I Don't Care About Pedophiles... I Just Want to See the Clothes On a Grownup

 Meet the January cover girl of French Vogue, y'all!

Hot, right??

Getting a good sense of what these clothes might look like on you?

What's that? You're not?  Oh, that's because SHE'S TEN YEARS OLD. Yeah.... 10. One year older than my niece, who is just reading Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Who thinks that adding some variant of  "poop" and "pee" to every single line on a Mad Libs is the height of humor (she may not be wrong there).

Found this on the Daily Mail, who, I'm sure, is positively giddy over the outrage it's causing. Yes, they are incredibly sexualized photos. Yes, I am horrified that the picture just above has her in a top cut so low that I wouldn't dare wear on the sluttiest night of the year Halloween.  Yes, this is the same type of photography that gets Chris Hansen in a tizzy.

But let's put aside the whole "this is the epitome of all that's wrong in this sad, fucked up little world of ours" thing and focus on my immediate thought, since I'm neither a pedophile nor a parent:  Can I open just one goddamned magazine and see clothes on someone that has at least graduated high school?

I'm not asking for much here. Really. Fuck fat models. Screw models over 25 (HAGS! ALL OF YOU!). Right now, I'd settle for someone that at least could drive to the photo shoot themselves:

Below is 15 year old Hailee Steinfeld, Mattie Ross in last year's True Grit. Stunning portrayal of a child looking for vengeance for her father's death. Now, she's the face of Miu Miu.

13 year old Elle Fanning! Dakota's tyke sister, and also the model for Marc by Marc Jacobs' fall/winter line.

She'd be a great model, if I were looking for something to wear on my first day of freshman year. BUT I'M NOT.  I'm a grown damned woman, looking to purchase clothes that I can wear to my job, that I can work without having to enforce Child Labor Laws.

Fashion designers, magazine editors, I implore you, on behalf of women everywhere... please. PLEASE. This isn't avant garde (clearly, since you aren't the only one doing it), this isn't edgy. This is just... stupid. Cast some models who's list of craziest nights don't include "that time when mom let me stay up past 10:30 to wait for Santa."

You're a Bitch, Jenny Craig.

Photo On Box:

Real Pizza:

I hate you, Jenny Craig.

There's Such a Thing as Going TOO Green.

Yeah... that's exactly what you think it is. Some looney toon at etsy.com (a site I normally adore, think stylish craft ebay) set up her own shop called Randumosity in order to foist upon the world her idea of green living:

Etsy Eco-Tip: "Reuse, Reduce and Recycle"Using cloth menstrual pads will lessen your contribution to the landfill!
Added on May 4, 2009

Honestly? I know, I know...fact of life and all that, but the earth-burning Westerner in me begs you to consider the logistics: who wants this thing hanging around their drawer? Is flannel really that... absorbent? I think the thing that makes these so objectionable is the gaggingly cutesy "femininity" with which she chose the designs.

Here are some of the more disturbing fabric choices this ghastly woman made:

Just what we all love being referred to... especially during that special time.

I'm all for retro, but in this situation, Care Bears seem completely inappropriate.

This brings a new meaning to "Ants in your pants". I suspect this was made without a shred of irony.

That's a Weirdly Specific Job.

Remember how I was all upset about House and what will heretofore be known as "That Stupid Suicide Episode" yesterday? No? Let me recap.

Fox touted Monday's show as "the one episode that comes along every season that BLOWS YOUR MIND." I hate when networks advertise like this. Do people really fall for it? It's as bad as when every single Law & Order was "RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES".

So anyway, one of the new doctors randomly shot himself. At the end of the episode there was a Public Service Announcement type message "if you are considering suicide, call this number", which is frankly, completely un-House. It could only have been made worse if they made Hugh Laurie narrate it. Actually, I hope they asked and he told them to pound sand.

Making it even worse... the House website has an honest to god memorial to the character. Not the actor, the character. Obviously, House watchers are drooling simpletons that can't distinguish between reality and television.

Way to go, Fox. It's situations like this that cause fairy godmothers to curse children.

ANYWAY...apparently there was a need to get Kumar off the show rather sharpish, because he's joining the Obama Administration. NPR reports:

Actor Kal Penn has been named to an Obama administration liaison post that connects the Executive Branch to people in the entertainment industry and Asian-Pacific groups. Penn is best known for his portrayal of Kumar in the stoner films Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle and Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay. He was most recently in the Fox TV drama House.

So I guess kudos to him... because clearly, this is a man that should hold office.

Proposal FAIL

I am all about the videos this week!! Ah well. Sometimes your brain needs to take a little vacation.

On to the video from NBC New York... this dude prepared a romantic proposal for his girlfriend on the Brooklyn Bridge, with all of their family present for the moment... AND DROPPED THE RING INTO TRAFFIC. She cries. I'm heartless apparently; I'd be the family member laughing at Butterfingers and recording him jump into oncoming traffic to get it.

I Am Karma's Bitch

My back has revolted against me this morning, which is odd, because I spent yesterday with my lazy ass on the couch catching up on Tivoed SVU reruns, so it's certainly not an activity-based injury.

I'm thinking that it is perhaps karmic payback for hiring a cleaning lady. Sure, I live in a one-bedroom apartment, but if I can pay someone to do something I don't want to do, I'm going to do it, dammit. I would THINK that in this economy that employing someone would be smiled upon by Karma. That slippery whore. I also hobbled to my car this morning only to find that my right passenger tire has died a terrible death after failing to clear an Evil Knievel-style leap over an enormous pothole. Hooray for me!!

So here I am at work, shuffling along like a senile old woman who's misplaced her walker at the WalMart, trying to reason with the most irrational people on the planet, bemoaning the fact that a car is really nothing but a money pit, desperately wishing that the Vicoden I took would make the pain go away, and not just make everything feel so soft. This desk... it's like goosedown!

Seriously...What Is Wrong With People In Florida?

A woman in Florida called 911 three times, after being told that her McDonald's ran out of McNuggets today, according to the Chicago Tribune:

"According to a police report, 27-year-old Fort Pierce resident Latreasa L. Goodman told authorities she paid for a 10-piece last week but was later informed the restaurant had run out.She says employees refused to give her a refund, saying all sales were final. A cashier told police she offered Goodman a larger portion of different food for the same price, but Goodman became irate."

By the way, does this say she paid for these nuggets LAST WEEK?! WTF? I can't tell if that's just shoddy grammar and the event happened last week, or if she paid last week and is claiming her nuggets today.

In Latreasa's defense, I can see a certain loyal Fonzipan reader (who shall go nameless) getting this upset if someone gets between her and her fried gizzards at Brown's Chicken. I made that mistake once. I now type with one hand.

EDIT: The 911 calls. Blog bless Youtube.

Fat Is a Dirty Word

It's a regular feature on Dateline: NBC and 60 Minutes, and Tyra was a little TOO excited to don her own. As I was perusing the Daily Mail today, as is my gossipy custom, the dreaded fat suit reared its ugly head once more. The title of this article? What Happened When We Sent a "Fattie" to London Fashion Week? Kate Faithfull Reports Back On Her Week On the Fatwalk. Lovely.


I know the Daily Mail has a journalistic brain the approximate size of a walnut, but I absolutely DETEST the use of a fat suit. It is incredibly insulting to think that because one walked around in a pillow all day that they understand what it is like to be obese.



While I will discuss whether these pioneers find any true insight to the social factors of corpulence, I want to first discuss the physical reality of obesity. Zipping up a padded suit doesn't add the extra pressure to joints and organs that true weight produces. Being fat is uncomfortable... a situation that Faithfull seems unable to realize:

When I zip up the fat suit in front of the mirror at home the day before the shows, I feel absurdly comfortable, warm and snuggly. It is on loan from fancy dress shop Angels, who usually lend it to am-dram productions...It feels as cosy (and as hot) as being wrapped in a duvet.

Being fat is not just like being swathed in a Snuggie. Fat is a PART of you, not something that one sheds at the end of the day like a winter coat.

The effect, though, is very soft and sexy. There are no rolls of wobbly flesh: my stomach is gently rounded and my magnificent bosom looks like something you’d want to rest your head on and fall asleep in for 100 years.

This is one of my true problems with fat suits- the results are not realistic. You're walking around in a pillow... things stay perky and fluffed out. Fat has weight... and things droop, sag and roll. A woman donning a fat suit is not spending hours in front of a mirror contemplating whether the material of her shirt is too thin because her belly button is casting a shadow, or whether she needs to buy a different dress because this one shows her back fat.

Being overweight is insidious- something that someone deals with over time. As such, so many of the judgments are internal: am I the biggest person in the room? Will I fit in the seat next to that person on the train? I am so busy scrutinizing myself that the supposedly "shocking" revelations about how the general public treats fat people is surprisingly not on my mind the majority of the time. I have, indeed, never noticed someone snickering as I reached for the Pringles. I don't mean to say it hasn't happened, but I have to live my life every day looking the way I do; if I kept an ear open for every comment, or watched for every gawker, I'd never be able to leave the house.

I often suspect that the treatment that fat-suiters often receive is because they are so clearly playing a part; humans are fairly adept at sniffing out trickery (for all that Howie Mandel says otherwise), and I feel that this is what people often respond to. We must also remember that these primetime specials and articles are edited to include the most abhorrent behavior that the journalist received, and as such, we may only be seeing the two or three ignorant jackasses that exist. We may also never know if these cads were provoked... this is an age of ratings and rampant yellow journalism after all. Which brings us back to the Daily Mail's attempt at social experiments:

As I wait in the busy queue for the show, surrounded by hundreds of air kisses that aren't aimed at me, I feel everyone's eyes upon me. But when I try to make eye contact and smile back, the wall of pupils fixed on me roll away. I am the elephant in the room. Do they think that fat is catching?
But maybe I'm imagining the way these people stare and then look into the middle distance just beyond my left ear. 'No,' says Nick, the photographer I've brought with me. 'Everyone is definitely gawping at you.'

Of course they're gawping at you... this is the most ridiculously fake looking fat suit I've ever seen. Not only is your face so normally sized that you look like a bloated tick, but you can see the lines of your padding. If they were staring at anything, they were wondering why you were in costume. You're also wearing the most hideous combination of 80's colors I can imagine.

What is the goal of these fat suit exposes? Are these people trying to break ground here? What ugliness of the human condition are they shedding light on, cruelty or obesity? The reality is that what it's really like being fat is lost on reporters that take a tour in a fat suit, because at the end of the day, these bright, successful thin people go back to their ordinary lives.

An Open Letter to the Technological World.

Hello Kittens,

Birv here. I understand that portable technology is a grand thing, and allows us to be in contact at times when we previously haven't been.

We must remember that there are certain times in which being in contact with people is still...taboo.

Do you remember when you lived in a house with a corded phone? Where was the phone located? Was it in the bathroom? It was not, was it?

That's right, there was a time where potty privacy was a deeply held belief. To many, including Birv, the bathroom is still a place where one can go to escape from the techno-saturated world. Some people don't like to have their every bathroom noise broadcast to your pals on the other end of the line, and we certainly don't care if you're going to a job fair, and whether or not Janice wants to go.

The joy of your phone being portable? It is NOT attached to you. You can leave it at your desk. The 2 minutes it takes for you to pee is a time that someone can wait for you to return the call.

Let's have a little Emily Post moment here: just because you CAN bring your phone into the bathroom doesn't mean you SHOULD bring it into the bathroom.

Kisses.

Thanks to Geekologie for the picture, and for (hopefully) understanding the laptop stays outside the potty.

STUPID MOTHER F*#%ING PIECE OF CRAP!! WORK! WOOOORK!

I work in a company with 3 and a half floors, 14 printers and copiers. I shit you not... ALL BUT ONE OF THEM ARE BROKEN RIGHT NOW. How does that even happen? We haven't even been here two hours.

GUH. I don't know why I'm surprised, this happens on a daily basis. I swear to god I'm ready to take a baseball bat to this stupid copier if it doesn't give me my report... actually named the TPS report, without a shred of irony. Screw trying to change people's lives through education. I'm going to become a copy machine repair man. The money HAS to be better.

Christian Bale Has Anger Management Issues

This is very, VERY NSFW, if your boss has issues hearing the F Bomb being dropped 40 times in over 3 minutes. Apparently, last summer Christian Bale was feeling the creative groove on the set of Terminator: Salvation when the director of photography walked through the scene. Angry tantrums ensued. After careful consideration, I still think he's hot.

Link to the FoxNews story here... though you can listen to the rant above.

You Could Probably Rent Storage Space In There.

I'm sure you've heard of the woman who gave birth to octuplets last week on the 26th. I don't even want to THINK of what that does to your insides.

According to People, her mom confirms what the rest of us realized upon hearing the news promos: she's a baby-obsessed nutjob.

Meanwhile, grandma said she is at the home they share in Whittier, taking
care of Nadya's other six other children, ages 2 to 7. And she has a message for
her daughter: When you get home, it's bye-bye, baby. "I'm going to be gone,"
says Angela. ... Nadya Suleman's "obsession" with children, says her mother, caused Angela to seek help from a therapist, who told her to ask her daughter to leave the house. But Angela backed down. "I didn't want to throw her out," she says.

There are only two acceptable reasons to have this many children: 1) to combat Brad and Angelina's attempt at world domination through a larger and therefore more powerful infant army, or, the most appropriate reason, 2) Alien DNA harvesting. We're this close, E.T.!!!

Australians Have a Far Better Sense of Humor Than Catholics

I would actually like to dedicate this to Big Brother, who had to take me to the store to stock up for my first ladytime.

You're a rock, bro.

PS-I know this is the second thing I stole from Geekologie in 24 hours, but come on. Can you blame me?

Ever Felt Like This?

This fits ably into my ongoing ode to how much I hate this winter.

How Was Christmas??

Huzzah! Christmas is over!!! A happy and fond bah humbug to you all!!! Ironically, now that the season of "giving" is over, the general public will likely become much more polite.

Now I just need to survive through New Years, and I can start going out again. The times that I feel the most obligated to do something social are the times that I am the least inclined to do so... is that a bad thing? Should I care? Mmmm... I'm choosing not to.

I'm not one for resolutions- I fail often enough, I don't feel the need to deliberately set myself up. Instead, I'll ask the question: what are we all looking forward to as we prepare to pop the cherry of a fresh new year?

The thing I'm most looking forward to in 2009 is that people only have one more year of saying "twenty-oh-nine". I hate when people say "twenty-oh-eight" or "twenty-oh-five". It totally bugs me... don't ask me why. At least "twenty-ten" makes sense. It is a blight on an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable Sunday morning when I watch CBS' Sunday Morning, as Charles Osgood ALWAYS says "twenty-oh-eight". He says it like seven times; I cringe every single time.

I'm also mad excited about Superstars of Dance... a new NBC dance show that pits various professional dancers from different genres against each other. I have no idea how the show works...are all the countries doing the same dances? Do people vote on the best dances, even though the dances are all going to be crazy different? Is it a competition at all? Frankly, I don't care- if I did I would read up on it. I'll let it be one of the many surprises the show is sure to offer. All I know and all I care about is that it is produced by the same people that do So You Think You Can Dance (odd it's not on Fox), and it features professional dancers (screw you, Dancing With the Stars), thus I don't care what the show involves, so long as I see me some Bollywood. It starts this Sunday... be prepared for a review!!! I know you're all as excited as I am.

Clearly I set my expectations for 2009 low. If you have something more profound (or not), by all means, let me know what you're pumped for!

Winter in Chicago: a poem.

My stupid goddamn piece of shit car wouldn't goddamn fucking move from it's goddamn fucking parking spot this morning... fucking goddamn piece of fucking crap. I hate cars, I hate winter, I hate Chicago, I hate snow, I hate how goddamn fucking cold it was when I had to take the goddamn fucking El... I hate that the goddamn stupid pieces of dook at the CTA FORCE you to pay goddamn cash for a fucking CTA card, but have no goddamn ATM's at any locations, so you have to trek to the fucking WALGREENS to get some goddamn money out of the fucking machine so that you can get a goddamn fucking CTA card so you can freeze your fucking tits off while waiting TWENTY MINUTES for a fucking bastard train to arrive. I hate walking along the windy-ass fucking HIGHWAY to get to my job an hour fucking late because I couldn't move my fucking piece of crap car out of it's space, and I hate that I am covered in salt and snow because I tried to push my goddamn fucking piece of crap car out of it's spot, and it wouldn't budge because even though I am a fucking goddamn whale apparently all of my heft isn't enough to fucking move a goddamn fucking car two inches. I hate that my fucking back hurts from trying and I hate that my foot and hands hurt from when I then started beating up my goddamn fucking piece of shit car that won't move out of its spot. I especially LOATHE the stupid asshat motherfucker driving by that laughed at me while I was trying to move my stupid piece of shit car out of it's spot. MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, buttcheese! I hope you get a pox on your ballsack for the holidays, you un-chivalrous piece of moldy smegma! I brandish my fist at you!!

Winter Parking Olympics Photo courtesy of Big Brother, the best photojournalism correspondent a blogging girl could ever have.

Don't Sweat the Petty Things... Don't Pet the Sweaty Things: The Ballad of Bikram Yoga

ZOMG last night was the worst night ever. I tried Bikram Yoga, or Hot Yoga, for the very first time in my life, and I am now thoroughly convinced that the practice was invented by the Devil.

Entering the work space is an experience. Imagine every well-groomed, dissatisfied trust-fundian DeadHead you've ever met in one room encased in designer sportswear and you pretty much have the experience. This is not to say that your classmates aren't kind. On the contrary- Bikram followers are full of love. It was a very huggy crowd. Everyone was very present, man. Present and nearly nude!! Short shorts and sports bras were quite the fashion... for everyone except me. Tank top and yoga pants, my friends! This girl doesn't shed for strangers unless plied with liquor. George, my fellow first-timer, said he felt like we had unwittingly signed up for some sort of sex party.

Entering the workout room is like walking into someone's mouth- except that mouth is full of other sweaty people. The picture above is accurate- there were like 40 people in this room. One hundred ten degrees, 50% humidity... what was I thinking?? I hate the heat, I hate exercising, and this is far too much bodily fluid to be splashed with from people I'm not sleeping with, that's for sure. I have never sweated so much in my life... and that was before I laid my mat down.

I was holding my own for a good 30 minutes of the 90 minute session... then the room started to swimming. Rather than pass out in front of all these yogis, I left to sit outside- big mistake. The rapid change in temperature from 110 degrees to 70 was a little too much... get ready for it- I TOTALLY PUKED, YOU GUYS!!!

Super love it. So after puking all over the floor of the bathroom at the yoga place, I did what any veteran puker does, I high-tailed it out of there. Shortly before I did, I had a conversation with one of the receptionist/yogis, Willow? Wheatgrass? Something herbal, anyway. She was very sweet. She explained that the heat is what most first-timers have the toughest times with, and that this was my body's way of telling me it needs this, and encouraged me to re-enter the room when I was ready, I would feel such calm if I did! Some salesgirl.

Luckily for me, Haybale left, so my pukey pants and I were able to flee with some semblance of dignity. Stumbling dizzily to my car, I did feel a sense of something- peace, quasi-dehydrated drunkenness, who knows... but I did feel good. Until I found a ticket on my car. GRRRR! So now thirty minutes of literal hell on earth has cost me $80.

I also have a bruise on my ass from falling down the sheet of ice that were the sidewalks last night while walking Daisy... I had to roll over to the grass because I kept slipping when I tried to get up. Ah, my glamorous life.

So I've been considering it- feeling stupid for ever thinking my Scottish constitution could handle the heat, I am facing eating the $30 for the month trial and realizing the end of my dreams of being a shapely yogini (and possibly facing the end of my hopes to travel to India- do they have air conditioning there?), or I try getting back on the horse once more. Grassy Knoll told me that the first time is the hardest, and that now I've been through it, I wouldn't notice it the next time. Do I believe her? Do I risk puking again? It's a general rule I have to avoid things that make me throw up at all costs. Well- that's a lie. I do still drink, after all. Here's the crazy part- the competitive, masochistic cheap-ass in me is almost considering going back to the class...I paid $30 and I couldn't finish one class? BALLS!

Mascot Update

I have officially found the scariest mascot ever. This looks like some sort of horrible Mark Ryden creature come to life to eat my spleen from my still living body.

If any of you are judging the kind of horrible parents that would let their kid get close to this thing, remind yourself of this... "If I were the parents of this little girl, I would offer her as a happy meal/sacrifice to this monster while peeling bananas in the opposite direction too."

A Sure Sign You've Given Up.

Big Brother has an addiction to Craigslist that I struggled to understand, UNTIL TODAY. I was looking at jobs online, and decided to play around on the "Free" link. Not only is someone offering a single 34" Black Shoelace, but another person is seemingly offering up their dignity.

This is an honest to blog real Craigslist post:

Contraceptive Sponges (Logan Square)
Reply to: mailto:sale-904448397@craigslist.org?subject=Contraceptive%20Sponges%20(Logan%20Square) [?]Date: 2008-11-03, 3:03PM CST

2 brand new, sealed in packaging Today sponges. Expiration June 2010. Indicate specific day & times you are available for pickup. Kedzie/Belmont vicinity. Serious inquiries only - I am not amused by troll replies.
Location: Logan Square
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 904448397

Granted, it's been a while for me, but I do hold out hope that I will get laid before 2010.

The post brings to mind many questions (not the least of which is why these can't just be thrown away). What happened here? My mind naturally goes to the most likely scenario, which is that some poor woman in Logan Square has decided to swear off men, owing, no doubt, to her heart being shattered to dust by some swarthy dude with too many buttons open on his collar that calls himself Antonio, but whose real name is Louis.

Ovu-licious!

Ahhh... from deep political essay to tracking your monthlies. That's my whip-fast personality change...it's how we roll here on Fonzipan. I can't stay serious for too long before I break out in hives.

Ladies, you can track your calorie intake online, you can track your investment portfolio's descent into the toilet online, why not track your special time?

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Sign up for the website here!