There's nothing I love more than dwelling on the worst parts of each holiday. There's just something so festive about pointing out those holiday black sheep that don't seem to fit in with the warm/fuzzy parts. Sure, hot cocoa by the fire while grandpa reads Twas the Night Before Christmas is idyllic and classic, but grandma getting run over by a reindeer is just so much more realistic. This year I've realized that there are actually a bunch of messed up Christmas songs out there, and I'm not even talking about really obscure songs like Uncle Johnny's Glass Eye. I all but guarantee you've heard the following horrifying song lyrics before.
I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus:
There's something so bizarre about a child peeping on his mom and jolly ol' Saint Nick. Why is his mom cheating on his dad? Why would she choose a fat, red-suited man with cookie crumbs in his beard to do it with? Why does mommy "tickle Santa Clause/Underneath his beard so snowy white?" And why does the child think it would be "a laugh" if daddy had discovered them?? The only thing that could possibly make these lyrics worse is hearing Michael Jackson's childhood voice shouting "I did see Mama kissing Santa Claus! You gotta believe me!"
Santa Baby:
In the same vein, any song that involves the phrases "Santa baby," "Santa honey," or the worst offender, "Santa cutie," is creepy in my book. There's just nothing sexy about a man who looks like Rip Van Winkle. There's a reason children always cry when they sit on his lap. Thinking about someone flirting with him in exchange for a duplex and checks makes me really regret ever sitting on his lecherous lap.
Do They Know It's Christmas:
This seems to be the absolute worst execution of a fund-raiser in history. Bringing awareness to a famine by pointing out that the famine-struck may not even know about the amazing time all of us rich folk are having? I'm not so sure they would know that it's Christmas time, considering they're not part of Western civilization and all. Someone should tell Bono that there are other cultures in the world. And that he sounds like an ass singing "Tonight thank God it's them/instead of you." And that U2 sucks.
Santa Claus is Coming to Town:
"He sees you when you're sleeping/He knows when you're awake." Much has already been said about how effing scary this is. When I was a kid and believed in Santa Claus, it scared the shit out of me. If he sees me sleeping, does he also see me peeing? If he knows when I'm awake, does he also know when I'm picking a wedgie? If he truly knows if I've been bad or good...why did he keep bringing me presents?
Christmas Shoes:
Very few things annoy me more than unnecessarily sad movies and songs. This little gem is unfortunately both a movie and a song, and it may very well be an email chain letter as well. Besides the fact that it's unnecessarily sad, it just doesn't make sense that you would spend you life savings on a pair of hideous shoes to put on a woman who won't be able to wear them for more than a few hours. Also what happened to Rob Lowe? He used to be hot.
Any song by Regis Philbin:
Why does he have a Christmas album? Why does he sing? Why does he look the same as he did 15 years ago?
This is just a small sampling of the horrifying song lyrics I jovially sing along to when I have The Lite turned on. Which is to say, all the damn time. Which songs am I missing?
No, I'm not talking about the vehicle through which Betty White revitalized her career. I'm talking about the event that turned this guy into my fian-SAY. The Proposal actually took place almost 2 months ago, but it took me this long to wrap my mind around the glorious flurry of emotions. Which is to say, I was too lazy to write. And I’ve had writer’s block since February 8th, apparently.
Here’s how that shiz went down. I drove up to Milwaukee—the land of beer, cheese, and the bronze Fonz—to visit by boyf one weekend, like I often do. We were planning on taking a mini trip up to Cedarburg—the land of wool, old people, and more wool—the next day.
As I was getting ready to go to sleep Friday night at around 11 PM (what can I say—I’m old. I’m practically a dad), the boyf announced that he’d be waking me up early in the morning.
“Exactly how early?” I questioned. I’m a details person and, let’s face it, the wool could wait. He told me 5 AM.
“What?!” as if I didn’t realize the world even existed at such an ungodly hour. Then he told me he’d made surprise breakfast reservations for us, so we had to get there on time.
“Food! Well, okay then.” And just like that, he was able to convince me to get up at 5 AM. Easy as pie—and it damn well better be a la mode.
The next morning as we were driving to “Cedarburg,” he popped in a mixed CD he’d made for the occasion. Love song after love song after meaningful song after beautiful ballad played, and I sang along loudly and annoyingly, the prospect of food on the very near horizon keeping my spirits high.
When he got off the highway downtown and pulled into a parking lot near the lake, I got confused. “What’s this? This isn’t Cedarburg. Where’s the restaurant? Why’d you bring mini muffins in the car?” (To be honest, I still don’t know why he brought mini muffins. This has plagued me for the past 2 months.)
He told me we were going to watch the sunrise. This was my REAL surprise. I have to admit, I was slightly disappointed to not be going to breakfast, but then I realized that no self-respecting restaurant would be open before the sun was up anyway. I had to admit defeat—I’d been duped. Watching the sunrise sounded beautiful and wonderful and romantic, and it was something I’d been wanting to do for a while, but I was never able to drag my lazy rear out of bed in time.
“Great!” I said. “We’ve got a great view from here too.” But he informed me that we’d be watching it up close, from outside the car. Might I add that it was March in Milwaukee, by the lake, and it was indeed snowing?
This is what the Milwaukee lakefront sunrise would have looked like if it hadn't been SNOWING.
After hemming and hawing and forcing him to get the itchy-scratchy emergency blanket from his trunk, I agreed to walk to the shore with him. The 100 feet we walked was the coldest walk of my life (not true at all, actually), and the whole time I kept begging him to let us watch the majesty of the friggin sunrise from the warmth of his car.
“Boyf, I realize how romantic and wonderful this gesture is, so can we just watch from the car and I’ll still give you boyfriend points for the effort?” I begged. He insisted that we just stand there for a little while. Then he started saying nice things to me—things I can’t repeat here because they made my insides melt and my knees shake and my eyes water, and that would make me lose all my street cred—and before I knew it, he was down on one knee and there was some bling on my finger. I interrupted him, as usual, to say yes, and followed that up with “can we go back to the car now?”
When we got back to the car, my fian-SAY and I watched the sun come up and immediately disappear behind some clouds, while the veritable blizzard raged all around us. And we ate mini muffins.
I sat down on the couch just now with a laptop in one hand, a remote control in the other, and a glass of Carlo Rossi dangling precariously from my teef. Basically, it’s my ideal night. I scrolled through the DVR in search of a Carlo Rossi worthy show, and realized I didn’t have anything recorded that I would feel comfortable admitting to watching. Every show I watch has to meet 3 criteria: it must be a reality show, the stars of the show must have significantly worse lives than me, and every character must be impossibly unlikable.
Right now, I’m watching a woman with an unidentifiable, vaguely East coast accent yell at her lipless hoe-bag daughter for being too hung over to care for her child. Teen Mom just reminds me of all of the opportunities for motherhood that I squandered when I was a teen.
So why is it that I waste my life away watching the most unfortunate people in America get rich off their inadequacies? Why are guilty pleasures so alluring? And why am incapable of enjoying a TV show that has any sort of cinematic integrity? Why am I asking so many rhetorical questions?
Top 5 Things To Love About Guilty Pleasures
I spend all day thinking—what should I wear to work, when should I eat my morning granola bar, boxers or briefs—so it’s nice to shut the ol’ gray matter down for the evening. (Even with my brain on snooze, I’m still smarter than the unitards gallivanting across the boob tube anyway.)
The way I see it, there are 3 types of people in the world: those who can’t stand crappy television, music, food, etc., those who watch and enjoy guilty pleasures “ironically,” and those who are too dumb to know the meaning of “ironically” and are vying for a spot on next season’s “So You Think You Can Talk with a Southern Accent.” Two of these 3 types of people are miserable, so I choose the group that is content. Unfortunately, that means I must do things “ironically.”
Observing Snooki’s oddly misshapen weeble bod writhe across a beer-soaked dance floor makes me feel so much better about myself. Listening to the incomprehensible mumbling of the hillbilly baby daddies on 16 and Pregnant, watching the girls on Bridalplasty fight for boob jobs, and seeing which high-heeled hoe gets a rose just makes my life look like the bomb.com.
This week I realized I’m an adult. That’s pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable, in order to make it sound even more mature. Although I was told by approximately 3 relatives at my bro’s wedding this weekend that I look like a 12-year-old, I am suddenly being treated as a full-grown a-dult. Don’t believe me? Read on.
Someone asked me how my day was today and I literally said, “ugh, the traffic was terrible.” Now that I don’t have important things to worry about like what to wear to the dance and how I’m going to sleep my way to an A in Bio, I find myself complaining about the menial drudgery of the bourgeoisie, which is to say, traffic. Also gas prices and the increase in income tax (seriously what’s up with that?)
This is child's play compared to my commute.
A friend told me she’d gone to bed at 9:00 a few nights ago and I was insanely jealous. Like, jealous enough to stay up all night thinking about how lucky she was. I tried to get to bed earlier the next night, but I somehow got distracted doing such responsible chores as flossing my teef, making my lunch for the next day, and organizing my cozy sock collection.
Here's a little cozy sock pr0n for your private enjoyment.
I’m going on a business trip in a few weeks, which includes a company dinner, expense reports, business cards, and “networking.” I was told to dress appropriately and wear comfortable shoes, and when mentally packing my suitcase, I realized that everything I own is both appropriate and, yes, even comfortable now.
After I get home from work every night, all I want to do is kick the cat, light up my pipe, and tell my wife to call me daddy. Unfortunately, I have neither a cat nor a pipe nor a wife, and dinner just doesn’t make itself. I rinse my dishes before they go into the dishwasher and I like it. I’ve even accepted the fact that nothing thrills me or satisfies me more than watching food remnants get washed from a plate.
Here's some more domestic pr0n for you. You're welcome.
I’ve taken up scrapbooking and sewing. I have yet to make a tea cozy or use the phrase “it’s your day” in a scrapbook layout, but I have stooped low enough to call it a “layout,” and I have contemplated making a tea cozy. The only thing that’s stopping me is the fact that I don’t drink tea (yet). Perhaps I should start since I’m an a-dult now.
Don't you wish I'd made a birthday card for you? It is your day, after all.
I’m watching the news right now. Tom Skilling is babbling about cold fronts and wind chills, and all I can think about is how it’ll affect my commute (see bullet 1).
Speaking of things that a-dults ingest, who would have thought I’d drink coffee and wine, and eat sushi and even, dare I admit it, feta cheese? I actually care about trans fats and hypertension and juice from a bottle instead of a box. I’ve yet to try wine from a box, but I fear my venture into adulthood will prohibit this. I really missed the Franzia boat, unfortunately.
Not pictured: adults
There was an after party after my bro’s wedding this weekend, and I had to be figuratively dragged there. The call of my warm, cozy bed was so tempting. I managed to spend a sober hour at the after party, grimacing superiorly at all of the drunkies, before succumbing to the sweet slumber of middle age back at the hotel. Speaking of sweet slumber, my cozy sock collection is calling out to me.
I know Halloween is over, but my life and the general world is actually becoming scarier and scarier post-All Hallows Eve. Every day a new terrifying thing happens to me, such as losing the remote control or running out of diet Pepsi. And in addition to those travails, my biggest fears IN LIFE are getting closer and closer to coming true with ever uneasy breath I take. Here are a few of the scariest things I can think of, all of which are threatening to overtake the world.
That Paris Hilton will stop being in the news on a regular basis.
This is the side of Paris we’re not seeing enough of lately.
You know the last time our beloved Paris did anything newsworthy? August. Where once I couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing her (mostly because I was turning it on with the express purpose of watching "The Simple Life"), I now can’t even remember what she looks like. Yesterday I read an entire issue of US Weekly that literally had zero mentions of her. The last time she was featured on Perez Hilton was nearly a month ago, under the headline “Paris Hilton Is Done With Partying!” I am ashamed to live in a world where Paris does not play a bigger role in the news. Shame on you, America.
That I will die without ever seeing someone slip on a banana peel.
They tried to make her slip on a banana peel and she said no, no, no. And then she slipped on it. How the HELL did I miss this story?
Every day that goes by is yet another missed opportunity. I’m not getting any younger, people! While slipping on a banana peel is as common in cartoons and slapstick comedies as eating hamburgers is in David Hasselhoff’s life, I have never actually seen it happen IRL. You’d think the combination of the frequency with which bananas are consumed in this country coupled with the coefficient of friction of banana-peel-on-linoleum would affect the incidence of this highly comedic scenario. I even eat a banana at work nearly every day in hopes that this will be the day. If I’m on my death bed and still haven’t seen this happen, whoever is lovingly clutching my hand, waiting for the will to be released, better friggin orchestrate a banana peel accident, at the very friggin least.
That I will become one of those people who can’t figure out technology.
I even spew unidentified bits when I’m shaking my threatening fist at the teev.
My job in college mostly consisted of asking people “Is it plugged in? Did you turn it on? Try restarting it” and then smiling modestly when they praised me for being a technological genius and helping them fix their computer/VCR/projector. I used to mock these idiots, but I fear that I’m following in their dinosaurish footsteps. We got this new-fangled TV that came with a separate cable box (who knows why this is even necessary?) and every time I press the “all on” button on the remote—because of course there aren’t buttons on the actual TV anymore—the TV goes on but the cable box doesn’t, or vice versa. Then I stand there jabbing at random buttons, cursing Sony, wishing for a simpler time. It is the most annoying thing in the world and it makes me miss the good old days, before television had been invented.
This isn’t coming true—it came true. I dance like an uncoordinated, suburban, white male. I dance like Billy Crystal in "When Harry Met Sally." I undo all of the orthodontic magic my parents paid for back in ’03 every time a good Gaga song comes on. I even do the weird, erratic arm movements to accompany the toothy display. Luckily, as I mentioned in my banana peel fear, I’m not getting any younger. Hopefully I will soon reach an age where I am either expected to never dance again or it is at least understood that I would be bad at it.
That I will start to like Josh Groban.
He completely ruined "O Holy Night" for me. Thank God for Mariah.
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I have bad taste in nearly everything. I think SJP is pretty. I own knock-off moon boots. I can’t get enough of "Secret Life of the American Teenager". But my bad taste is exceptionally badd (that means badd to the bone) when it comes to music. I heard a Susan Boyle song the other day—and I liked it. I broke down and put a Justin Bieber song on my workout playlist. I even stopped changing the station when Taylor Swift songs come on the air. The next logical step is Josh Groban, and that is an anxiety that haunts me in the loneliest hours of the night.
Okay, I get that everybody loves Halloween. What’s not to love? If you’re a kid you get to dress up as something totally disgusting and creepy, eat all the candy you want, and egg Mr. Wilson’s house. If you’re an adult, you get to dress up as something totally disgusting and slutty, drink all the Halloween cocktails you want and…well, that’s about it. But I like talking about the bad sides of stuff. So you can use this guide to determine what not to do this Halloween, or if you’re a sadist, you can follow my advice exactly.
Eat the Most Horrifying Candy:
Candy corn looks so innocent and colorful, but what they don’t tell you is that it tastes like ASS. And don’t even get me started on those little pumpkin things. WHAT THE HECK?
I’ll personally be out in full forces with the best of the 12-year-olds this Halloween night, so I’ll have easy access to every variety of candy. But even if you’d rather sit at home listening to the Monster Mash, you’ll probably indulge in some sort of Halloween candy that will plunge you into a tunnel of despair so deep that only more candy or perhaps a bowl of ice cream could cure it. If you’d like to have a truly horrifying Halloween, make sure you eat extra Tootsie Rolls, Necco Wafers, and Fun Dip. Check out this article on the Top Ten Worst Halloween Candies for more tips.
Wear a Horrifying Costume:
You truly haven’t lived until you’ve done a keg stand dressed as Big Bird.
Try to restrain yourself from buying a bed intruder costume (it’s a daily struggle for me as well) or a Snooki wig or even last year’s Kate Gosselin costume on clearance. If you want to have a truly horrifying Halloween, you’ll need to slut it up a little bit more. And no, your kindergarten French maid costume and your slutty clown costume from ’08 are not going to cut it. I’m talking slutty AND scary, like, say a Sassy Cookie Monster or an “I’ll-Tickle-You-There Elmo.”
Stay Home and Wallow in Self Pity:
SJP was lookin fly, even in ’93! Okay fine, she does look like a foot.
If you wanna go truly horrifying this Halloween, I suggest your park your La-Z-Boy near your front window and settle in for a long night of Hocus Pocus and Halloweentown II: Kalabar's Revenge, all the while staring down the little brats who audaciously ring your bell. Might I also suggest you fill a bowl with candy and cradle it lovingly as your eat every last morsel during your G-rated Halloween marathon, never bothering to get up off your Ms. Fat Booty to answer the door.
If your life in general is already horrifying enough that you’ve already seen both Hocus Pocus and Halloweentown this year, then I suggest you go out. Make sure you wear one of the aforementioned horrifying costumes and spend the night bumpin’ and grindin’ to "The Monster Mash," "Thriller," and the Ghostbusters song. For added horror, why not chat up a hottie wearing a chicken suit or a banana costume. And if you really want to go to the extreme, dance with both a chicken AND a banana, then let them brawl with each other over your true love and devotion, because remember: there is nothing funnier IN THE WORLD than a man in a chicken suit fighting with a man in a banana costume.
Some people weren't too pleased about my treatment of cheese heads earlier. The ol bf's roommate, a native of the land of cheese, was riled up enough to write back a Wisconsin style rebuttal. If you want to read more of his Wisconsinish witticisms, make sure you check out his blog, Cream City MSTP, about the trials and tribulations of becoming a double doctor.
A few weeks ago, I was asked to serve as the inaugural first quasi-annual guest blog post author guy of KTA, a title I have been secretly pining for quite some time.
For those who aren't aware, KTA provides a valuable niche service, in that it informs and offers opinions on the happenings in pop culture. I often catch myself wondering why there aren't more blogs to handle this, but then I rationalize that it must be because the author does such a great job. [ed. note: you rationalized correctly.]
The blog is miraculous. Hence, you can understand the shot that was taken at the great state of Wisconsin, an assault I will be spending the majority of my time addressing in a new segment I am hereby dubbing
Raman Kutty's Inaugural First Quasi-Annual "Wisconsin is Better Than You Bitches" Guest Blog Post.
I'm sorry but You asked for this.
1. Wisconsin. The University. The best party on the planet has been draping Badgers in cardinal and white since 1848 and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. How much better is Wisconsin than you, you ask?
Sorry, your silly little school ain't crazy enough for me.
2. It's both size AND how you use it. Chicagoans, for some Godforsaken reason, are enamored with their hot dogs. I do not understand this (although I do suspect Penis Envy). What, you put a pickle on it and now it's the shit? No, it's not. Allow me to explain:
While you southerners were getting all excited about your franks, the Germans of Wisconsin were working hard on something far better: the Bratwurst. The comparison between the two goes something along the lines of a Mickey Avalon song. The Brat is "mine" and the hotdog is, well, "yours".
Also, it's what you do with it. Chicagoans are all about sitting around eating it or doing whatever it is they do. I'll let you in on a secret: tailgating. No one does it better than Wisconsin. It is something that ties our entire state together. Hunters and PETA, Gays and Evangelicals, Kanye and Taylor Swift...they all can get together for a good ol' fashioned tailgate. Additionally, there is always one happening. See: Green Bay Packers, Milwaukee Brewers, UW-Madison sports, fishing, etc. Throw in a game of bags and a brewski or two and it's pure magic.
Oh boy, look at THAT.
Further, ketchup goes on a hot dog. Kraut and mustard go on a brat. Please accept this so we can move on. [ed. note: for the record, ketchup does not go on a hot dog.]
3. Even your criminals suck. Most notorious Illinois criminals? Al Capone, Blagojevic...blah blah blah. All of them didn't really do anything novel, they ran gangs, sold senate seats, etc. Hell, even I've done that, and I'm a med student. Whatever. Ed Gein made lampshades out of PEOPLE (in all fairness, it really did bring the room together). Jeffy Dahmer? Google it.
4. Chris lives here. Not that i feel this is a terribly important point, but you can't argue it and like him at the same time.
5. Illinois is a wasteland. You know this. I know this. Proof? You FIBS love to complain about how awful the state is, yet we're overwhelmed just counting the cash after you leave every summer. If Illinois is so effin great, go vacation there. You know this isn't true and that's why you're hanging out in the Dells, Waupaca, the north woods - essentially all over this great state (much to my personal dismay). The sooner you admit to your inferiority, the better off we will all be. [ed. note: did you really just cite THE DELLS when arguing why Wisconsin is better???]
But what do I care? I mean, this additional tax base only helped to pay my cover fee to the greatest party on earth (see #1). Thanks!
6 (BONUS!) Population statistics. Coasties are native to your state. They are not to Wisconsin. It's atrocious and I strongly suggest you do something about it. Wisco: Coastie free. Game, set match.
I will, however, concede that we do often smoke more than we eat. I've gone through a pack just writing this damn post, and with the prices we pay for cigs these days, it's no surprise that us poor huddled Wisconsinite masses choose smokes over food. You would too if you were as poor, uneducated and useless as we are.
So, that concludes Raman Kutty's Inagural First Quasi-Annual "Wisconsin is Better Than You Bitches" Guest Blog Post. With that out of the way, I can serve as a KTA-Tell-All and fill you in on a piece of news that has been bugging me for some time now.
Brett Favre.
Ok, so here's the deal: let's rewind to early 2008. Brett retires. Well, no not really. Ok yeah he did. No, he's coming back, but going to the Jets. Anyway, while playing for the Jets, Deanna let him off the leash just long enough to meet the fine Ms. Jenn Sterger of FSU fame. Apparently she wasn't much into him, but being the fierce competitor he is, he went for her anyway. Fast forward to 2010: news breaks that Bretty texted pictures of Little Brett to Sterger. October 2010: alleged pictures released on the website Deadspin.
A few observations, if I may (and I will, con mucho gusto):
1. Seriously? What was your thought process here, Brett? "Well, she wasn't a big fan of my insane career and southern personality...think Brett, think....GOT IT! DICK PIC!" In the words of Ed Lover, "C'mon SON!" Getthefeckoutofherewiththatshitbrett.
2. Ineffective and moronic decisions aside, has this ever worked? I'm not the right person to ask here, but I feel that if a lady got that in her inbox, there's little reason for her to feel compelled to make a move on it. After all, she knows it's there...whatever.
3. People are arguing that it's not actually Brett, instead some impostor who was messing with a) Brett Favre b) Jenn Sterger c) the Jets and d) the American public. That's stupid. And I can prove it's not true. Here's how: Ever been in a locker room before? For those of you that have not, towels are...optional. In other words, there's an offensive line or two who have seen Little Bretty plenty (and I'm not insinuating that he sexted them too...though that would be RICH beyond words). I have yet to hear anyone step up and say, yeah, I've seen the real thing, those pics ain't the real deal. Granted, it may raise a few eyebrows, but for a bunch of guys who get paid to take shots to the head to protect him, a shallow homoerotic accusation is to be taken in stride.
4. As a future clinician, it would be well to discuss the effect this is having on Brett's game. After all, that's the point of a guest writer, right? Anyway, if you missed the Monday night game this week, you either a) missed nothing (aka, are from Minnesota and therefore are a moron) or b) missed a meltdown. Brett was shaky, uncoordinated and generally not himself - that is, until the 4th quarter where he got it together and threw a game-ending INT, true to his usual form. This isn't surprising as these symptoms are indicative of Stergeritis; look for a forthcoming case report in JAMA next month, authored by none other than yours truly. Unfortunately, the prognosis is grim and will eventually lead to liquidation of 50% of his assets, amongst other malignancies. Undoubtedly, bed rest is the best course of action, as the patient is historically sensitive to vicodin.
That's all for now folks. Check back here for more pithy posts, and moreover, check out creamcitymstp.blogspot.com for the perspective of a not-so-soon-to-be MD/PhD. Peace, Love and screw the Bears.
