Friday, October 10, 2008

I Put A Spell On You

I is for Ida who drowned in a lake.


I is also for Igor. It's the only Halloween-related "I" word I could think of. It's an unfun letter, next to Q and X, which I know will suck (with gusto!) when I get to those bitches. (You think it's so easy, hot shot? I challenge you to think of a better Halloweenish "I" word. And if you say "insane" as in Insane Clown Posse, we're breaking up. I want my Best of RATT in Concert video tape back, the hot pink scrunchy I left in your bathroom back AND the Kim Luvs U airbrushed vanity license plate we got at the Jersey Shore back).

So in hommage to all the Igors and hunchbacks we have known and loved or have not really known and not really loved, here is a list of all the cinema Igors I could find. And by the way, did you know that not all Igors are hunchbacks and not all hunchbacks are named Igor? I did not. I lumped (see the joke I made there?) them all together as the same, but they're 2 different characters. Well I'll be damned. But so what. A little stereotyping never hurt anyone, did it?

Lon Chaney, 1923, The Hunchaback of Notre Dame:


Lionel Atwill, 1933, Mystery of the Wax Museum:


Bela Lugosi,1939, Son of Frankenstein:


Bela Lugosi, 1942, Ghost of Frankenstein


Charles Bronson (that's right, bitches! Pre-'stache!), 1953, House of Wax. The original, before Paris skanked up the remake with her slutty acting skills:


Marty Feldman, 1974, Young Frankenstein:


Richard O'Brien, 1975, The Rocky Horror Picture Show:


1996, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Disney crapola:


Kevin J. O'Connor, 2004, Van Helsing. Before I looked this up, I swear I thought the hunchback part was played by Ted Danson.




And finally the last of the freaks of nature is the new Igor movie that came out last month, with my future husband John Cusack doing the voice part.


*I Put a Spell On You by Screamin' Jay Hawkins

Human Fly

H is for Hector done in by a thug.

That is by far my favorite one yet. Little Hector's sleeping with the fishes now because he didn't pay his gambling debt to Johnny Goombah. And another thing, spellcheck is confused by "goombah" and thinks perhaps I meant gumbo. Which is funny on an entirely different plane: Hector was done in by a bowl of gumbo. Was it poisoned? Day-old shrimp? Bayou country voodoo pox? Shellfish allergy? I MUST know.


(Someone emailed me, asking what's up with my titles. If I have to explain it to you, my head might explode. Here's the Cliff Note version: every title is a song title and usually has some relevance to the day's blog theme. Sometimes, not so much relevance. You can't question logic like that.)

H is also for haunted.

I've been googling all night long (there's a skanky joke in there, but I have no time today to stop for filthy puns), and I'm officially over the 4 jillion websites out there dedicated to haunted places, haunted houses or haunted Wal-Marts. Not really, but that would make for an excellently crappy b-movie...must not start writing haunted Wal-Mart movie plots in my head..."Aisle 7: dog food, detergent and death"..."She went in for Head and Shoulders, but left without her head"...

Instead, I'm taking the high-class road as always, by which I mean there is no class to be found here. I had the good intention of finding "haunted" crap on ebay, but found the listings under the "Buy> Everything Else> Weird Stuff> Totally Bizarre" category much more entertaining and sleazy. Which is pretty much how I roll. I would not object to partying with the hillbillies who found Jesus in their Cocoa Puffs or discovered a carrot shaped like a wang. I'm all for commerce, but how retarded must a person be to fall for this garbage? Just because I spent $87 on a Virgin Mary grilled cheese sammich does not make me a loser, does it? I call it my "get out of jail free card", like an instant ticket into heaven, since there's a slim chance of me getting in on good merit otherwise.

More crap of interest:

Palin toast. Saving your soul one crusty, burned bite at a time. Now with more brimstone flavor!

I'm not partisan, I think most of politics is ridiculous and scammy and so I must make fun of everyone involved, so enjoy some supposed Obama toast. It looks just like him, except for the lack of big ears and toothy, Cheshire Cat smile. It looks more like Karen Carpenter than Obama, otherwise the similarities are endless.

This is an actual title:


They're hocking exactly what you think. The power to make women do what you want. Ha!

Dude. They're called hookers.

*Human Fly by The Cramps.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Graveyard Stomp

G is for George smothered under a rug.


G is also for ghastly.

I genuinely really like these famous peeps, I do. But...what the hell happened to them? Oy. And also vey.

If you could see feelings, this is what all of mine would look like:


I really like Miss Love, seriously. Remember her "comeback" with the super cute platinum bob and the rockin' bod? I want to see her like that again. Tell her to call me, we'll have cawfee, we'll tawlk, no big whoop.


Same goes for Winehouse here. Love her voice, love her style (before it got all homeless chic), love her 'do (when she gave a rat's ass about it). She's another that needs a scrub-down and a comeback. And a bar of soap and an ass-kick and intervention and a hug, in that order.


I genuinely don't really like these guys, not so much. I'm not sure why. Anger needs no explanation, so take it.

Looking exactly like a new mom should: all painted up with supersized unnecessary whoreyness and a side of skank for the road:


I have no words. Oh wait, yes I do: ENOUGH ALREADY, MADONNA. Sweet jumping jebus, we GET it. And PS. Can someone inform her that the Lolita thing hasn't been ironic and cute since about '93. But thanks for trying too hard.


Ghastly, on a "WTF?!" level: Miley is 15, her BF is 20. Really? That's called illegal where I'm from, but I guess in Kentucky that's called over-the-hill.


Look how glamorous Jamie Lynn makes teenage pregnancy look and not at all tired, run down, haggard, and like a last-call 1:59 a.m. bar hag. It looks like someone superimposed the head of a Denny's 3rd shift waitress onto her body, only with better hair. I didn't realise not getting knocked up was that hard. Is it wrong to wish that 99.9% of celebrities should not be allowed to breed? Because when I'm dictator, that's exactly what my first order of action will be. Angelina, I'm looking in your general direction.


Speaking of mandatory sterilization...


No jazz hands were harmed during the writing of this blog.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Flying Dutchman

F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech.


F is also for Freddie. In a fedora. Two f's for the price of one! (I had something filthy going on with that, but I couldn't make it work. Use your imagination. Do I have to do all the work? That's what SHE said. And I'm back!)


Here are 2 things of interest when I googled images of Freddy Krueger, and I'm not counting the 427 pictures of random jackasses dressed like Freddie at random jackassy college keggers:

1. Because apparently there aren't enough skanky costumes in the world already, you can be a slutty Freddy Krueger. A girl's gotta have options I guess.


2. I'm not sure how I feel about these. I've never owned any brand of sneaker other than Converse* and I sure as hell never owned a pair of Nike's a day in my life but I'd consider wearing these. They do look kind of cool from a distance, all stripey and whatnot...


...But up close and personal they have red, pseudo blood splatters all over them...hmm...


...and the soles look like MELTED FLESH. Don't get me wrong, I'm ALL FOR the horror business, I love anything to do with it. But Freddy sneakers with oozy skin soles? Come ON, Nike. Sell out much? You can google these yourself, because now I'm mad at Nike and they will get no props or shout-outs or links or love from me. So put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Nike.


(But they are kinda cool).

*I am mistaken. I did own something other than chucks, in college when I needed to have "sensible sneakers" for a gym requirement. It was for the Beginners Folk & Square Dancing class, which was way nerdy but offered the easiest amount of physical exertion of the gym glasses, other than say, bowling. The square dancing part was retarded and awesome, as were the folksy dances (the Tarantella rules, yo). But "The Achy Breaky"? Oy vey. It was 1994 so lay off me, people. Do I remember anything from that class? I do not. Though I bet I could Macarena my ass off at a wedding. Who am I kidding, I'd be at the open bar making fun of the people doing the Electric Slide. I've been called many things before: grumpy, sarcastic, coal miner. But never a wedding dancer. Though I may bring the Humpty Dance back, no confirmation on that just yet.

Enjoy The Silence

E is for Ernest who choked on a peach.


E is also for Edward Scissorhands, what a Halloween dish. Well, not so much the Edward Scissorhands part, but the Johnny Depp. Unless of course you've got the hots for sensitive, misunderstood, Emo type boys who wear leather S&M bondage suits for no reason with Robert Smith hair and guyliner before it got dumb who are severely scarred and have stabby pieces of metal for hands. Then it's your lucky day.


I miss the days of yore in a magical place, also called Hollywood in the early 90's, when we thought it would be Johnny + Winona 4-EvR, hanging out with their BFF's Brad + Juliette. It's taken me a long time, but I forgive you, Johnny, for breaking our little Winona's heart. I won't hold it against you. (But YOU can hold IT against ME. Hey-yo!...These are the jokes people, what do you expect?! I'm not some super awesome comedian like Gallagher. Or Carrot Top). It makes me sad for a hot second when the few famous couples that actually DON'T make me puke break up and ruin my day. And then I remember Jack Daniels makes the sad go away and I'm back in business.


And also, did you know that there is a stage show of Edward Scissorhands?! Me neither! The show is heading to Australia so if you're sitting around, munching on Vegemite, bored off your rocker, then I fully expect you to go and do some super sneaky spy recon and find out the level of suckitude of the show. I will expect a report of 1000 words, single spaced, on rose-scented paper, on my desk by monday morning. Thanksalotyou'rearealpeach. I bet the show either sucks so majorly in an epic way or is so over-the-top fantastic, also in an epic way. It's downright blasphemy to take a spectacularly cool movie such as ES and turn it into a Broadway play. Or an off-Broadway play. Or a SO-Off-Broadway-That-It-Can-Only-Be-Seen-On-Another-Continent play. It's like turning the Godfather into a show, with Paris Hilton playing Fredo. I'm not sure how I feel about it at the moment. I'll get back to you on that, though there is a pretty good chance that something about it will annoy me, as something about everything usually does.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

Don't Fear The Reaper

D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh.


D is also for Devilish. And Dumbass. Which kind of go hand-in-hand on Halloween. Gather 'round kids, and I'll spin ye a yarn of epic stupidity.

Not long ago, a friend of mine and I were talking about some of the really extra stupid crap we pulled as teenagers. You could call them "wacky shenanigans". But I wouldn't. I'd still call them "really extra stupid crap". The kind of stunts that were pretty dangerous or law-breaking, and in hindsight, it makes me wonder how I didn't end up dead. It also makes me wonder how can one person do so much stupid shit and not get caught? These days, I get scared when I forget to take my vitamins. The horror! My vitamin C intake is at minimum capacity! 200cc's of orange juice, STAT! Like this one time (at band camp...ha..ha? that even still funny anymore? Do people still SAY that? Someone please clarify and put me out of my "lame puns from 5 years ago that only dorks still say" misery. Thank you.

ANYWAY. This one time when I was about 17, my friends and I were driving around bored after sneaking drinks out of the off box-o-wine that belonged my my friend's mom who always worked and was never home, and when she WAS, she let us drink, so of course she was "cool". We thought we were badASS, by the way. And did I say we were driving under the influence and underage? I meant to say that we were gathering wheat sheaves and exchanging our favorite bible passages and singing our most joyous hymns, DUH. So we were driving around and I distinctly remember "Don't Fear the Reaper" came on the radio and it moved me so much that I had another one of my brilliant ideas that involved criminal activity of some sort. My friend, the one with the "cool mom" who was always at work, worked at some printing press/newspaper/magazine/some place I forget the details of, and she had a CASE of promotional Nirvana stickers in the trunk...Without incriminating myself, let the record show that a bunch of teens were never caught plastering cars with Nirvana sticks in various parking lots across town, including a few that belonged to teachers...Thanks, Blue Oyster Cult! You give me the best ideas.

For all you Saturday Night Live fans, you KNOW I gotta post "the one about the cowbell" Blue Oyster Cult skit with Christopher Walken. I couldn't post the clip here, because those corporate douches at SNL won't allow it, but at least here's the link you can copy and paste to watch the skit. Great stuff, you'll love it, you'll get a fever for more cowbell. Though I cannot be held responsible for any devilish OR dumbass acts that result from watching it.

(If anyone can get their grubby paws on the actual clip of the show in html so I can post it here, there might be a free Nirvana bumper sticker in it for you).

Cretin Hop

C is for Clara who wasted away.


C is also for candy apple. Like on this oddly rad vintage 60's smock from Violet64.

Does it not look sort of like Nickelodeon slime on yellow apples? I don't know why but I think I love that. An annoying thing is that since it's technically a smock, the back only closes with 2 ties. But I totally want to wear this as not so much of a smock (because smocks make me think of frumpy, middle-aged women playing bingo at the fire hall on Saturday afternoons) but as an actual top, maybe shorten it, maybe wear it with a cardigan and lots of cheap plastic Peg Bundy jewelry or whatever. And maybe there's a frumpy, middle-aged woman who'll play bingo at the fire hall on Saturday afternoons inside of me waiting to come out. In which case, does anyone have Dr. Kevorkian's phone number?

I'm gonna dork out here for a second and talk sewing, so if there are any guys reading this, now's a good time to daydream about boobs or carburetors or beef jerky or whatever the hell boys think about.

So. If I was a girl (which I am) who could sew (which I can) but sew *well* (which I can't), I would buy this top (which I might) and add a zipper down the back, mayhaps even buttons (which could work, though buttons are more work that anyone needs to do, especially for lazy-ass Cheeto freaks who can't be bothered to do things the right way but the half-assed slacker way, such as myself. On second thought, maybe I'd just duct tape the back closed and call it a day. Also, was that my longest thought ever inside a set of parentheses? What the hell's up that? "C" should be for crazy, because apparently I'm heading in that direction, with all this thinking done in brackets. I think I had a clear, concise blog idea when I started typing this morning but sadly last night's tomfoolery has taken a toll on me, what with all the Shirley Temples and canasta. Ok not really, but I'm mentally preparing for my mid-life crisis).