3 Broke Girls


Lindsay Lohan guest-starred on this week’s episode of 2 Broke Girls. She hasn’t seen the episode yet because she’s terribly busy getting wasted at Coachella. (Stop claiming to try, Lindsay. People CAN SEE YOU.)

In case you didn’t see the episode, here’s a recap:

First Max made a boob joke because that’s her thing. Soon followed by an STD joke because that’s her other thing.

Lindsay appeared with a string of jokes that made it clear that her character is spoiled. By the sound of her prematurely aged voice, I’d say she accidentally smoked her comedic timing.

Then Caroline made some jokes about not being rich anymore because that’s her thing.

There was a butt stuff joke from Lindsay, then Sophie made a joke about waxing her “downstairs eyebrows”.

So Lindsay played a bride-to-be who kept changing her mind about her wedding cake. If you think this concept doesn’t sound funny, you are correct! Caroline and Max finally made her perfect cake, then Caroline’s arm went through the cake on the subway on the way to the wedding. They stuffed it with Styrofoam and covered it with fondant. (Sorry for the spoilers.)

Flo from the Progressive ads appeared as the wedding planner. Then Max worked in a molestation joke. Then Lindsay made a herpes joke.

Fast forward to Lindsay taking off from her own wedding. Then Max put on the wedding dress because this was supposed to ensure that they got paid for the messed-up cake. Insert yeast infection joke from Max, then she walked down the aisle. Lindsay reappeared and got married. Then Lindsay decided she might be into chicks.

One of the running gags was Lindsay and her fiancé both saying “babe” way too much. It wasn’t funny the first time, second time, or the ninety-seventh.

I think I have the 2 Broke Girls formula down. Here it is: boob joke + STD joke + pube joke + joke about their short Asian boss + joke about losing money + molestation/pedophilia joke + boob joke + sex joke + STD joke + drugs joke = twenty-two minute script.

I’m beginning to think that we all over-estimated Lindsay’s potential. I admit that the material from 2 Broke Girls wasn’t the best, but the talented Kat Dennings and Beth Behrs make the most of it. Lindsay didn’t have an authentic moment the entire episode. Was she ever really great in anything? Mean Girls is an awesome flick, and Lindsay did a good job in it. But her supporting cast was brilliant. Maybe we need to consider the possibility that her performance was a fluke. Perhaps that was her shining moment, never to be duplicated.

Meanwhile Lindsay is reportedly blaming her reality show on OWN for ruining her chances at a comeback.

Sure, Lindsay. Oprah is totally to blame for your ruined career. Stick with that story.




Stick to the book, wankers.


A lot of people are upset that Darren Arofonsky’s ‘Noah’ doesn’t follow the story in the Bible. Changing major plot points is an all-too-common phenomenon in Hollywood. Here are 5 movies that went too far from the author’s vision.

  1. Dude, Where’s My Car (2000): This movie is based on the 1979 epic novel The Car We Lost. In the novel, Chester Greenburg (played by Seann William Scott) is an aspiring mime who is in love with Jesse Montgomery III (Ashton Kutcher). Chester’s unrequited love drives him mad, and he kills himself by sticking a fireplace poker through his heart.

2.    Jurassic Park (1993): It’s a common misconception that this movie is based on a Michael Crichton novel. The truth is that it’s based on the 1991 thriller Party in the Back about a scientist who can’t face the end of the mullet culture, so he begins cloning rockers and rednecks. The mullet men take over the entire East Coast, leaving chewing tobacco trails and beer cans in their wake. The chilling novel drove many people to build underground bunkers in case there was any chance that it was a sign of things to come. Steven Spielberg decided to turn the mullet men into dinosaurs to present the work as a metaphor.

3.   Lost in Translation (2003): Sofia Coppola’s subtle masterpiece is based on the 1988 novel by the same name. In the novel, Charlotte (played by Scarlett Johnansson) can’t escape the feeling that her life is pointless and boring, so she disappears into Tokyo’s underbelly to live a life of prostitution. Bob (Bill Murray) becomes her pimp, and they live happily ever after. The novel also inspired ‘Pretty Woman’.

4.    Home Alone (1990): The 1965 novel Cannibal Christmas that inspired this movie paints a much darker portrait of Kevin McCallister (Macauley Culkin). In the book, Kevin creates a wacky series of booby traps in hopes of murdering his family and roasting their remains. I won’t tell you who lives or dies. You’ll have to read it yourself to find out!

5.    The 40-Year-Old Virgin (2005): In the 1999 novel Purity Ring, Andy (Steve Carell) is a religious zealot experiencing an existential crisis. Andy has worn a purity ring since junior high, and it won’t come off. We follow the protagonist through a series of heart-warming misadventures as he tries to remove the ring. In one scene, he follows his friend’s advice to use mayonnaise as a ring-removing lubricant, and he ends up with his entire hand stuck in the jar. The goofiness is offset by touching moments, such as Andy reading boy band lyrics aloud to the woman he keeps chained up in his basement.

What’s up?


I recently discovered that we have Vevo. My time is being sucked down a rabbit hole full of Alice in Chains videos. I’ve crawled out to catch up with my Goats (I’m trying out nicknames for my readers. I figured Goats is preferable to Cows. Thoughts?).

I learned two days ago that Gloria Vanderbilt is Anderson Cooper’s mom. The fact that I didn’t know this completely strips me of my pop culture professor title. And as a dear friend pointed out last night, I’ve also lost points from the gays. I promise to work even harder to regain your trust.

We’re still playing ‘is he or isn’t he a he’ with Bruce Jenner’s rumored sex change. The Daily Mail has reported that Bruce has selected the name ‘Bridgitte’ as his lady name. Anyone who reads the Daily Mail knows that it’s slightly more accurate than interpreting your dog’s poo for news. So maybe he’s a Bruce and maybe he’s a Bridgitte. Either way, he or she stopped being relevant in or around 1986.

The third season of ‘Girls’ just finished, and I’m not feeling too optimistic about the future. At least half of the season was spent on the friends infighting. I know that young women can be catty and mean, but these chicks are horrible to each other. None of them wants any of the others to enjoy a shred of happiness. It’s a collective of miserable people, and the parts that made it funny have disappeared. My vote for funniest grungy chick friends show has been shifted to ‘Broad City’.  I hope ‘Girls’ can recapture the honesty and humor that made it a great show in the first season. But I’m not sure if I can stick around long enough to find out. Who am I kidding? I’ll give it another season.

The Lindsay Lohan documentary series (or as I like to call it, ‘The Show About That Girl We Stopped Caring About Five Years Ago’) on the OWN Network has experienced a ratings drop. It’s been beat out by ‘SpongeBob Square Pants’ (that’s not a joke). I haven’t watched the Lindsay show, but my friend Melodie has. Here’s what she had to say: ‘From now on I’m going to pretend it’s called LINDSAY! and not boring old LINDSAY like it really is. If anything needs the added pizzazz of an exclamation point it’s a show where you just watch a Troubled Starlet sift through her storage containers and pretend to be inspired by meditation cards.’

Thanks for catching up with me. I have to go now. Vevo has a selection of Hole videos that are calling my name.






In defense of Jenny McCarthy


Jenny McCarthy has been at the center of the vaccine controversy for years now. The criticism directed toward her is growing as childhood diseases spread as a natural response to kids not being vaccinated. McCarthy is not the first and only anti-vaccine celebrity. She’s just perhaps the most outspoken.

When she went on Oprah in 2007 to explain and defend her stance on the vaccine and autism link, I watched, terrified and riveted. What I saw was a mother who passionately believed that the MMR vaccine injected into her son caused him to develop autism. She was trying to warn parents of the dangers of vaccines, and she was pushing for the medical community to develop safer vaccines.

With my baby in my arms, I wondered she could be right. So I researched. I spoke with my child’s pediatrician. I researched some more. I eventually delayed the MMR shot for my son. It wasn’t long until Dr. Andrew Wakefield’s study, where McCarthy gathered a lot of her information, was debunked and Dr. Wakefield lost his medical license. To me, the safest option was to vaccinate.

If parents choose only take Jenny McCarthy’s word for it and are too irresponsible to gather research their own, it is the fault of those parents. Jenny McCarthy is an actress, activist, former Playboy bunny, author, and mother. She is NOT a doctor or a scientist. She is not responsible for how anyone cares for their own children.

Jenny McCarthy may be misguided and outspoken, but it’s wrong to blame her for the spread of childhood diseases.

SGSC Oscar Wrap-Up


PRO: Lupita Nyong’o is perfect. Her dress, her hair, her speech. Impeccable. Never change, Lupita.

CON: Everyone was obviously stoned. That’s what happens when you don’t serve alcohol. Either that or the teleprompters were written in hieroglyphics.

PRO/CON: One of the highlights of the night was Idina Menzel’s performance of “Let It Go”. We must all get past John Travolta introducing her as something like “Adela Dazeem”. We get it John Travolta, you’re so heterosexual you don’t even know Idina Menzel’s name. You guys know that I’m suffering from emotional dry-rot, but I can’t watch her performance without getting weepy. I’ve tried three times already.

PRO: If we ignore Angelina Jolie’s bitchy resting face, she was fabulous last night. Her super slow walk with Sidney Poitier ended in a beautiful speech that made her appear human instead of the fem-bot we’ve grown to accept.

CON: Julia Roberts’ lace doily dress. And Tyson Beckford calling her “Jessica Roberts” on the red carpet.

PRO: Ellen Degeneres did an excellent job hosting. I really hoped she would reprise Seth MacFarlane’s “We Saw Your Boobs”, and she spent a lot of time wandering around in the audience. But otherwise she was great.

CON: Amy Adams didn’t win best actress. She should always win everything.

PRO: “12 Years a Slave” won best picture.  We are constantly reminded in our culture to “never forget” when it comes to tragedies such as 9/11. And we shouldn’t. But we also need to stop burying this part of our collective history. If “Wolf of Wall Street” had won instead, I think we all would have lost faith in humanity.

On Potlucks: By Deedee Ulintz


I was struggling for something to write for this guest blog, then I get an email for our upcoming Spring Break Work Potluck. Let the flood gates open…

First of all, it’s not spring. At all. So let’s just get that right out of the way. Second, there’s no luck involved here. Potlucks are soul-crushing events, designed to rob us all of the God-given right to be left the fuck alone. It’s a display of everyone’s sorrow and defeat in life, dumped sadly into chipped, discount dishware bought right after a divorce. Plus, work colleagues wouldn’t actively choose to be socially involved with one another. If they did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in potluck form.

And okay, I might be a food snob. I typically don’t eat processed or pre-made foods. But I’m not so much of a snob that I can’t shut my organic, homemade piehole and enjoy that stuff if served by other people. That being said, there’s a line… and potlucks cross it. No one wants to deal with cooking or spending money on work people – half of which you know to be shitheads – so the quality quotient of what’s provided plummets to the “fuck-these-people-I-hope-they-spend-tonight-shitting-water” level.

Allow me to recap the fare at our last work potluck, and perhaps you’ll agree:

Enter 20 different pasta salads, all of which were SWIMMING in what I assume to be a mayonnaise/ranch/mustard/cream incest-fest. I could make out the rotini (because that’s the pasta you use when you’ve given up on life) but I couldn’t make out the rest. Chunks of something that were the color of my cat’s vomit that time I took her to the vet? And I guess some curd-like things? Perhaps shavings of carrots, or skin. A couple of them had what looked to be the ‘healthier’ flax or wheat noodle, though they were drowning painfully underneath a pool of milky goo.

Baked beans, brought by a secretary who mentioned she’d “hopefully heated them enough to kill bacteria.” Way to sell your dish.

Rolls dethawing in a fancy basket, gumming together in a sauce of ice and napkin. There was a corner of the gummy breadblock cracked off from where someone tried to separate a roll, but clearly gave up after losing the battle. You could still see the fingerprint embedded in bread putty. Next to the fancy basket? A stick of margarine from the early 70′s – before margarine was proven terrible for health – with some toast crumbs engraved on top. Points for the fancy basket though.

Three plates of some dip that’s apparently a potluck favorite. It’s made with a layer of red (??) and a layer of crabmeat. And by crabmeat, I mean Krabmeat. I’ll eat canned fish, but I draw the line at Krab. It’s the hot dog of the sea.

A heated tub of, oh I don’t know, maybe slices of ham? Or slices of beef? Or slices of a decayed leper? It was graybrownpink and scaly. So whatever’s that color and consistency, it was that. And it was stewing in its own wet. At one point, someone whispered, “Is that the meat?” Unclear. But go ahead and give it a try. I’ll just dial “9″ and “1″ on my phone just in case…

A table of six hundred 2-liters of pop. And no water. Look, I don’t drink pop, but if I did, I’d at least want it to be fizzy. A 2-liter is just pop that’s given up on life. In any case, all six hundred bottles were empty within 20 minutes. People. Love. Pop.

And then the dessert table. I mean, if nothing else, you can usually count on dessert, right? WRONG. There were plates and plates of depressing cookies, and I imagined the person baking them the night before, pissed, and sweating under a fluorescent kitchen light at 11:50pm while her distant, unloving husband watched Two and a Half Men reruns in a stained t-shirt and black socks. I chose two different cookies that looked halfway decent, but ended up tasting like a stick of butter someone carried around in their ass-crack. In the middle of the table, a beautiful coconut cake sat on a glass-domed cake stand. It looked great. It looked like salvation. And then someone cut into it, revealing the horrific innards – dry, dusty, and brown. Like Arizona’s anus. In fact, the knife kinda made the sawing sound that happens when you rip cardboard. And in that moment, you could hear everyone’s hopes die a suffocating, painful death.

So yeah, fuck potlucks. I ain’t goin’ to this one.

Caption Contest


I finally updated my blog, y’all! For a chance to win a t-shirt from my extensive personal collection, caption the photo on the left in the comments below. You have until Friday, February 28 to dazzle me with your wit!