Awful-ly funny

… because Greeneyed girl didn’t find it amusing …

This much I know

I am no Mr. Blackwell
::: but hey, technically neither is he, since he’s dead ‘n all … :::

I am no Joan Rivers
::: thank GAWD!!! :::

I am no Heidi Klum
::: but I pretend to be every Thursday night at Sammi … err, uhh, nevermind … :::

I am no high and mighty fashion critic.
I’m a fashion ICON!

As in ‘Icon see that shit and that shit ain’t right!’

And this shit ain’t right! —–>

It’s wrongness exists on several levels, but let’s not go into the granular details lest The Situation wannabe at my local LA Fitness who tormented MY EYES this very afternoon feel compelled to divert his rufie and hair gel savings and put it toward the kind of marrow-level in-depth psychoanalysis his entire being is so desperately crying out for.

No.
Let’s not do that.
We simply don’t have that kind of time.

But address the all-out fuckery that IS those shorts – WE MUST!

Because they aren’t shorts.
Or Pants.
Or Shants.
Or Ports.

Those, my friends, are culottes, okay?

Fucking culottes.

As in women’s fashion trousers circa 1978!!!

As in kinda ok these days for (women who do) yoga but not much else.

So stop it, douchebag.
Because it’s annoying to watch you try to be all testeroney as you priss and strut and flex and grunt while wearing those ridiculous things.
Because it doesn’t work.
Because it doesn’t make you look muscular, or masculine or, well, much of anything remotely, uhh, male.

It makes you look like my Aunt Carol.

‘Nuff said.

There’s a Sports Authority at Southern and 441.
Visit the men’s clothing section pronto because, DAYUM!

YEAH!!!!!

Because Bert don’t play, yo!

SOURCE: Break.com

Too busy for you bitches?!?

NEVAH!
::: except lately :::

I say fuck that shit!
::: But then I take on a new project and get fucked by that shit :::

I say screw that noise!!
::: But then comes project scope creep and that noise become DEAFENING:::

Sure, the projects are always big …

Outsourc, err, offshore partnering …
Terminati, uhh, deferring employment for a select set …

And getting soooo supremely fed up with that mess that I chucked a BIG OL’ duece to the douches who made me do it, said a contractual ‘I Do’ to a some sparkly newness and immediately found myself up to my ears in project planning fuckery and timetable tomfoolery I’ve had zero clock ticks to fix but realize I was apparently supposed to have solutionized, like, 4 months, 3 days, 7 hours and 36 seconds before I ever agreed to this gig.

Seriously?!?
Yeah.

I’d ask Calgon to take me away, but that would imply I’ve had even the smidgest of spare moments to indulge in something as decidedly decadent as a full-body soak.
::: oooooooo full-body soak!!! :::

And so here I am — getting the ass end of a ginormo assignment.
Again.

Can’t I just win the Lottery so I can play with you bitches full-time?!

Ad … Nauseum?

No, this is not me making a mad dash for my secret hiding place when the po po unexpected company has arrived.
::: I mean really. The couch? OBVIOUS! :::

This is not me looking for that ‘little extra’ I sometimes need but have to hide strategically protectionize locationally.
::: Like I’d leave it where your chirrenz could steal it?!? Never! :::

This is not me putting a fresh coat of tummy gargle on the living-room Pergo.
::: Well, actually it could be. But it’s not. THIS time. :::

This is an advertisement.

A wide shot of some bitch’s admittedly hot ass is the cerebral creation I have to believe a bunch of dumb Madison Avenue morons conveived at the conclusion of a long afternoon spent high on Hawaiian salt, trying to relive those long-long gone high school glory days when all it took was a not-exactly-creative ’nice ass’ and a driver’s licenes to get you nine-kinds of in the door.

‘Cept the ad isn’t edgy or creative or even fun.
It’s pathetic.

Because it’s too easy.

I mean, who doesn’t know that the seat of all power, the center of known universe, the source of all natural wealth, health and happiness - as well as everything in reverse to the extreme times a gozillion - is and forever will be the Great Garden of Lady Goodness that makes the world go ’round?!?

Frealz.
We run this shit.

Which means this had to be the brainchildfart of actual grown-up type-human most-likely-male-type chromosome-carriers.
Old-type ones.

Because that kind of generic ’nice ass’ coming from a bunch of 50-60-ish adver-guys in ties gawking at the Hooter’s waitstaff while trying to evolve an idea has the same pathetic ring as ‘I live with my mom’ from a 30-ish trick trying to pick me you up at Applebee’s.

Just sayin’.
Can’t you do better?!

Guess not.

Because the Maddy’s testosterone mind meld apparently had them feeling enough ‘Captain’s of Concept’ that they were able to convince their poor schmuck of a client to buy the back covers of aawlll the supermarket ‘oids to showcase their duhhhh moment for all the world to witness.

Because I guess they don’t realize that this is a SHEconomy where 85% of all brand purchases are made by … WOMEN!
In case you didn’t know, this includes homes, cars, health care, food and medicines.
Hmmmmm, is this ass ad trying to sell us one of those???

Because I guess they also don’t realize that 91% of the value validating vajayjays out there feel advertisers *SHOCK* don’t understand them.

Because they really think the chuff is gonna help sell …