of Brimley saying "diabeetus" repeatedly to the tune of "Amadeus."
