… because Greeneyed girl didn’t find it amusing …

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!

Because Bert don’t play, yo!

SOURCE: Break.com

::: 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?!

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 …

Take Our Poll

… nah, still seizurey.

I mean, I get it.
I know we can’t all be Sahar!
Hell, Sahar can barely handle being Sahar!!

But try, ‘kay?
Maybe just a little?

Because jammin’ your hams into a mess like that is among the wrongest kinds of wrongs.

That pank is stank, yo!

I’m serious.
Stop it.

Because perpetrating this kind of absolute rock-bottom fashion fuckery is ick and blech and ptooey and I’m pretty sure illegal in several states because of all of the aforementioned reasonation-type shit not to mention it hurts my fucking EYES!

MY EYES!!!!!!

So seriously — stop it.
Frealz.

Because landing your bedazzled butt on POWM or Poorly Dressed should not be your goal, your fallback position or your alibi.

So, like, seriously really — stop it.

Because some things you just can’t un-see.

I don’t!

I mean – I can FEEL that shit, but I don’t SEE that shit.

See, that’s my knee down there (HI KNEE!) and, according to the HBIC at the walk-in I limped-in yesterday it’s cracked … maybe … possibly … so go see an orthopedic surgeon to find out for sure if that bitch is truly busticated.

So I did.
‘Cept he wasn’t sure either.

So now The Cookie’s gonna get her MRI on (NO SNEEZING, LIE STILL) tomorrow and maybe, possibly find the fuck out for good!.

Which makes me all ‘Really?!? Didn’t you guys learn how to read an X-Ray on, like, day 1 of doctor school or something?’

Because I sure can’t. But I don’t have to.
Because it’s a pretty well-established indisputable 100 kinds of true FACT that I am not a doctor or a nurse or a nurse practitioner or a medical assistant or the front-desk lady who gives out lollies.

But they are, which is why this ho hooks up with healing-types when her shit brings the hurt.

I go see people who are supposed to know shit so they can look at my shit and tell me how to fix that shit!

‘Cept modern medicine’s not as hot shit as all that.

Because it requires multiple examinations by multiple people over the course of multiple days to maybe, possibly find out why pain is radiating down my leg from the outside of my right knee and maybe, possibly fix that fuckery so I can get back to bidness!!

Sheeeeeyut!

My hopefullyhecanredeemhimselfbecasueIdon’twanttosaygoodbyetomy Ihopenotsoontobeformerlove Katt Williams was supposed to bring the hee hee during a performance in Phoenix last weekend but instead he just brought the ‘Oh HAYULL NAW!’

Because he went there.
Because Tracey Morgan’d himself and that, my friends, is a taint you almost can’t terminate.

During his show, the Pimp Chronicler singled out a man seated near the stage and asked him if he was Mexican.
::: ruh roh :::

“It appears to me y’all like it over here a lot,” Williams then said.
::: here we go :::

Cue the tirade in 3 … 2 …

“If y’all had California, and you loved it, you shouldn’t have gave that motherfucker up! You should have fought for California, goddamn it! Since you loved it.”

The audience member then stood up and said “This is Mexico, motherfucker!” to which Williams replied by turning in his direction, stomping his foot and responding “You think I’m dissing Mexico and I’m defending America. Do you know where Mexico is? No, this ain’t Mexico, it used to be Mexico, motherfucker, and now it’s Phoenix, goddammit. USA! USA!”

Now, kiddies, this is the part where I don’t have to tell you that this heated little exchange headed straight for the land of NOT GOOD with no detours, pit stops or bathroom breaks … because it did.

Because NOT GOOD is disparaging another person’s culture and heritage and should never be confused with defending your own.
Because it’s not.

After singing a bit of the national anthem – which Williams apparently either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care was written by slave-owner Francis Scott Key – he exploded with “Fuck, we were slaves, bitch! Y’all just work like that at the landscapers, motherfucker! It’s not even racial, you’re a bitch!”

Except that, well, I love you Katt, but let’s put it out there, ‘kay hon?
It was racial.
And it was undeserved.
Which makes it, like, you know — wrong ‘n stuff.

It wasn’t ‘edgy comedy’.
It was ignorance and undeserved mean-spiritedness toward someone else on the sole basis of ethnicity.
Which — stay with me here — makes it racial.
Which also like, you know — makes it wrong ‘n stuff.

Outrage over the incident has roundly risen everywhere, including the national Latino advocacy group Presente.org, which petitioned for — and seems to have perhaps, maybe, on some level received — an apology.

A very dry white toast, probably publicist-penned apology, that is.

“My remarks were not meant to be offensive. I want to apologize if my comedy act was taken out of context. I sincerely appreciate my fans within the Mexican community and would never intentionally go out of my way to offend them.”

Not exactly dripping with sincerity there.
Just sayin’.

Katt, baby, if history is any guide toward the future – we’ll see if you do sincerely appreciate your fans — from all communities.
Or if you just appreciate their money.

I know which one I hope it is.

… but instead I got this:

There was a problem
There is not room in this league if all teams from last year return. To join, get the commissioner to increase the maximum number of teams, or remove teams that will not be returning. (Error #638)

DENIED?
MOI?!?

I rub my eyes.
Surely I didn’t see what I just saw.
I look again.
It’s still there.

So I’m all ‘how can this be?’ — but then my beady little eye found the devil in that detail …

Not enough room *IF* all of last year’s teams return.

Excuse me, but what is this *if* shit?!?

This league has a cap of 16 teams and, last I heard only 11 had returned.
As in 11.
As in actually returned.
As in actually signed up.
As in actually going to draft.
Tonight.

Now, I think it’s a well-established fact that The Cookie is no mathematological genius-type ‘ho or anything, but I do know the difference between 11 and 16, people. I did pass the second grade, after all!

First – they LOOK different! One’s skinny and one’s got a belly.
Second – they SOUND different! One has three syllables and one’s got two.
Third – they COUNT different! One barely breaks into a third hand and one’s gonna need four.

SEE?!?!

They are DEFFERENT, as in not the same, as in one is less and one is more, as in – if we’re gettin’ technical here – there is, like, actual ROOM in this league for Cookie’s Coffin Cornerers.
Because there is!
Because 11 is not 16!!

TRUTH!

So cut the crap already and
Let.
My.
People.
IN!!

So here’s the nugget:
If you start bringin’ the crazy all of a sudden – don’t panic.
It’s ok.

Because it’s, like, 100% Mother Nature’s fault.
::: subsitute teachers, guidance counselors, babysitters and parents everywhere breathe a sigh of relief :::

A report being released today titled ‘A Climate of Suffering: The Real Cost of Living with Inaction on Climate Change’ says the past 15 years of planet cracking has been a ”preview of life under unrestrained global warming”.

A PREVIEW?!?
FUUUUUCK – this shit’s gonna get worse?
::: rhetorical question, of course it is – you thought 2010 was an anomaly?! :::

The report is the culmination of someone’s idea of serious researchological determinerifficality, prepared real special-like for the Climate Institute, and it puts the loss of social cohesion in the wake of severe weather events related to climate change squarely in the center of the blame circle of things that could possibly, likely be linked to increased rates of anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress and substance abuse.

”What we have seriously underestimated is the effects on social cohesion,” said Professor Ian Hickie, the executive director of the Brain and Mind Research Institute. “That is very hard to rebuild and they are critical to the mental health of an individual.”

YA THINK?!

Dude, being stranded in your own flooded house with no running water (YUCK!) during a three-day power outage (BLECH!) with only a few gallons of wine to drink (PTOO .. oh wait, that was just good planning) wondering how the hell you’re even going to get out of your own neighborhood (SCARY!) if you run out (SCARIER!!!) clued The Cookie in to that whole anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress and substance abuse ACK!!! after Hurricane Jeanne upended my shit in 2004!

Save yourself the next few thousand and spend some time in SoFla during a truly heinous hurricane and you can studerifically conclusionize for FREE all day long!

SOURCE