Having your name in lights makes you feel important! Having your name misspelled in lights only slightly less so.
Really and truly, I had a grand time featuring in Kelso for Mark Saltviet
I am hosting for the fantastic Troy Thirdgill and feature Darrin Meyer at Portland’s Harvey’s Comedy Club this weekend, and last night who stopped in but “They Live” star “Rowdy” Roddy Piper, as handsome as ever with a titanium hip.
Listen. I know you’re concerned with your weight. How do I know? Because you’re a girl and because you’re alive. Our guy friend wondered to me why most women think they’re fat when they’re perfectly lovely, and I think it might be because when we go to the clothing store, the only items that fit us have a silhouette of a whale on the label.
In general, if the size number is greater than the age at which we lost our virginity, we start getting concerned that we’re hideously fat. I just read the touching book about funnyman Chris Farley, and evidently I weigh the same as Chris Farley at a “good” weight. So we’ve gotta do something.
A lot of people say they just don’t know how to get in shape. I know how. It’s just that it’s hard work. I was watching a show about weight loss, and how it’s just an equation- if you take in fewer calories than you put out, you’ll lose weight. I said, thanks a lot, TV- you think I’m fat *and* bad at math.
The last time I lost a lot of weight, women would ask me all the time how I did it, and as I explained that I was training for the Portland marathon, running 40 miles a week, I could see their eyes glaze over with disinterest, and they would say, oh, well, my friend’s been sleeping in a hydraulic tube, wrapped in Saran Wrap smeared with lard and beeswax, and I was hoping it was something like that.
I’m not working hard anymore. This time I’m working out smarter. This time I’m gonna lose weight in a fast and easy way!
What are my options for nutty-ass, health-endangering fad diets?
I do know a guy who is the last living Atkins dieter. I am not a good candidate for that, because I don’t eat meat, so I am not swayed by the magic of eating bacon smeared with butter. As far as I can tell, all that would be left for me to eat is celery and dust. Also, I read that carbohydrates are not just the fuel for your body, they’re what powers your brain, which is why every Atkins aficionado I have known has had ketosis breath and the attention span of a potato-starved gnat.
I was curious about Alli, the little blue diet pill that makes you shit fat*. There is a helpful booklet that comes with Alli that reads: There are some side effects, which include “oily spotting” and shitting when you hadn’t planned to. Don’t be a baby, Elaine – it’s all the same symptoms as you get from eating at Taco Bell.
The book also says: the excess fat floating on the toilet water may look like oil from a slice of cheese pizza.
See that? Already Alli has helped me! I’ll never eat cheese pizza again! Blarg! And it’s classic Clockwork Orange-style reprogramming: instead of feeling watching violent films and feeling nauseous, you’ll grow to associate eating a doughnut with the very real possibility of crapping a stick of butter on the subway.
* This is not their official motto- yet! I have helpfully emailed it to them and am patiently waiting for a response.
All the skinny bints at work go on about the Master Cleanse diet. A couple of years ago, it gained some popularity because Beyonce went on it so that she would not be mistaken for the fat, talented girl in Dreamgirls.
Apparently, the difference between this and real-life anorexia are the duration and hot lemonade, which has just enough maple syrup in it to keep you alive- and it’s supposed to turn you inside out with the mastery of its cleansing.
It seems that when people are not worried about the size of their ass, they’re concerned with what’s inside of it. A very similar diet is the cabbage soup diet, which is the same thing except you pretend you’re eating soup, and then you fart yourself thin. I guess I’m not clear on the details.
I’m reposting what I sent in to I Could Kill Her last week. (update: a local comic had a blog with her best friend for about a year, now I see that it’s a spam site.)
Barbie portrait by Miss Aurora.
My name is Virginia. I’m in my thirties, because I screwed up my original plan, which was to OD in a nightclub bathroom at 25 with panties around my ankles and a wet cigarette in my mouth.
I am constantly going to baby showers and being made to endure foul acts, such as sniffing and identifying various brands of chocolate melted into diapers, which is against the Godiva convention. I have, on some level, become inured to it. But nothing hurts like your first time.
My first time was Alisa. We met in Dallas, Texas, where we took drugs together, went dancing together. We had matching candy-colored vibrators. I was thrilled when she joined me in Portland, and I started dreaming about us growing up to be Cougars together.
Then the day came that she told me she was expecting. Worst of all, SHE HAD DONE IT ON PURPOSE! I felt like I was punched in the stomach. I pointed out to her that a baby is like a wild animal that will shit anywhere they happen to be. Babies are terrorists, and their weapons are noise and tears.
I tried to put on a brave face, but I don’t know how to do that, so I complained and felt sorry for myself. One day, she gave birth to a thing that I had to pretend was awesome, and whose fontanel she expressly forbade me to touch. I continued to call and pretend that times were still good, but if my stories were more than ten seconds long, or did not center on her little homunculus, she tended to drift off.
The breaking point came when her baby was approaching a year old. I will never forget baby’s birthday, because not only is it Cinco de Mayo, a day where I express my love for the Hispanic culture by drinking margaritas. That day, I stopped by the house to say hello and found a party in progress. A party I had not been invited to. A baby party.
The house was insanity. There were people putting food in their pants, smashing M&M’s into the floor, and talking about babies. A woman asked how I knew Alisa, and I said, I’ve known her all my adult life, how do YOU know her? Oh, I see. Three months of play group.
The words dripped from my mouth like toxin. I ran out of the house crying, tripped over something shaped like Snoopy and fell, sprawled on the grass in front of the picture window to the amusement of the adults inside. I swore never to return.
Everyone knows that Hollywood values youth and beauty over all things, even over 30 years of experience as a stand-up, writer, and comic actor, but I was sorry to see that Dana Carvey’s Myspace headshot has been Photoshopped into a plain but hard-working co-ed majoring in Women’s Studies and minoring in Black and White Photography.
Street signs can tell you a lot of things- to stop or slow down, that animals may cross the street, and which turning direction is less likely to get you killed.
However, this is the first time that a road sign has taken the time to let me know that bloodsucking ghouls are real.
Thanks, NW Natural! I’ll keep an eye out!
Postscript: Apparently, The Huffington Post has disproved the existence of vampires. Which is why vampires hate math!
A web comic artist Charlie Clark put out an offer recently to draw ANYONE, and I said, well, I’m anyone- here is his portrait of me, only the second girl he’s drawn. I think I could probably put it in my passport. I like my nosering especially.