you know the drill

Dentists are vicious whores and Satan is their pimp. Iceberg Slim ain't got nuthin' on these bitches. I hate them all.

dear rihanna,

As the esteemed $hort Dawg once poetically schooled Kelis: Bitch! Tell that man you a boss bitch! Make some noise, raise your hand if you a boss bitch! I don't think he understands you a BOSS BITCH!

examining the oscars

Watching the Oscars is like going to the gynecologist. No one likes it, but we still do it once a year anyway. I hate myself for tuning in, and when Hugh Jackman thanked me at the end of the broadcast for making it through this crap fiesta, I said "No Hugh, thank you for wasting three hours out of my life I'll never get back. And for forcing me to consume an entire bag of Kettle Kurls just to remain semi-conscious. And in my good sweatsuit!"

Unfortunately, my homie Mickey Rourke didn't take home the golden nude dude that he totally deserved. Fortunately for me, however, was that he was at least able to showcase his stunning sense of style: the sweaty weave, the stunna shades, the Al Bundy hands in the pants stance, the chains and the pointy pleather boots. What can I say? It works for me. He wins the coveted Dapqueen Dapper Dan Award. Don't sweat it, Mick, you earned it!

The Dapqueen Dame Diva Award was a little harder to narrow down. While I was completely drawn in by the gothic '80s prom vibe Marion Cotillard was sporting and the creamy dreamy swagger of Taraji P. Henson, it was of course Angelina Jolie's elegant impression of an evil Disney sorceress that made me cackle with delight. Her look was made complete with a witchy black gown, over the top emerald jewels and some wicked looking combed-back villain bangs, not to mention that trademark expression of carefully measured insanity on her face. Angelina, you are the shit and you know this. That is why only you deserve the Dapqueen Dame Diva Award!

Honorable Mentions:

Beyoncé Knowles, Anjelica Huston, Anne Hathaway

You broads are supremely foxy for sure, but how could you have predicted Angelina was receiving fashion advice from Cinderella's backstabbing army of sewing mice? Those meddling rats.

repressions of a beauty product slut: part 1

I have a confession: I'm a beauty junkie with a pretty severe habit and product is my poison. Whether I'm lurking the aisles of Rite-Aid at midnight or balling out at Sephora in broad daylight, one thing is for certain: You'd best believe imma get my fix! I'm mesmerized by glosses and glitter, powders and polishes, faux eyelashes and fancy packaging. I'm a sucker for glamour, and even though I don't layer on cosmetics everyday, I make up for it with heavy experimentation (not to be confused with a heavy hand, ladies... psych!) If you ask me, perfectly coiffed eyebrows are crucial for a compelling beauty look, and if you don't complete your routine with a trannylicious mega-arch, then why even bother? The only other accent necessary for truly completing a look is a couple inky coatings of ebony mascara. In my mind, mascara application is equal parts art and science. Of course, the resulting effect, however, is pure sex. It goes without saying that when contemplating mascaras, as with men, the choice between length and volume is not always an obvious one. You can have length, you can have volume, but 9 times out of 10, you cannot have both (unless you're me). So, choose your wands wisely, women. The soulful Leroy Sibbles of the Heptones once crooned "Purrty looks isn't all" and the Maybelline Define-A-Lash Mascara packaging proves his wisdom as fact. If you're trying to keep those purse strings on a short leash, you can still afford to coat your fringe with this delicious drugstore dime piece. Like most awesome inventions, its packaging is budget and gaudy, but I personally guarantee that it curls and twirls like a pearl. Whether it's Maybelline or M.A.C., I love all my mascaras the same, but different. Just like little tube babies. Wow. Moving on...

(Boi-oi-oiingg!!)

Now, if you're like me, you save your various loose coins and paper money in a sleazy NYC Chinatown coffee cup and hide it away until you have accumulated enough dough for this amazing purchase I plan to exchange bankroll for in the very near future: How rad is it that Too Faced has dreamed up this Mood Swing Emotionally Activated Lip Gloss featuring the très gorgeous Smurfette! Not only are they taking it all the way back to the Saturday morning cartoon freak within me, but a flash in the pan nod to the quixotic mood ring, too?! This mouth-watermelon'ing flav shimmers on your smackers in a Smurf-blue hue, then depending on your mood, activates to various shades of Smurfberry pink. Cop a color wheel, friendo, cuz my lips speak Smurf now, swak you very much.

bad bitch # 1: beyoncé

Well, Valentine's Day has come and gone and I'm in a bit of a sentimental mood. Let's gush! Anybody who knows me knows that Beyoncé is my Queen. She is radiantly electric and over the top glamorous, two qualities I can appreciate in my #1 bad beyotch. This gal is a do-it-all diva to the max: She sings hit songs in a devastatingly hypnotic mezzo soprano, designs alluring fashions, and vamps it on a regular for modeling gigs such as L'Oréal. She even emulates famous broads like Diana Ross (lol @ her performance as Deena Jones in Dreamgirls... what. the. hell.) and Etta James (or. something...) Anyway, I got some hot off the press news: If you haven't already checked out the soundtrack to Cadillac Records, then get to steppin'. It was an unexpected delight to discover this collection of gems inspired by Etta James and interpreted by Queen B, especially after the double disappointment of the double disc Sasha Fierce. You know, the record I was HIGHLY anticipating practicing my painstakingly choreographed Destiny's Child dance moves in front of the mirror to, but turned out to be an epic hardcore suckfest. As an obsessive Beyoncé stan, I cannot express how deep my hatred for If I Were A Boy and Single Ladies (Put A Cock Ring On It) goes. On the other hand, the song Hello not surprisingly does it for me, as I easily geek out to songs with a showtunes-vibe. I hope the next record Bey drops will be in the same vein as Dangerously In Love, a truly superb album filled with old-school R&B diamonds and practically zero zirconia (we won't discuss Signs, mmkay?) Top three jams off the Dangerously In Love record: Be With You, Hip-Hop Star, Baby Boy

Here is a magical treasure from the Cadillac Records release entitled All I Could Do Was Cry. Don't sleep.

dapqueen cinema: flick i dig

Nothing matches the magic of watching a motion picture in the theatre. Today I got high off the aroma of hot buttered corn, slurped a turbo gulp, munched out on the tranny-fat snacks I smuggled in past the brood of unsmiling teenagers at the ticket rip-off booth, and leaned back to a hot sizzling cheese-atrical motion feature presentation called The Wrestler. This badass slice of cinema stars three rad movie stars I love, acting the roles of three timeless characters I never tire of: 1) Mickey Rourke as the fantastically delightful Randy "The Ram" Robinson, a kickass deli employee by day and superstar pro-wrestler by night; 2) Marisa Tomei as Cassidy/Pam, the stripper with the heart of gold and the yabbos of Betty White (and one badass bitch for shaking it to Lil Wayne in a greasy Jersey tittay bar) and 3) Evan Rachel Wood, bringing it in yet another tearjerker performance, this time as The Ram's emotionally distant, abandoned lesbian daughter Stephanie. Motorcycle Boy aka Mickey Roids obviously has insane amounts of charisma and athletic finesse, but it's his ability to express the downtrodden underdog we can all empathize with that really sets my coal black heart ablaze. If you're in the mood for a grimy sports drama mixed with powerfully emotional metaphors about the strange and sad plight of a sacrificial ram called Randy, then this is your joint.

Pros: Gory wrestling footage, groovy glitter spandex outfits, sweet bleach blonde weave, Jersey accents, hot soundtrack (Ratt, Scorpions, Quiet Riot, whaaat!!!)

Cons: Zilcho, buddy.

blunt gut remnants: hullo '09

This year I really need to chill out on my vices. Somewhere along the way I've (d)evolved into a certified hot ass mess. It's finally hit me that my entire existence revolves around smoking blunts, popping pills, and basically behaving like a drunken reprobate. When did it start to seem reasonable to coax myself up in the morning with a wake & bake date with my bong and the Sci-Fi channel? Followed by a dose of Adderall, a sour apple Philly, a couple Vicodins, a packet of menthols, an afternoon makeout session with some dude named Jack Daniels, a couple hearty swills from the ol' PM 'Tussin vessel, an Ambien or four at bedtime, and a double shot whisky nightcap to wash it all down.

OK sure, it's not like I'm sniffing asbestos or smoking weave glue... yet. I'm not convinced pot is a "gateway drug," but apparently I have an "addictive personality." Never mind that my brain probably closely resembles something like that of a Teenaged Mutant Ninja Retard, but I've pretty much forgotten what it feels like to wake up and get excited about the day ahead of me without relying on chemical crutches to catapult my wobbly hungover ass up. The funny thing is, it's not even exciting anymore, it's just kind of pathetic. Even my cat gives me the side eye, and she spends most of her free time lounging spread-eagle and licking her own chocha (cats have so much game it's not even funny).

So... today is day 22 of not smoking my trashy ass faux-mint flavored cigarettes. Not a puff, not a drag. Just good old fashioned cold turkey squashing the habit. That being said, it's going to be harder for me to quit choking bowls with pals, just because I genuinely relate to my fellow 'heads. We're, like, artists, man! And by artists I mean layabouts - we'd rather sigh deeply and hurl a piece of cheese at the TV in a fit of rage when the 3 a.m. BowFlex commercials start up, but still we refuse to locate the clicker from the depths of the couch cushions to switch the station. We plunge ever deeper into our nocturnal despair as we realize our view of the bottle blonde with the bulging biceps is obscured by a slice of Swiss. I've come to the conclusion this lifestyle of mine is a major hiccup in my strategy to become a wealthy gentleman's concubine of leisure, as I've gotten to the point where it's infinitely more important to get stoned and acquire an ambrosial buzz before class everyday than it is to study, stay focused, and systematically remember to apply wrinkle cream. Plus, I once read that cheese causes cellulite to flare up in the strangest of places. This saddens me A LOT.

In conclusion, my resolution for 2009: It's time for a change. YES I CAN!

P.S. Welcome to my BLOG. Oh, how I loathe that word.