So the other day I was sitting in my climate-controlled living room, wearing a chinchilla fur bathrobe and rabbit fur slippers and eating glazed veal shallots with grated white truffle on top, when one of those commercials for ChildFund International came on. And talk about a mood kill. So what if my $1 donation can feed an entire village for six years and build a Dunkin’ Donuts/Baskin Robbins combo store? Do you know what I can buy at the dollar store with that? Everything. Here’s a much better use for your extra cash: Head down to the supermarket, grab some canned food and donate it to the Society for Design Administration, who ships it out to poverty-stricken countries gets a bunch of architecture firms to make sculptures out of them! Because with charitable donations down and food pantries low on food, what we really need is a piggy bank made out of 3,000 cans of tuna fish. What’s that? They donate all the cans afterwards? Please, that food is probably spoiled. Huh? It’s nonperishable? Whatever. (*Sips espresso with pinky sticking out*)
Public transportation is just that—public. It’s not first class on an airplane. It’s not the Hampton Jitney. It’s not the morning carpool (but if Frank spills the sprinkles from his donut on my lap one more time I’m going to strangle him with his seatbelt). I don’t understand why people get so freaked out when they see weirdos on the bus or subway. Woman yelling at her reflection to stop staring at her? Old man screaming that the voices in his head WON’T STOP TELLING HIM TO DO THINGS? Burlesque dancer arguing with a Hasidic Jew while a guy in a red fur coat plays ukulele? Newsflash, everyone—the world is full of psychos that should be sporting a stratjacket accessorized with a Hannibal Lecter mask any time they go outside. People of Public Transit, in the vein of People of Wal-Mart, has tons of photographic evidence that mental hospitals do let patients out for free time. Hopefully someday it will confirm my suspicion that Elvis is black, overweight and rides the 6 train.
Blake Lively hosted last week’s SNL and it was actually a good episode. No, no, hell did not freeze over and Kirstie Alley is not a size 2. I was just as surprised as you are. It didn’t hurt that Lively looks ridiculously good whether she’s playing a professional bowler, Staten Island guidette or hillbilly secretary. And the Digital Short was great, too: It featured musical guest Rihanna and Andy Samberg as “Shy Ronnie” performing for what I’ll assume is either an elementary school class or a witness protection program for kids that are “friends” with the neighborhood pedophile. Samberg, with shaggy hair, braces and the ugliest sweater-turtleneck combo ever, looks like me a kid I knew when I was in grade school. The whispering, the staring at the floor, the peeing his pants—that’s me him to a T! And with Rihanna wearing Zubaz, this video really takes me back. I remember that kid. His name was…Darb. Yeah, that was it.
(How many sexual innuendos can I fit into one “NBN?” Put the children and prudes to bed and let’s find out!) Tiger Woods has been having a hard time lately1. First his wife used his own club against him2 and he crashed his Escalade, then his numerous gal pals opened their mouths to the media3, and now his mother-in-law is in the hospital. How’s El Tigre going to beat this thing4? It would be great if he could just smother this thing5—some people like asphyxiation, but it seems like every day another Vegas bartender or nightclub executive is coming and screaming Woods’ name6. The Daily News has a picture gallery of the ladies, useful because without it there’s nothing to stick to their faces7. I’d imagine this is going to grow quite a bit8 over the next week and at some point is going to climax9 before people go back to not caring about anything related to golf. Let’s just hope none of these women got a splinter10. (Thank you! Remember to tip your waitress—especially if you’ll be having sex with her later!)
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Did Elin Nordegren ever check Tiger’s Twitter? I’m sure there were a few “@ElTigre Had a great time in Vegas with you”-type messages when he told her he was at physical therapy.