Late Night Rant #1

Alright, listen up everyone who has a myspace or facebook account.

I'll start with myspace.

STOP WITH THE GOD DAMNED MYSPACE EDITOR BULLSHIT!!!

All it does it make the page load slower as well as making it harder to find the crap I'm looking for. Sometimes, you pick such god awful color schemes that I end up TABBING just to find a god damn link to something ANYTHING! I mean, you didn't even use html, you used a fucking PROGRAM to edit that shit and somehow you still made the text the same fucking color as the background!!

I mean, I know most of the culprits of this are somewhere between the ages of 11 and 99 (as their dumbass enters it as.) These people also live in "hell" or "heaven" or somewhere else equally as cryptic. Well, I figured out your little "riddle." The answer is you're a fucking dumbass.

But holy shit.

I know people in their MID TO LATE 20'S that have back-ass-wards myspaces with all kinds of goofy shit floating around and awful music playing that you can never figure out how to turn off because it's hidden on the side or some load of bullshit.

People.
The only improvement to be made to the generic myspace profile is to maybe inverse the colors. Black background and white text. Only to make it easier on the eyes.

But that's it!

Quit putting all sorts of youtube shit everywhere and sparkly crap and anything but words.

I mean, I understand that most of you can barely type, let alone spell or complete full sentences but god damn. I don't care if you have to speak into a microphone and hope the computer can write it for you without it reading like a Nigerian scam artist.

Just quit it.
Grow up and be simple.
Everyone with eyes and ears will thank you for it.


Ok, now facebook.
Oh facebook.

When you first arrived on the scene, you were just like "Myspace: The College Years." Simple design, simple features. You could have more pictures and more questions were answered, but pretty basic messaging system. I actually thought it was quite stupid. I mean, all my friends were already on myspace. What's the point of joining facebook when the features are pretty much the same?

Then a year or so ago, all hell broke loose.

It started with the "controversial" updates that appear on your home screen alerting you to your friends whereabouts, actions, life, ect.

First, I didn't understand why it caused an uproar.
You signed up for the internet.
You are the one going on there and posting pictures of doing kegstands and sucking off random guys and now you're pissed that some person who you friended for no reason at all saw them?
Do you have any brain cells floating around in the bong water in your head?

When I first saw this feature, I thought, "Wow! Now I actually have a reason to go to facebook and just hear about what all my myspace friends are doing without reading bulletins. What a time saver!"

And it was ok in the beginning. Actual updates on people's living situation, relationships, and soberness statuses. Ya know, shit that matters.

Then suddenly, I started getting messages about being bit by vampires.
Or joining the world's largest facebook jerkoff or some shit.

Now, I go to a friend's facebook page and it's like Myspace arrived and took a huge dump on it.

Can there be ANY MORE SHIT on facebook pages?

Weather updates, jukeboxes, message boards (because apparently, comments are too slow for facebook.)

People.
No one reads this shit except you and maybe some old men stalking you.
I have cancelled my facebook in the past.
But did you know it's basically impossible to cancel? You delete it, but if you by chance happen to log in with the same email at some point in the future, there's your profile, exactly how you left it. Hell, I bet you can still receive messages from all your fucktard friends.

So I have one again.
Only because some people refuse to get myspace.
And when they do, they'll probably eat a bunch of glitter and take a big shit all over the page.


It's 12:52 AM and my rant is over.
Goodnight.

Thanks, but No Thanks!

I had this brilliant story concocted to explain my absence from the computer. It involved alcohol, my mom, the cops, some condoms, and an arrest record but I'll stick with what really happened.

I got too drunk one day, I developed a sickness involving phlegm, and was overall really, really lazy.


But back to the fun.


Now that I'm a college grad, I only have 6 or so odd years until my 10 year reunion. I've heard rumors of 5 year reunions, but with Facebook ruining our lives, that seems kind of pointless now, doesn't it?

Since High School has ended, I've stayed in semi-touch with about 4 friends. One of them actually lives in Chicago and I was in her wedding. But since she's married we never see each other.

Two other friends visit in the summertime, but during the year they go to their respective schools somewhere out in the country.

The final friend should have been a sure thing. She likes to drink. She doesn't go to a state school. She lives on her own and has a job. She owns a car. She's single.

Unfortunately, she's also really fucking lazy or as she puts it "busy."

I've tried to send instant messages or text messages (I know, I really put myself out there) but she usually doesn't respond. Must be all that laz-busyness.

So, like every year for Thanksgiving, I made the trek out to the suburbs to be with my family and give thanks that I'm alive and they are alive and still able to ask me why I'm not married or pregnant or holding down a steady job. Ya know, life questions.

I came into Shitsville, USA the day before thanksgiving for no reason besides being unemployed and enjoying spending 3 hours in traffic with my sister blasting the Spice Girls and trying to get all the other people in cars to dance with us. One guy did smile. But no luck on the dancing.

I spent most of the night watching awful reality shows on MTV or VH1 and using my sister's ancient computer to look up stupid videos on youtube (remember the Juggernaut? I didn't.)

My sister had fallen asleep, my mom was in bed, and my dad was probably getting high in the garage when I received a phone call, at 10:30 from friend #4. We will call her Tina.

Tina was really happy to hear my voice. Apparantly her "fuck buddy" (her words) had stood her up and so she decided she needed to get wasted and talk to her girlfriends (me and her friend in town, Sara, who I thought hated me in high school and now thinks I'm ok.)

I suggest we hit up a bar, it being Black Wednesday and all, the second biggest amateur night of drinking behind New Years Eve. I don't know the burbs like they do, so I ask for suggestions.

We agree to go to some place that actually brews it's own beer in the town over. My dad even recommends it and he drinks a lot so it has to be good.

When Tina comes to pick me up, she insists I drive. So I hop in the drivers seat.

She sits down in the passenger seat and reaches underneath only to pull out an OPEN BOTTLE OF WINE.

So we sit in idle in front of my house as she downs this oversized half gallon of Chardonnay. She keeps telling me how great my hair looks as well as how her "fuck buddy" has such a huge cock.

I take a few swigs just to get this thing over with, we chuck the bottle in my neighbors garbage can and away we go to pick up Sara.

Finally, we arrive at this bar that is more of a grill with a brewery attached but nonetheless we sit down. I now realize that my friend Tina was drunk since she first called me. She then admits to drinking WHILE DRIVING when she was on her way to my house. Oh boy. Alcohol is a truth serum, I tell her. She simply hugs me and laughs.

I grab a pint of their local made Porter and we sit down to have girl talk.
Not more than 4 minutes pass before Tina decides to go up and get some water.
I applaud her sensible choice.
I do not applaud her bringing 3 MUCH OLDER men back to the table.

The mexican guy is married.
Brian is divorced (and at least 35)
And Timmy has a lisp.

I am not giving these guys fake names. This man really was acting gay and his name was Timmy.
You can't make this shit up folks.

Timmy wants to buy us shots.
I'm the unfortunate DD, so I decline. But the rest do it.
And unlike a normal man, who buys everyone the same shot, Timmy decided to let the bartender waste his time making all sorts of frou frou shit shots for everyone. A fuzzy navel here, a lemon drop there.
I sipped my beer and tried not to talk to anyone.

Sara (who is amazingly beautiful and harsh as hell) is telling all sorts of lies to these guys just to watch their reactions. Meanwhile, Tina, my friend, is hitting on all three of them. Especially the mexican dude who for some odd reason, she thinks he is hiding weed from her. I didn't even know she SMOKED POT.

Luckily, in the burbs, all the bars close a 1am during the week. It's 12:45 and we are getting kicked out. Beautiful.

Somehow, my dumb friend wants to keep on drinking.
Since I live in the city and am used to 2am bars (and 4am bars), I agree to follow the boys to some bar that I've never heard of that is apparently open until 2.

After driving in circles, we arrive in a parking lot. We walk to the bar.
THAT'S RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO THE PLACE WE WERE JUST AT.

I'm so glad I'm not paying for the gas.

At this point, the mexican dude has disappeared (he said he was going to go argue with his wife) and I am now the 5th wheel. The DD wingman. What a way to go.

It's Reggae Night and at this point, Timmy's lisp has reached maximum effectiveness, Brian wants to dance with me, and Tina is sad wondering why the black guys on stage don't like her.

Sara is enjoying free drinks even though she keeps repeating she has a boyfriend that gave her HPV.
Tina keeps repeating loudly how she likes a big thick cock with a mushroom head, not the pointy kind.

I am currently standing as far away from this group of four freaks as I can. I even get a look of sympathy from the door man.

Finally, it's 2 am and we have to leave.
The Ambiguously Gay Duo want us all to come back to their place for more drinks.
Tina is holding Brian's hand.
Sara is pushing Timmy away.
I am now in the car with the engine running.

I get them in the car and we drive to my house.

Now, Sara, the more sober one, has to drive Tina back to Sara's place so they can sleep.
Sara refuses to drive, claiming she is drunk (off 2 beers in 2.5 hours.)
I am not walking back from her house at 2am.

I give the keys to Tina.


I know you're thinking, what a horrible friend!

But c'mon.

That was high school.

The Distant Future

A couple weekends ago I met a couple girls not from around here. They were from some rich white person town where the people own huge homes on man-made lakes with their own private docks and party pontoon boats.

They looked generic.
You know those kind of girls.

They wear clothing from old navy and American eagle (possibly charlotte russe if they are feeling particularly whore-y.) They have straight, flattened hair with roots showing (even the brunettes.) They probably really enjoy top 40 hits and anything played at a club full of greased up Chads. They tell awful stories that make you wonder when the point will arrive and then you just give up and stare at the thick layer of eyeliner permanently ringed around their eyes.

The type of girls who you just know go to some state college surrounded by corn, trees, liquor stores and late-night fast food joints.

In fact, these girls were visiting Chicago for a little trip away from school.

And what did they do while they were here?
Drink 24 hours a day of course.

I learned later they liked me.
Odd.
Or maybe they were just weirded out by someone who could hold a conversation without the aid of Jose Cuervo.

I kid.
Sort of.

But it got me wondering about fashion and cliques and how we choose the style choice and friends that create our life and inner circle.

To think something so deep would come out of talking to those girls. I know, it's frightening me too.

Take the stereotype that people most likely associate with me.
Hipster.
Possibly bike hipster (although first I'd have to spend more than $10 on my bike.)

We dress in tight pants, thrift store shirts, and usually have hair reminiscent of a certain decade.
I'm currently rocking the late 70's, Steve Perry locks.
Others have the rat tails of the early 90's.
Perhaps a mod bob from the mid 60's.
Or why not shave some lines in the side of your head like you lived in Detroit during the 80's?

We pretend to have deep thoughts at coffee shops and "old-man" dive bars that are more full of hipsters than alcoholics (wait, same thing.)

We listen to bands that we find on music blogs and love listing them off to someone who doesn't know just to watch the look of non-recognition in their eyes.

Yet where will we or the sorority sisters end up when we are not in our 20's anymore? When we hit that age where we can't stay out until 4 am drinking because we don't want to miss the Late Show.

Here's the choices for the hipsters:

1. Remain a hipster - yes, you too can be that 40 year old man still wearing black frames who stands by the bar at dance shows and drinks whiskey on the rocks because, beer is all carbs and you better be watching your figure or else how can you still rock a button up shirt with cowboys on it. You think you are still cool. Everyone else thinks you need to get a real job.

2. Sell out - cut the hair, get the tattoo removed, and wear pants that fit. Get a job that makes $45,000 a year, marry somebody, have a kid, move out of the city. Hate your life. Continue drinking heavily. Never have sex again.

3. Die young - you said it would be better to die young than be old. Congrats you did it.



Sorority Sisters:

1. Refer to number 2 above.


I'm sure there is some mysterious 4th option for us hipsters. The one where you get to still have bleach in your hair, make $45,000 a year, know the music blogs to read, and are respected by young and old alike.

Until we figure out how to achieve that, we'll all keep on keeping on.

The hipsters will keep moving to neighborhoods further south and west.
And the sorority sisters will be right on their heels making sure gentrification occurs.

I guess that's what happens to most of us in the end.

We lose our cool. We go for the generic.

We become gentrified.

A Game of Chance

Some people exist who only believe in love.
Some people exist who only believe in sex.
Most of us believe in both.
Most of us claim we can separate the two.
Most of us are wrong.

This summer was the season where "Retrotrasher Went Wild."

Your little blogger decided that since she was young, semi-attractive, and usually under the influence of alcohol, this summer was to be the best time to go out and be the hooch she never was in high school or college.

She was a go-getter. She actually hit on guys. She took initiative. She flirted.
She hopped in the sack easily.

But she wasn't settling down. She told herself, it's just sex. The guys know it's just sex, I know it's just sex. We are not dating, feelings are not involved. We all have an agreement that we can see other people. We know we are simple primates that don't want to cuddle afterwards because dammit it's hot and you refuse to turn on the AC.

Of course, these kind of stories are either not true or end horrifically.

I assure you it's true.

Below I will explain the story of each "romance" boy by boy and what kind of horrible ending occured.

Names and unimportant details have been changed to protect my street cred.

Boy #1: Rudy

I met Rudy at a party my only friend at the time had thrown. There was a modest turnout and I started drinking fairly early. I thought he was attractive in this weird James Dean on a really bad day kind of way. We talked at length and exchanged numbers. He was also the only person besides the aforementioned only friend to show up to my birthday "party" a few days later. He even bought me a gift. I'm easily bought.
Two weeks and lots of drinking later, he started acting weird. Asking odd questions such as:

Q: Are we dating?

A: We're just having a good time.


Q: Are you sleeping with other people?

A: I'll let you know if I do.

We ended up doing "date" type activities that didn't involve drinking. They actually took place in daylight hours. My hangovers didn't appreciate that.
Luckily, Boy #2 came into the picture and I found an escape plan.
A text message to Rudy. Telling him I had slept with someone else.

Yes, I'm a bitch.

To this day he says I broke his heart.
I mostly try not to talk to him.
Moving on.


Boy #2: Jimmy

I saw Jimmy dancing in a club. He actually had rhythm and I was beyond drunk. I made the first move. From the way he was dancing, the fact that he could dress himself, and the odd short dude who kept whispering to him, I had my inclinations that he might be gay.

Oh, I was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Jimmy was and still is the best sex I've ever had. We were adventurous souls. Tables, chairs, the park at night, we thoroughly enjoyed our summer. I learned my lesson from Rudy and never had a date with him. We met at night, drank a lot, and made sure to get the hell out of each others hair the minute our cell phone alarms went off the next morning.
We told each other that this was just sex. We could see other people. It was a wonderful mutual agreement.

Then Boy #3 came along.
Jimmy is now to be continued.


Boy #3: Max

One night I was very drunk and decided to grab some shitty fast food and stand outside the "restaurant" at 1:30 in the morning dropping half the food into my mouth and the other half on the ground.
This is how I met Max.
We made eye contact via the glass windows and he decided to laugh at my expense or something and come talk to the messy drunk girl.
He invited me to the bar he was working at. He offered me free drinks.
I can't turn down free booze.

We ended up talking for a few hours and exchanging numbers. I had to leave, he had to stay. He hugged me.
I grabbed his face, kissed him, and turned to walk out the door feeling like an Amazon warrior.
Of course we slept together a day or two later. He was late for work that morning.
The sex wasn't as great as Jimmy, but Max could hold a conversation with me longer than random grunts and moans.

One night of bar hopping ended at a party. Max and I walk in only to find Jimmy standing there with a few of my friends.
Oh, shit.
Jimmy laughed a bit.
I freaked out a bit.
Max found out the truth.

An hour or two later, and myself much drunker, Max gave me an ultimatum.
Go home with him now or never see him again.

That night I slept with Jimmy.

Max was gone. And he had my favorite pair of PJ pants.

Jimmy is still to be continued.


Boy #4: Miguel

Jimmy invited me to a party he was throwing. It had a dumb costume theme and took place when I had to work. But Jimmy warned me he was to be leaving the city soon, so I knew I had to do whatever I could to enjoy the sex one last time.

I arrived quarter to 1am in a stupid outfit.
Jimmy is there with another skinnier girl in a much cuter outfit.
He ignores me all night. Dances with the cute girl.
I drink my entire flask of rum in 10 seconds.

I knew we had an agreement. I even flaunted Max in front of him.
It was only sex.
It was just sex.
It was not just sex.

I drank anything I could find.
Suddenly I'm kissing some Mexican dude named Miguel.
Then I blacked out.
At one point I woke up in a shower I didn't know butt ass naked.
Then I woke up in a bed I didn't know, ran to a bathroom I didn't know, before running into my clothes and running far away from this person I didn't know.

Jimmy texted me the next day and said I was acting like a stupid jealous girlfriend.

That is the end of Jimmy.
And I never saw Miguel again.
I don't even remember seeing him the "first" time.


So there you have it my friends.
All fun summer stories of casual, lustful sex.
All ending in horrible, horrible ways.
Sometimes I was hurt, other times I hurt them.
I did end up with multiple bruises. For a week my left knee looked like the holocaust.

I hoped you learned your lesson.
Always make sure to wear a condom.

That's really the only one that matters. Because after all, we all are primal beings.
And these cerebral stories won't stop you from acting them out live in your own summer.

Happy flings!

Old Cook County

As I mentioned briefly, I broke my wrist.

I was on my way to my new job, day #4 actually, and I'm riding my bike in the gorgeous late summer weather on a sunny morning. Cruising down Ogden about to hit Milwaukee when I see a huge city dump truck in my way. So I hit the brake.
Unknowing to me, I chose to hit my front brake at the exact moment that my front wheel was dipping into a rather large pothole.

I flipped over my bars, helmet smacking into the ground. Nothing like seeing the ground at a 2 inch distance through your now scratched retro sunglasses.

Next thing I know I am repeating "ow, ow, ow, ow" as I drag myself and my bike off the road.

I was bloody, shaking, and my left wrist was in mad pain but what did I do?
Call my boss and say I was gonna be late.

I then spent the next 8 hours trying to find band aids, trying not to use my left hand, and wondering how I was gonna get my bike home (the front wheel was so out of true, it wouldn't ride.)

I somehow got my bike on a bus and 1.5 hours and two buses later, I walked my sorry ass into my apartment.

It was here that I started crying and realized that my wrist was stuck in one position, swollen, and in major pain.

Like most Americans, I do not have insurance. So I didn't know what to do. A regular hospital emergency room would cost thousands of dollars even if they found out nothing was wrong. And seeing that my new job paid about that much yearly, I really freaked out.

But here in Chicago, we have an option. A lovely place where the poor and homeless come to get low-priced meds, free heat, and to use the most disgusting bathrooms aside from the port-o-potties at Lollapalooza circa 1994.

Yes, my friends, I'm talking about the Cook County Hospital. Or as it's now called, John Stroger.

After that long introduction, I now will begin the story that I like to call:

The Night I Lost 8 Hours of My Life

8:00pm- I call my friend and beg for a ride. She obliges. I try to mentally prepare myself.

8:30- Arrive at hospital. My friend drops me off to find parking. I stare up at the building and the 9 or so nurses smoking outside. One woman is only wearing socks. I enter the auromatic door.

8:31- Am greeted by a line of about 6 people. This line is just to tell them you think you need help. Am only person in line who looks like they had a shower in the last 3 days.

9:00- Now equipped with an arm sling and a bracelet on my wrist with my name on it. Instructed to go to tiny room where no seats are empty and to wait in another line. Have no idea where to go or what I'm doing.

9:20- The end of this line is a woman who takes my blood pressure and temperature. The thermometer is dipped in some sort of machine that I assume is used to "sanitize" it between people. Am positive I now have herpes, SARS, and a staph infection.

10:00- Found a seat and start to bitch with my friend. They said they would call my name. This is only to REGISTER. We play the movie game, music game, and then we get hungry. Friend leaves for Mcdonalds. Get slightly excited, bang my wrist, continue the chorus of "ows."

10:30- NAME GETS CALLED! Jump up and walk excitedly to little desk. Get there, give name, repeat story of injury that I gave the first two people. Am instructed to sit down. Look around. There is a row of chairs behind me. Mentally scream.

10:45- Friend arrives with food. Cold Mcdonalds and they fucked up our order. Instead of two drinks they gave us two fries. Worry about America's future.

10:50- Man at little desk calls me back up. Answer one or two questions and spend 10 minutes sitting while he types away. Probably his blog entitled, "I Hate My Fucking Job."

11:15- Instructed to go to X-Ray room and we drag food there. Arrive in room. Two workers are sitting there talking, ignoring us. In this waiting room there are broken childrens toys and a man lying on a stretcher with his eyes closed. I look for the hidden cameras and wonder why they are filming a David Lynch film in here.

11:30- After they claimed to not have my paperwork (in which case they call the desk that is TWENTY FEET AWAY and ask for them to fax it over), I am walked, sans friend, to a scary room with the huge machine in it. The woman giving the X-Ray stands behind this huge metal wall to hit the button. I stand AT THE MACHINE with my arm on it, without even a lead apron covering my frail organs. Tell myself that I am now radioactive.

11:40- The X-Ray worker tells me to go to the "green team" and tell them I am on the "fast track." I find this secret group of superheroes and deliver the message. They take me where I feared most. THE WAITING ROOM. The big one. The 400 seat one where you have to sit next to some sleeping, smelly person because, yes, it's that full. My friend says she is tired. I thank her profusely and prepare to continue my journey solo. Hugs and kisses and I am alone. The room just got a little bigger.

12:40am - An hour later and I find out that the lady next to me is a Jehovah's Witness, Gogol Bordello were on some late night show on TV, and I found free donuts in the vending machine. Consume sugar to stay awake. Have been awake since 6am.

1:15 - THEY CALL MY NAME. I am taken to a small room with children's wallpaper (do I look that young.) They tell me to sit and someone will be with me. I lay down and begin to fall asleep.

1:45- A nurse arrives. Doctor will be right with me. That was 15 minutes ago. Doctor does arrive. I tell my story again (why didn't one of the three other people at computers type this down, did they simply ask because they are twisted and get off on others misery?) He says he will go look at the X-ray. WHAT HAS HE BEEN DOING THE LAST 30 MINUTES.

2:00- I am told there is no break but it could be a fracture that won't show up on X-ray for two weeks. I am given a Tetanus shot. I am then left alone again. Back to sleep.

2:30- Nurse asks if I'm in pain. Duh. Offers me vicoden. YES PLEASE!

3:00- Find I have one bar on my cell phone and call my boss to leave a message saying I am on Vicoden and might be late. Ramble a lot and feel good.

3:10-4:30- Lose track of time, go in and out of sleep. A few different doctors see me. One starts playing with my hand, it hurts, I moan. He is teaching two other doctors. I am not only a patient, but also a field trip for medical school. Wonder when Zack Braff will show up and make a funny joke. Vaguely wonder why class is at 3 am. Hot indian doctor puts a weird temporary type cast on my arm. I feel warm inside and I stare at his biceps. He says he will give me more vicoden to take home. I think I am in love with this man.

4:45- Gorgeous indian doctor says I have to come back tomorrow and go to the pharmacy to get pills. Don't really feel sad since I'm still high. Am given my papers and told to go home. Call another friend who works late nights. He agrees to pick me up and drop me off. He wants a cut of my vicoden though. I agree.

5:15- Finally home again. Spend 15 minutes trying to take off own bra with one hand. Wonder how guys do it. Fall into bed. Set alarm stupidly thinking I should even go to work. I have now been up almost 24 hours and am under the influence of a narcotic. Pass out.


And that my friends, is the end of my tale.

So let this be a lesson to you.
Live with your parents for as long as you can and pretend you are 12 forever so you can use their insurance.

And always make sure to go to the ER in the AM so you can leave WITH the vicoden.

Return of the Mack

After a very long time sans internet, I decided to shell out the $24/month for DSL. Cable is honestly not much faster so please disregard my previous bitching post about Comcast.
Well, don't actually because I still hate them.

Alright, so I was thinking of just summing up my wild crazy life that has transpired for the past 5 months.
I have done many things and met many new people. I have been photographed at many places and ended up in a worse off situation than when I started.

I drank a lot, I got sweaty, I spent the night in a park, I got bruises, I fell down stairs, I got free drinks, I ate tacos on the street, I went to NYC for 36 hours, I got a new job, I broke my wrist, I hate public transportation, I started drinking coffee, I saw a lot of DJs, and then I quit my job.

Now I have a membership at the YMCA and a short cast on my wrist. I am back on my bike, unemployed, and seriously in need of groceries. And cash.

So what's the lesson learned?

Always wear a helmet. And be sure to look for potholes.


Or else you end up sitting on your ass watching lots and lots of television. I'm sure having a 9-5 job helps this situation (another reason I quit!)

I officially am addicted to at least three prime time shows.

We will start with the stupidest one.

-Beauty and the Geek

Like every other reality show, 95% of this program is jump cuts, shots of the "mansion", random clips of awful pop music, and cliffhangers.

Please tell me why, after the commercial is over, the show then repeats the 2 minutes that just appeared before the commercial? Are Americans so vapid that in all of 5 minutes they completely forgot what they were watching as well as the plot line?

No wonder people don't read anymore. Can you imagine these people putting a book down and picking it up 24-48 hours later? In fact, I'm going to lobby for authors to end each chapter with a long pause and begin the next chapter with a recap of that long pause.

Yet, I still watch. Even though the "cute" geeks have been eliminated and I know I'm smarter than reality television.
At least I don't have to pay for it.

Moving onto my second show that, luckily for me, comes on right after the previous show.

-Reaper

Now, ok, call me shallow, but I originally started watching this because I thought the lead actor looked cute in the ads I saw all over town. And it doesn't help that he appears shirtless in about every episode. Hey, getting a cast up to your shoulder DESTROYS your sex life.

The writing for the show is pretty good. Doesn't help that Kevin Smith directed the first episode and is an exec producer. The banter is quick as is the wit. The actor who plays the Devil is cast perfectly and the best friend character couldn't be better.

Unfortunately, the show already feels stale and the love interest of our Sam, a.k.a. Reaper, IS out of his league. The special effects are also as bad as something in a Disney channel movie starring those teenage kids of people who use to be famous (Hannah Montana, I'm talking bout you!)

Or maybe I just have focused all my 13-year old fangirl crushing skills on the third, final, and my favorite show:

-Chuck

Zachary Levi plays our "nerd" Chuck and he doesn't know it yet but we are getting married next year. We are hoping for an early fall wedding so nobody gets stinky pits but the girls still won't freeze in their dresses.

His love interest is an ugly blonde stick figure and his sister is hotter than her and in all reality, they should get their incest freak on but then this show would be airing on CMT instead of NBC.

It's hard to think of Chuck as much of a nerd. For one, he's gorgeous. Two, he's over 6 feet tall with broad shoulders. Three, look at his best friend character - now that guys a fucking dork. He can't be taller than Seth Green. Which isn't bad, they are both funny guys, but c'mon now, boys should not be able to fit into my jeans!


The worst part about this obsession is now I have to be home at a certain time on a certain day to sit still and be completely mindless for 1-2 hours. I mean, I'd rather get paid to do that.

But since I'm still without a job, I'll waste my Monday and Tuesday nights.

At least until this cast comes off, the Y membership pays off, and my sex life returns.
Hear that Mr. Levi! Only 2 more weeks until we can consumate our passion!

Oh, unrequited love.