Holiday Quizzilla

1. Did you receive any unexpected gifts over the Christmas holiday?
Well, my mother put crucifixes in the kids’ Christmas stockings. That was unexpected. I know she’s fearful for my children’s souls because they live in the house of heathens but she said the real reason was that she wanted to teach the kids that Christmas meant more than Santa. They’re 3 and 2. They know Linus’ soliloquy by heart, that’s good enough for me and it should be for everyone else. To keep the peace, I gently suggested that perhaps a Baby Jesus doll swaddled in some cute sheep pajamas would have been a better route than a gruesome image of the crucifixion. Besides, isn’t that Easter? Fortunately, Nana had many other lovely gifts on hand to distract them from Jesus’ painful death. Good grief.

2. Who was the easiest person on your list to buy presents for?
Vito. I slipped him some chicken jerky and a new stuffed gorilla and he was so happy he was humping throw pillows. While the kids were very specific about what they wanted, many of the toys were so aggressively marketed in the post-Diego, pre-Wonder Pets slot that they were unfindable. And then there's James. I've known him for 10 years so I'm used to his anal, often eccentric, high-maintenance preferences. In the late 90s, he handpicked and pointed out a pair of windpants he wanted. I purchased them and wrapped them up a few weeks later for his birthday. He unwrapped them, only to find upon closer inspection that they had tiny zippers in places he deemed "odd." That said, I've known what I've been up against for many years. But when he requested a new pair of jeans and some ties this Christmas, I decided to go all out. I got him a few Brioni ties and a nice pair of Citizens jeans. He loved the ties. He tried on the jeans and they looked fantastic on him. BUT!!!! While he found the modern cut of the jean "a bit girlish," the barely there swish on the back pockets was the true dealbreaker. They're being returned for a new hockey stick.

3. Your favorite holiday noshes?
JAL’s Christmas cookies. And, as BG put it, an “Eastie Feastie:" a big nosh in EB featuring beef tenderloin & shrimp, proscuitto & stuffed artichokes, tiramisu & Italian cookies, and vino vino vino.

4. Did you send Christmas cards this year?
Yes. Trying to get a photo of the kids and Vito has always been an exercise in futility. Our card this year was supposed to be this photo of the kids running on the beach in Scituate, with an inset photo of Vito sitting on our front stairs. But at the last minute, we realized that Boulos had a big ol’ smash in his pants in the first picture and Vito had a lipstick woody in the second.
Luckily, some genuis at Hallmark created the three-photo option. Thank you.

5. What are you doing New Years Eve?
Chilling. Making the South Shore rounds. Chilling some more. Then banging on some pots and pans at midnight.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Have a ball!

The Pointy Universe will return once I recover from holiday sensory overload and seek treatment for a rampant Purell addiction.

Is Donald Trump 8?

(photo of Trump and his nipple-exposing wife pilfered from Perezhilton.com.)

"You're ugly. You're a fat loser."

I have never been a fan of Rosie O'Donnell's but this guy is a humorless tit. In case you haven't heard, The Donald went on a childish tirade yesterday in response to comments Rosie O'Donnell made on the The View. Rosie made fun of The Donald's morally superior press conference where he granted Miss USA Tara Conner a "second chance" after learning she was not a good role model for young women but an underage-drinking floozy who loves drugs.

Is it really any secret that Trump is less a moral adviser than a creepy uncle who touches? Rosie simply spoke to that point, saying “He’s the moral authority? Left the first wife, had an affair, left the second wife, had an affair, had kids both times, but he’s the moral compass for twenty year olds in America? Donald, sit and spin, my friend.” She also said she expected him to sue her but added “he’ll probably be bankrupt by that time so I won’t have to worry.”

Rosie is annoying and obnoxious. That's her thing. The point here is she was factually correct in her statement and Trump's massive ego can't handle it. Not to mention -- in his world -- women are supposed to be silent, submissive and anorexic. Lesbos are no exception.

Infuriated, Trump ranted to People Mag and Access Hollywood, mostly attacking Rosie's physical characteristics, calling her fat and unattractive. Then he inexplicably added: “She ought to be careful because I’ll send one of my friends to pick up her girlfriend and I think it would be very easy.” This idiot has grown so accustomed to dumb & easy gold digging whores that he thinks he can actually make someone change teams.

As expected the litigious-happy Trump said he's going to sue Rosie. However, it will not be over the remarks about him cheating on his families. Those didn't seem to bother him at all. The comment about bankruptcy, however, really frosted his single-process combover. "She'll say anything that comes to her unattractive mouth. I have never been bankrupt." said Trump. However, according to Wikipedia, he has indeed.

We all know that Trump is a well-versed publicity slut who is likely pouncing on this to promote his tired show that is starting up again in January. Either way, he comes off looking like the "fat loser" in this one. Ratings for The View will likely soar in the wake of the controversy; The Apprentice has sucked for years.

The Notorious P.U.G

(photo: Max reportedly peed on the conductor upon his rescue last week. )

Last Friday, after pulling out of Walpole station, MBTA commuter rail engineer Kym Berry saw a small dog leap in front of her train and start sprinting down the tracks. Berry blew the horn and slammed on the emergency brake but the dog continued on. "He never stopped running," she said. "We just went right over him." The dog, a wayward pug named Max, emerged unscathed from beneath the train moments later. Thankfully he was only 8 inches high. Read Max's story here.

I'm so happy that Max is OK. I'm also relieved to know that his notorious behavior may be a hallmark of the breed. In other words, it's not just Vito who is mentally-challenged and ill-mannered, it is all pugs. Whenever someone pulls into our driveway, Vito charges at -- not away from -- the vehicle. It's almost like he's trying to get underneath it. Our UPS guy almost had a heartattack a few months ago and had a similar comment to that of the commuter rail engineer: "He never stopped running at me. I've never seen anything like that." Our pizza delivery person wondered aloud if Vito had suicidal tendencies. "Nah. He's just not that bright," we told him. Still, at least once a week, I have to dart out the front door -- almost always in my bare feet -- and wave my arms like a lunatic to alert unexpected visitors (or James) that Vito is in the yard. He's hard to see if you're not looking for him. He comes out of nowhere. So, please take heed.

Dick in a Box - An SNL Digital Short

This is on par with last year's "Lazy Sunday." This one, featuring Justin Timberlake, reeks of and oozes early-90s Color Me Badd. It's worth every second.

The 12 Days of Christmas

Last month, You Tube asked its members to send in videos of themselves singing their own renditions of "The 12 days of Christmas" for a video montage of the song. Here is the result. The cast seems to be comprised of geriatric porn stars and recluses that probably play with puppets and use common kitchen utensils as sex toys.

I wish I had known about it. Either way, here is a little You Tube Christmas Carol to brighten (or soil) your Friday.

A Smash

(Cameo, me and Brownguy in the Red Room)
As you know from my nonstop bitching, my digicam is busted. So, for illustration purposes, cheesy ClipArt and random Google images will be used in lieu of photos until I get a new camera. Much thanks to Code Red for providing three actual photos of last Sat.





(Hey, I like your dress. You're a good looking lady.)

For this year's Christmas party, we decked the house out with lighted garland and pine scented candles. Even Vito was fresh as a daisy having had a date with the dog groomer the day before. This was so partygoers wouldn't leave with last year's unwanted party favor of eau de Vito on their clothing. The pug, however, still attempted to brand several lady guests by sneaking up behind them and licking their calves.


Still, Sat night was mostly about good friends, special cookies and a crappy crantini mix. I've found a number of partially-smushed cranberries in the couch cushions, which is actually a refreshing change from our usual rancid finds.

In every room, a different scene went down. In the kitchen: My brother -- high on Fresca -- tormented Michelle D. who "confiscated" said Fresca. In the dining room: Partygoers gathered to gawk at the embarrassing 80s and early 90s photos I taped up of all of us, our puffy faces retaining Bass Ale. In the living room: Music. First, Liz banged out the entire Vince Guaraldi catalogue on the piano...



...then, T-Bag, who honored my request to have the only Christmas party with G-N-R covers, played one of his smashing acoustic sets. And that damn John Denver tune.





On the back deck: Half of the Weymouth North Class of '86 clustered around a rented patio heater that burned with such intensity we feared it might melt the Christmas keg. James, however, did not bask in the glow of the heat lamp, but his high school glory days. He refused to socialize with anyone who couldn't feel the pain of their tragic loss to Longmeadow in the state finals 20 years ago.


And when conversation grew tiresome, we danced. Most memorable: The Scissor Sisters ' delicious Bee Gees-esque groove "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" and Jonzun Crew's "Space Cowboy," which was almost perfectly timed with the Taylor's 1 a.m. arrival.






The next thing I knew, it was 3 a.m. I fell asleep in my dress with a contact high and a crantini buzz.

Good times, everyone. As always thanks for bringing the spirits and vibe. We'll have to have you all down again soon to help us polish off the surplus of Ketel One and vino.

Scary Christmas

I'm on zero sleep this week. Every night, either Caroline or Paulie has had a nightmare.

I wonder why...

This morning at 5 a.m, the Snow Miser was peeking into Paulie's bedroom window. The other night, the Grinch stole Caroline's yogurt, then kicked Vito.**





**Before you say/think it: This was Caroline's bad dream, not James in a Grinch suit.

It's the Downey & Brownie Show (...and Lily!)

(Great. She's here again. She's probably drunk too.)

When Brownie moved in to the apartment downstairs from Downey this weekend, he created a dynamic rife with gooey sitcom potential.

Brownie, the perpetually exasperated Fido worker, just wants to be left alone in his new apartment to bake up some meaty loaves and watch Hasselhoff videos. Downey -- his vivacious upstairs neighbor with a freakishly large right hand -- keeps popping in offering to help him measure his windows for curtains. After waving her off several times, he finally lets her in when she tells him why she has so much free time on her hands: She was recently fired for viewing photos of Lindsay Lohan's firecrotch on Perezhilton.com at her office. He feels badly for her. And herein, the fruitful exchanges ensue. Downey talks to him about the Zen-like effect watching Anderson Cooper has on her. He reminds her to always clear her Internet cache. She suggests they have a Brownstone party once he's settled. He asks her if her dishtowels smell.

But just as the deeper layers of their characters start to reveal themselves, Downey whips out the tape measure. At the very same moment, Brownie turns around and gets the tip of it stuck in his fly. They both try to dislodge it with a series of violent twists and pulls, but all this does is cast a dirty shadow puppet show on the wall behind them.

(...And me!)

Cute pooches are often brought in when a show has jumped the shark, but here with Harvey Fierstein lending a raspy voiceover, Lily is a built-in contingency (and rumored ratings whore) who will virtually guarantee a successful season.

(I like him. He smells like soap.)

On Sat. Dec 9th, there will be an open casting call for a Bookman ("Buffalo Butt") or Schneider type character who is hellbent on foiling their Brownstone party plans.

A Wiggly Shake-Up (by SAC)

The following is Scott A. Cyr's much anticipated "official statement" on the demise of the Yellow Wiggle:

"In an announcement that shocked the toddler world, the Wiggles have had a shake up. It appears that Greg Wiggle will be departing the band due to illness. Now, many of you PU readers are no doubt scratching your head, wondering who the Wiggles are but to millions of parents out there, they are the crazy, semi-gay, Australian whack jobs that provide us, the parents, with a much needed and often necessary 30 minute respite from our screaming, nagging, patient, and oh-so loving children.

Greg's departure, although sad, leaves me to question the millions of children who will fiercely battle on the playgorunds of preschools across America proclaiming themselves Greg Page Wiggle fans or Sam Moran Wiggle fans (a la the David Lee Roth [Rothonian] v. Sammy Hagar [Hagarian] debate that has plagued our generation, and still does.

It will be little Jack Beaudin who, I think, will be our first supporter of the non-Greg Page Wiggle DVD's and BlueRays while Caroline, Bennett, Camden and Paulie lay a diaper full of whoop ass on him denouncing the new Wiggle for the great talent that Greg was while showing this to Jack on VHS. (Jack, will no doubt be saying "Dude, what is VHS?" thus opening his own can of whoop ass on his "old bastard" friends)

Either way, I wish Sam Moran the best of luck as the new Wiggle and promise to provide him an open mind.

However, I do hope this new Wiggle is able to provide the legions of parents across the world with that much needed 30 minute siesta from the Zen of Child Raising to study the Art of Love by Teddy Pendergrass. Turn Out the Lights....."

El Sarape Suppah

The blanket supper. Or the green wrap -- "el verde wrappo" -- supper. Whatever you call it, this month's Suppah Club was cilantro-flavored and smothered in a mole sauce. It also coincided with my 20-17th birthday so there was mucho Sangria and jubilation going down at El Sarape on Weymouth Landing last night. The fact that I got carded at the bar before dinner was a present unto itself, as were special guest stars/hopefully returning regulars: KT and Brownguy.

This month, we actually learned something. KT educated us on the wonders of natural plastics and how her environmentally pioneering company is going to save the world. Our conversation went from high-minded topics like: "Spent Lipstick Case?: Just Bury it in the Backyard, it's Biodegradable" to irresistable crap like: "PerezHilton.com: Are Gratuitous Cooch Shots of Lindsay Lohan Really Necessary?" and "You're a 32B?: The Gravity-Defying Effects of the Victoria's Secret IPEX bra" (check out my hammers.) Great time, all. Thank you for littering the passage into the late 30s with refried beans, alcohol and filth. I love you all.

Paige: "Heh. I'm not in my late 30s."

Brownguy goes in for the kill.

Let's swaddle BG in el verde wrappo.

Little Beaver (&) the Brownguy

A Movable Feast

Over the past few months, whenever I've had to drive into Boston, it seemed like a truck would catch fire or rollover on Route 3 and snare traffic for hours. I tried to take the commuter rail from South Weymouth a few times but had to wake up at an obscene hour that was actually closer to my bedtime just to secure a parking spot. But on Sunday, when the Bags sent me home from Jack's child-of-God after party with a boat pass (and some finger sandwiches - yum), I decided to give the commuter boat a whirl. I've taken the boat recreationally for years but never during commuting hours. While it was much more crowded, it was just as smooth. I walked right on and settled in a with my Metro newspaper and a ferry-issue coffee. I immediately felt right at home with the familiar avoidance behaviors of public transportation: Some passengers had their heads buried in laptops and newpapers. Others -- wearing iPods -- displayed the catatonic "I'm not looking at you, I'm looking through you" stare. Since I was bookless and iPod-less on this trip, I pretended to be intensely engrossed in a movie review of "Happy Feet." But then the familiar scene turned bizarre. The boat's horn blasted as we pulled away from the dock and it was like the sounding of the dinner bell. Seemingly out of nowhere, some commuters produced styrofoam containers with full-on lumberjack breakfasts inside of them. Others began stuffing their faces with bagel sandwiches, bowls of cereal, and Zone bars. The guy sitting next to me whipped out a 13"x9" tupperware container and proceeded to eat what appeared to be the remains of someone’s birthday cake. Is this a new commuting trend? I don't ride mass transit as regularly as I used to, but when I did, I never once considered buttering a bagel on the Blue Line or even the 57 Bus. Eating a meal was something you just didn't do on public transportation -- like exfoliating your elbows and heels with a pumice stone. Is this behavior exclusive to the seafaring commuters or is there an intermodal chowdown going on system-wide? I scarfed down a a turkey finger sandwich in my car on the ride to the Shipyard like a civilized human being. But if the rules have changed, I'd like to know. Any insight is appreciated.

Aw Yeah

Not that anyone gives a shit but I got my turkey. I am so bloated right now.

My mom will have a blog up shortly on something mindless and irrelevant. She's still in a tryptophan coma and her digicam is busted. Hopefully, the next post will not be about excessive holiday decor or motorized reindeer. We already have quite enough of that freaky deaky shit in this neighborhood and quite frankly, I'm a little put off by it.
Cheers ~ V

A Thanksgiving Blog from the Butterball Himself: Vito the Pug

If you know me, you know I’ll eat just about anything. But I’m partial to turkey. Any kind of turkey. Even the slimy deli turkey that tastes like moist trouser socks. I don’t care. I’ve eaten my own crap, for Christ’s sake. In fact, I love turkey so much that some of the brats in my neighborhood think my name is actually “Turkey.” While they are clearly morons, it is my mom’s fault for exploiting my poultry lust in the most self-serving way. Whenever she wants to lure me in from the yard, she’ll open the front door and yell, “Turkey!” And I come running like some sorry-ass Pavlov’s dog. (But I am a dog after all. I lack critical thinking skills. What’s your excuse?) So anyway, some kids started calling me “Turkey the Dog” and I couldn’t respond because I can't speak the King’s English. So, my mom who thinks she’s funny but is not, says maybe “Butterball” would be more appropriate. Ha ha ha. Fat jokes. How original. But I was willing to let that go because Thanksgiving was approaching. And on Thanksgiving, I get the real deal. Not the deli turkey, not the occasional turkey scrap from a Gerard’s turkey pot pie. I’m talking real roast turkey -- with gravy. So, you’ll understand my outrage when I inform you that my mom forgot to defrost the Thanksgiving turkey. Are you friggin’ kidding me? I don’t care if I have to dial the 1-800-Butterball hotline with my lipstick dick, that turkey is getting cooked today and I plan on eating myself into a tryptophan coma.

Happily Married, Happily No Longer Planning a Wedding

Over the past few months, whenever you'd ask Tom & Dawn if they were getting excited for the wedding, they'd tell you they were more excited for the day after because it would mean they were no longer planning a wedding. While it's a common complaint, I didn't realize exactly how much work went into this shindig until we walked into the Red Lion Inn last Saturday night. We were instantly struck by the level of detail, the decor, the colors, the strategically-placed candles that cast soft, flattering lighting (thank you). It had to have involved hundreds of hours of planning but it was clearly a labor of love. The result was an event that was quintessentially Tom and Dawn, a celebration worthy of their relationship. The Red Lion served as a perfect rustic canvas for their autumn-flavored affair. Dawn walked down the aisle on a bed of scattered leaves to The Turtles' "You Showed Me. " Hand-carved pumpkins glowed the table numbers. The ceremonial music was straight out of the Flaley iPod: The bridal party was introduced to "I Don't Know Why I Love You" by the House of Love and the bride and groom to "Vapour Trail" by Ride. Fantastic.




Their first dance, a flawless RUMBA to Edwyn Collins' "A Girl Like You."




After witnessing an impromptu dry-run at their house last week, we were skeptical but they completely pulled it off. >>




After the cocktail hour, we reported to our tables where over a crazy-delicious nosh of butternut squash soup and lobster ravs, we were treated to another remarkable mix of tunes. (To rip-off Cameron Crowe, if I had a personal conversation with God, I'd ask him to create this playlist. ) Everyone was in good spirits and right on vibe. However, the ambiance was shattered by the occassional, "Holy shit! Is this Love and Rockets?" from one of us quacking quackeroos in the balcony. Other highlights: Annie's TSA-remix "Liquids Back (yeah)." The Perchard Family Bumrush. All of Brownie's signature dance moves made a comeback, including a side-by-side Running Man with Goy. Cameo was hounded by a smitten Raddo. And of course, the evening would not have been complete without Tom doing the Thriller dance, and he did not disappoint, taking to the dance floor with his sister Katie. Refresh your memory, view the original Thriller dance here: Then envision a couple of fair-skinned WooTown Irish in place of the once-black Michael Jackson and his undead dance troupe.

Congratulations to our friends. We'll all be over to polish off any leftover bottles of "Dawn & Tom's Wedding Day I.P.A" and toast the beginning of your marriage and the end of wedding planning. For now, enjoy the downtime. Chill out (but don't freeze to death) on that smashing roofdeck.

Random shots:


Owls about to dance are distracted by a tower of pumpkin cheesecake cupcakes nearby. *Kick it to the chorus.*





Brownguy regales James and Goy with tales of a Fido-gone-wild corporate dinner.







Auntie & Bags -- en fuego on the balcony -- were voted "most likely to have the worst next day ever" having to deal with an infant and a family party. A great showing.






James "most likely trying to shake down Joe for a deal on a plasma screen."






Tarted up Birds, shored up bosoms.











WMD, SAC and their Diet Buds.








***If anyone has photos they want to share, please email them to me and I'll post them. I don't have any good dancing photos because my camera broke and I ran down the battery on LPD's cam during the rumba. I'll be waiting for Peete's YouTube version. Good times, all!

Random Quizilla

1) Do you consider yourself an emotional person? Which emotion do you experience most regularly?
I don't just "consider" myself an emotional person, I'm fully aware of this fact. It's a nightmare. Most days I oscillate between anxiety and guilt for the most trivial of reasons. When I feel euphoric, I feel guilty about it. Most shocking thing is I'm basically very happy and wouldn't change one thing -- except the anxiety I feel about things changing. What a mess.

2) What is on your refrigerator door?
Just fingerprints. We have a non-magnetic stainless steel fridge. We've created a collage of Caroline's & Paul's artwork on the bathroom wall and have a magnetic whiteboard acting as a catch-all for other would be fridge collateral: Jack Raymond's baby announcement, the invitation to Tom & Dawn's wedding, my Lemonheads tickets and a mailer for James' 20th high school reunion next week.

3) If you could get rid of one piece of furniture in your house what would it be and what would you replace it with?
The couch, of course. It's way beyond Febreze. It's beyond industrial strength cleaning. It needs to be set on fire. Over the past few years, it's been subjected to unspeakable things: "unreliable" diapers, Vito doing dirty things to his stuffed rabbit, popsicles, granola bars and mini-pancakes stuffed in between the cushions, magic marker murals scribbled across the back of it, etc. (BTW, don't fear the couch at the Christmas party. We'll flip the cushions over.) Obviously I will replace it with a new couch when the kids are less apt to use it as a hiding place for soiled Pull-Ups and half-eaten snacks.

4) Do you believe in intelligent life on other planets?
Yes. Given the infinite size of the universe, it would seem like a gigantic waste of space if we were the only ones. It'd be short-sighted not to believe that there are intelligent beings elsewhere -- not that I'd ever want to meet any of them. Aliens are scary.

5) What was the last concert you attended? It would've been Keane, had it not been for Tom Chaplin's rehab stint. Instead, the last show I saw was Roger Waters at the Tweeter Center. Great time. Flying pigs and hovering astronauts and psychedelic light shows. I was never a fan of Pink Floyd until I was pregnant with Caroline. For some reason, it was the only music I could listen to. I found it soothing. On any given night, James would come home and find me lying in the dark with empty Devil Dog wrappers scattered around me, listening to Pink Floyd with Vito. The best part was he never found this to be an odd sight. He'd just ask, "Is this the Final Cut?"

O'Reilly's Opera

Time to visit Giana. I came very close to booking a ticket to Seattle this morning after learning about this new opera playing at UW in January that is based on Bill O'Reilly's 2004 phone sex scandal with Faux News underling Andrea Mackris. Igor Keller, a Washington-based saxophone player, not only set the sexual harrassment suit to music but transformed it into what he calls a "31-part, concert-length baroque oratorio." Entitled "Mackris v. O'Reilly," the libretto opens with a reading of the original complaint filed by Mackris and runs through seven chorales, four recitatives, and numerous arias before the denouement, which features a dramatic, baritone reading of the settlement. The opera covers all of the sordid details including O'Reilly's paranoid rants and the infamous loofah-as-falafel Caribbean shower fantasy. (a wistful recitation and aria are devoted to this gem in part 27 of the production) For those unfamilar with the loofah story: O'Reilly, the King of Moral Outrage, called up Makris and awkwardly tried to lure her into phone sex by telling her that she had specatular boobs and that he wanted to soap them up with his loofah mitts. On the second reference, he mistakenly -- and quite inexplicably -- referred to the loofah as a "falafel." All the while, he's having a go at himself with a vibrator. Truth is stranger than fiction. Either way, the O'Reilly opera will most certainly be better than this.

Norwellians

I've been putting off posting this news because I've been way too excited and was afraid my enthusiasm would cause the fates to take it all back: "Ha! It was too good to be true. They've changed their minds." While I've tried -- and failed miserably -- to temper my zeal these past few weeks.. lo and behold...IT IS ON. The Dell'Olios are set to close on their beautiful new home in Norwell this Friday -- a mere 1.8 miles down the road. Now I am free to indulge my suburban fantasies: Dell'Olio dinner parties. Shows at the Company Theatre and Truckload Meat Sales at the Assinippi General Store. Sipping vino on their back deck or sun porch, surrounded by lush arborvitaes and other mature plantings. But most of all, reveling in the exquisite proximity of good friends. One by one, we're slowly taking over. Come on down!

Bachelorette

(I just love my candy cock necklace.)

(I DOOOO)

(Oh my God, your hand is HUGE)

Whether busting her Madonna karaoke skills at the Elephant & Jackass or dancing to an 80s wedding band at the Big Cheesy, Dawn was the ultimate bachelorette, inspiring all to join her in this time-honored tradition of dick favors, dancing and drinking one's face off. That said, I am missing a huge chunk of time between exiting the Tommy Van at the Alley and waking up in my rainbow platforms in the Dell'Olio guest room (What a jerk.) Dawnie, on the other hand, overcame some motor skill challenges early on, went the distance and triumphed. An impressive balance of endurance and joie de vivre.


The quote of the evening came from Melanie who whipped out the fuschia loofah-cum-dildo thingy that somehow made it out with us and said to Brownie: "Hey Body, wanna see my cock." Absolutely fantastic.

Good times, all!

Looking forward to seeing everyone at the wedding this weekend!

Cream Shop Friday: FED-EX

K-Fed, we hardly knew thee. While you were mostly known as Mr. Britney Spears and for tacking the word "ass" onto all of your adjectives, you touched all of our souls and made them feel icky. However, we now know that you're an intelligent creature after you recently opened up to GQ about your "amazing ass" GED scores. You've always had a way with the skanks and when you turn on that charming-ass charm, nothing can stop you. "Any of you sexy-ass ladies wanna dance with a pimp." That's the stuff...what a sweetheart. We'll never forget you.

The Pointy Universe invites all to pay tribute to this glorified wigger by taking in an encore performance of him here jamming out to one of his own songs, a "Brazilian ass shaker" called Popozao. This instant classic captures the true essence of all that was K-Fed. I'm thrilled he will be immortalized on YouTube for generations to come.

Random Quizzilla

1) What kind of shoes are you wearing today?
Im sliding around in my red fleece socks.

2) Name a song that got stuck in your head recently for any reason.
"Paint it Black" by the Rolling Stones. We have a red front door. I want to paint it black. Plan to do it tomorrow. It's that simple.

3) A recent question that you were asked but were unable to answer?
"How big is Cinderella's head?" (Question was posed by Caroline in case that wasn't glaringly obvious)

4) Finish this sentence: I wonder__________ .
I wonder how many people a 10-inch gourmet cheese cake would serve.

5) What did you look like when you were a teenager?
Pretty much the same but with bigger (and browner) hair and chubbier cheeks. I was also much better dressed. Back then, I would have never gone out in public with maple syrup finger prints on my shirt.

Doo It

I was supposed to hold a sign and "wave at the dump" last weekend for Deval but ended up going to one of his South Shore rallies instead. I was so enthusiastic about voting for him this morning that I ended up spilling my coffee on my ballot. And I almost had to put a smallish elderly woman in a headlock to get another one. Get out there, vote out the boneheads and truthiness, but don't bring any food or drink into the voting stall...the wee old ladies at the registration table can be complete savages.

40!!!???

While I had disturbing dreams of hostile, swooping birds and a crushing hangover the day after DT's *surprise* 40th birthday party, I was nevertheless inspired by the debauchery and impressive vocabulary words going on at the Elephant Walk. To me, it seems that everyone involved in DT's party was intoxicated with the 1998 vibe of the Warren Tavern and Beastie Boys dance parties at Jamie's apt on School Street. So I guess we're doing just fine. Simply put: DT made turning 40 look so good that I almost can't wait to turn 37. Happy Birthday!