pasta la vista, tre

I have a 12:00 a.m. deadline 'til my article on organic eyelash lube is due and all I care to focus on is setting my alarm for Top Chef. I can't say I was surprised that Tre was the Top Bottom last week, but I was a little hurt by the venomous treatment he received at judge's table. Damn, throw dude a thuggish ruggish bone already. It's not like his chow could have been that much more revolting than any of the other randomly rancid clouds of smoke mushrooming out of any of the remaining twat swabs' saucepans and stewpots.

Two things:

a) I am in seventh heaven this week knowing that Fat Mike and Angry Dale are still here, because if those two mouthy fatasses got iced out over a cooking competition based on Jimmy fuckin' Fallon's barfday lunch, you'll find me hissing in NBC's general direction for yet another goofy TV tie-in that makes about as much sense as Isaac frakin' Mizrahi's flagrant Targhetto presence during the Quickfire Challenge last week. Where in the mother of pearl was Bourdain at?

and 2) I'm chaining down my face furniture with old school librarian peeper protectors until further notice. I'm tired of my slippery enamel eyeglasses crashin' deep down in the commode and puncturing those painstakingly created 2-ply paper barriers I've thoughtfully built to deflect any seat scariness, imaginary or not. I'm frightened by the unknown. So fuckin what?

clean them palates, bitches!

Wrangle up your stray dildos and discarded cats, fortify yourself with a hastily smacked together sawdust sandwich, insert that body you carry around into your favorite neon bean bag chair and prepare to be mesmerized by the mannequin crotch-like smoothness of Padma's forehead (which, incidentally, is so cute I could eat it with a spoon). It's All-Star time, bitches!

It's magic making night in the Top Chef boom boom room, and now that Marcel's gangsta lean has been given a swift kick into the big black douchy cauldron of culinary doom, who's next on the line? Do I even care? Before I answer my own question, allow me to take a brief moment of silence to drool over the meaty charms of Spike. . . Oh yeah, now I remember why I care.

For the record, Spike's early dismissal still really burns my biscuits. I mean, was Jamie ever even a real contestant, or were her crimes of dishing just shiny thumb-like objects dangled in front of viewers' faces to arouse kittenish pounce-like reactions of unsheathed fury when the reasonably talented cooks were recklessly tossed aside like her "whatever" wet celery salad?

Ahh, Top Chef. It's not easy, and it is far from pleasant, but still I find myself unable to disentangle myself from this All-Star clusterfuck web you weave.

But for the record... Go Angelo!

And in case you forgot why:

Got that?

'frobacks!

Studying for finals is boring. I mean, damn! How many A's does one broad really need? (...whomp whomp). All this studying has me reminiscing about the summer of '94, circa back in the day, when the only studying I participated in revolved around my personal investigation into Marlena's puzzling demonic possession on Days of Our Lives (seriously...the fuck?) and my studious memorization of BET's Top 25 Countdown.

Aside from creating a makeshift sanitarium in our living room to deflect the murderous intentions of a newly acquired feral feline friend, it was also the first summer Big Jer and I familiarized ourselves with cable TV, though we still enjoyed tuning in to the local broadcast stations now and again to witness fools destroy the art of Plinko. Come to think of it, truer nuggets of gold have never been spoken when Bob thoughtfully reminded the viewers at home to help control the pet population by shanking balls and yanking walls. Alakazzam!

Basically, what I'm trying to say is this: In order to fully appreciate the following mixtape, you're gonna wanna mix up a big batch of red Kool-Aid & claim dibs on those packets of cured ham you know you've been stashing away in the margarine bin for a stoney afternoon (you know you have). Then, just like Xscape suggested, kick off your shoes & relax your feets to this captivating collection of bumpin' throwback jamz. And remember kids, the line between "throwback" and "jam" is so fine even Whitney wouldn't snort it (oh really?) so use caution when attempting to recapture your sunny youth with this formula at home, because probably not all of these songs are even from '94 (eat me).

the throwback mixture!

(alternately known as the "clearly i have too much time on my hands" mix)

Ill Na Na - Foxy Brown & Method Man

Right Here - SWV

Ask of You - Raphael Saadiq

Thuggish Ruggish Bone - Bone Thugs 'N Tasha

Who Can I Run To - Xscape

Bag Lady - Erykah Badu

Around the Way Girl - LL Cool J

Love You Down - INOJ

Paper Thin - MC Lyte

One Time 4 Your Mind - Nas

Spydermann - Another Badd Creation

Poison - Bel Biv DeVoe

The City is Mine - Jay-Z

You Used to Love Me - Faith Evans

Baby-Baby-Baby - TLC

Sexy Noises Turn Me On - Salt-N-Pepa

Can't You See - Notorious B.I.G. & Total

This Lil' Game We Play - Subway & 702

Sweet Thing - Mary J. Blige

Flava In Ya Ear - Craig Mack

At Your Best You Are Love - Aaliyah

Push play L O U D !!!

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

raining cats? you open the skylight, i'll get the relish

Back when I was a shorty, 30 minutes of corny jokes and canned laughter was like a high grade dose of kryptonite for me. It caused my pink plastic eyeglasses to violently convulse off my face and weakened my bladder to the point of no return. I pretty much embraced all sitcoms, even the boring ones that did nothing for me (ahem, talkin' to you, Cosby fam... THEO). I should have been a live audience guest during show tapings, because a sign commencing laughter would never have been necessary had I been invited. I was a cheesy mothafucka and it didn't take much to git me rollin'. Back then, I daydreamed about kickin' it tableside and splitting a can of creamed corn with Dan & Roseanne Connor, playing poker while enjoying a travelin' pizza with my man Alf, and flicking frying pans at Pops with my lil' homie Baby Sinclair. Like my young fossil friend, I too take every chance to take a pee in my pants.

I also used to imagine swapping glamour tips with Endora of Bewitched, who I knew to be the glitziest dame of all in my own private hierarchy of bitchin' small screen broads. One thing I luvs is a sparkly bitch, and that trashy witch knew how to work, honey, with those queenly jewel-toned robes, dazzling pinkie rings and campy liquid lined eyes. Who really cared about that mopey huzzy Samantha and her lame dick sucking ways? Dullard Darren could suck my left one, but the supremely elegant Endora could get 'em both if she wanted.

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.