The Top 100 Things that Amuse me Mildly: #100- Justin Belber

I have decided to start a top 100 of mildly amusing things. Granted, I hope you know it is very viable that will never complete this list, let alone get to #99 anytime soon. Oh well. Anyway, at #100 Mr. Justin Belber, the prepubescent little firecracker who is setting pop music aflame just like Jojo and Aaron Carter, is well, kind of a freak. 

Below I have attached a link for you to assess and evaluate for yourselves:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADNpp9U6ogU

I am pretty sure that his "One time Video" is probably a top hit for Pedophiles Anonymous in July 2009. In fact, i think that Justin Belber encourages Pedophiles to keep on creepin' on. On top of that, I think any of the girls he wants to give to 'one time" in his video would more than likely be charged with statutory rape for merely getting within 10 feet of him. Though, i can't imagine they would be interested considering that they are 15-18 years of age and he is somewhere between 7 and 11 years old (11 if he is lucky). and, any middle school girl who has pics of him on her bedroom wall should be ashamed of herself, seriously, he is a child. that's just weird. 

Finally, who the fuck does he think he is calling Usher up on his little I phone? It's not even remotely believable and, call me old fashioned, but i don't think you should have an iphone until you are graduate from 5th grade at least. Just sayin'....

U Fucked up, My Love

On Sunday morning, after completing my morning run (which, actually, had turned into mainly running through the sprinklers in Chaparral Park due to excessive heat and excessive vodka in my veins), I caught eye of  a folded piece of looseleaf in the drivers door of a dirty, cream colored PT Cruiser (such an awkward color for such an awkward car). 

Well, Pandora's box was basically wide open so I snatched it, shoved it in my sports bra and jogged swiftly to my apartment. On the balcony, I savored its contents:

"U lying mother fucker./ Caught your pathetic ass in the act!/ Wow you amaze me, hunny!/ Trust u, yeah the fuck right- You proved yourself perfectly/ thanks sweetheart! [page break] U fucked up my love- wow, u really do make me proud! / love your gf"

My oh my, this was the best of  Cleopatra's raging soliloquy to Antony - gone-Scottsdale shoved in the door of an awful car. Therefore, we will refer to these unknown lovers at whoa as Cleo and Tony, unbeknownst to their knowlege, of course. 

The first question I have for Cleo: why would you date a man who drives a PT Cruiser? that is more than a red flag- it is a 15 ft red parachute with fire flares attached. How did you not feel ashamed riding passenger (to that beast) in that beast? Dearest Cleo, I think problems are more deep rooted than Tony-the-Cruise-about-town himself if you allowed yourself to be in this questionable situation in the first place.

Moving along, I have the following question for Tony: 

Who are you, and, more importantly, how did you get two women to sleep with you while leasing that car (i am hoping its a lease)? Did any action happen in that car? Does that sort of thing turn you on?

Another detail I noticed about the Cruiser was a parking pass in the window. This leads me to believe that there could have been a number of scenarios that set Cleo a flame with rage. Let me describe these below:

Scenario 1:

Cleo and her gfs, Portia and Rosalind, are traipsing through the complex parking lot after an evening of witty banter, dances with wolves, and 10 or so various spirits. Cleo, being obsessed with details and constantly suspicious her man Tony is cheating, spots his vehicle in the lot. She can confirm it is his based on the fact that she has memorized his license plate number in lieu of a moment like this. 

As Portia recounts how she tricked a fellow into believing they had slept together 1.5 years ago and Rosalind analyzes why she prefers Kettle to Belvedere, Cleo starts heretically screaming:

"You motherfuckkkkerrrrrrr!" Shrill as a raging banchee, she continues to scream and starts decking the car. Breaks a nail and screams louder. Rosalind and Portia look at each other. Secretly, Portia is secretly happy because she thinks Tony is a moron. Rosalind is calm because she is analyzing and assessing the situation, trying to think optimistically. 

You see, Tony was supposed to be in North Scottsdale, as he had claimed he had late dinner with clients and was going to head home after. However, according to the parking pass, he was the guest of a Miss Octavia Something or Other. The pass is dated for today and Ms. Octavia lives in apartment #218. Only Rosalind notices the apartment number, thank god, or there may have been real trouble- arson even. 

Portia,  sick of Cleo's obscenities and ready to meet up with 3 suitors in order to evaluate who will bring the proper man's show for the evening, gently guides her friend to write a note to him and stick it in the door. Fortunately, Portia carries a large purse and manages to have paper and a pen. 

Rosalind holds the paper for her and guides her to write a thoughtful note that makes her sound incredibly intelligent. Cleo improvises and puts things in her own words. Rosalind walks her friend to her door while Portia darts off through the bushes to meet up with suitor #1. 

While this scenario is very well possible, I also feel quite strongly about the following vignette:

Scenario #2:

Cleo ambling through the parking lot with Orlando who frequently pauses their walk to throw her against parked cars and shove his tongue down her throat and hand up her skirt. Cleo has had far too many spirits and is annoyed that Tony did not want to go out dancing with her tonight. Her gfs, Portia and Rosalind, have already gone their separate ways and now it is just her and Orlando. 

Orlando is hot. He is super buff, super tan and has a tatoo of a tiger across his left bicep. His gold chain sparkles and shimmers in the moonlight. it is a full moon. Orlando has crystal blue eyes. blue like sapphires and they give Cleo chills. 'Whatever', she thinks while gripping Big O's solid torso, 'Fuck Tony. He's basically out of town'. 

Orlando picks Cleo up and throws her over his shoulders while she directs him to her apartment. On the way, she sees her beloved's carriage. 'holy shit,' she thinks. She directs Orlando to pass the car, and sees that there is a pass in the window signed by that dumb bitch Octavia who lives in the next building over. 'Fat slut' she thinks, as she and Big O reach her door and start making out, 'whatever, I'm so over Tony. He's clearly into ugly, fat girls. What a chubby chaser.' Octavia, is in fact, not fat at all, but that is beside the point. Calling another girl fat, moreover a 'fat slut', is the ultimate low blow. Big O and Cleo cross the threshold and she continues to conduct another series of low blows. 

At 7 am, she sneaks outside and slides the note in his window and laughs an evil laugh. 

And these are only two scenarios for our rifted lovers. There could have been more. Unfortunately, fate got in the way and prevented Tony from ever reading Cleo's note. Which, inevitably, leads to an entire new strand of vignettes and scenarios:

Did Cleo forget about the note in the first place because she was completely blacked out and is still riding side saddle in the cruiser?

Did Cleo completely stop communicating with Tony?

did Cleo and Orlando ever see each other again?

Did Cleo bitch slap Octavia the next night at the bar?

Did Portia pick suitor 1,2, or3?

Has Orlando ever slept with Portia?

Would Cleo try to kill Portia if she did, in fact, sleep with Orlando?

What does Rosalind really think of her slutty friends?

How long is the lease on the Cruiser?

Adult fun

As of recently, I have come to note that, among many of my peers from high school, college, etc., it is quite trendy to either become a) engaged or b) married. Kind of like gladiator sandals and adult rompers. Some even have babies... ew. I am 23; when you add those two digits together, you get 5, which is much closer to my actual age. I might be a little less perturbed by said 'adult fun' if I were, oh, on the brink of 30; but, let's remember, I am 23, which basically means I am still celebrating my 21st birthday more frequently than infrequently.

Now, in reflection of all of these unions of love, life long commitment, and probably some sort of spawn, I have no desire to rant about how they are wasting long nights and mornings complete with jello shot serving midgets, bottle service at ultra lounges, free Kamikazes and plenty o' stranger fun. I am a rational person and understand that this is not everyone's forte. I have deduced, however, a few things about myself, specifically in terms of everyone's pre-nuptial ceremony: the bachelorette party.

First of all, I am pretty sure that I have a bachelorette party every weekend- sans penis-antlers and like-minded paraphernalia, of course ( men generally aren't attracted to women with a glitt'ry phallus attached to her forehead unless, of course, they bat for both teams). Looking at the laundry list of bachelorette activities, they are actually pretty ordinary. Get 3 guys' phone numbers? Check- but often in reverse, sometimes not even my number or name. Take a shot with a strange man? Standard- risk taker, I know. Take your bra off in public? frequently, why be uncomfortable? It is also really hard to fist pump to "Poker Face" when your strapless is halfway down your torso. Kiss a bachelor? not challenging in the least.

The list continues, but not one item on the list piques my interest: dance on a pole! flirt with the bar tender! flirt with six guys at once! Seduce a married man! Ok, the last one is not on the list but at least it would be/ was a somewhat challenging feat. The only thing I don't do on the list is blow... kisses- please, it's not 1952.

Hence, as I enter my mid-twenties, I have decided that I will have a bachelorette party for the sheer sake of celebrating a continuation of bachelorette-esque novelties. However, as I love challenges and games, this list will not entail aforementioned run of the mill, easy activities.

Here are some ideas I am contemplating:

smell a stranger's armpit and ask them where they bought their deodorant

convince a stranger that you had a one night stand 2 years ago (how can you not remember me?!?!)

find the oldest man ever and ask him if he would like to disco dance

dance with two guys at once who don't know each other

place a balloon or rolled up scarves under your shirt nad convince people to give you money for your child out of wedlock

find a bald man and rub his head to make a wish!

get a man's briefs (without leaving a public locale...)
give a new friend (male or female) a hug and as you pull away sniff their neck sensuously ( a man i met at the pool one day taught me this trick, it's called "the sniggle")

Convince a big man to give you a piggyback ride/ throw you over his shoulders and carry you to the next venue

convince a stranger to dance on an elevated surface for you

find a rando motorcycle, pose by it, and yell at a man to come take a ride with you

Walk up to a man and say "what fucks like a tiger and winks?" hopefully, that man will respond "what" and then do a corner turn and wink seductively. The storm off before he can even respond.

get kicked out of a bar....


oh, this list could go on and on and on and on and on....

You don't have to put on the red light

It's such a shame that Halloween is the designated holiday for donning costumes. Or, should I say, official holiday for costumes. I have decided, as I enter my mid-twenties, that all holidays should be celebrated with costumes. And, beyond that, I should actually be able to wear a costume or some sort of gimmick whenever the hell I want. 

For the 4th of July, I was not about to dress up as Lady Liberty (that would be lame) but to embrace several American classics all in one: Miami Vice, Boca Raton, Fl and the Golden Girls. It only seemed right to embrace some American traditions of excellence for America's birthday. While I channeled Don Johnson's girls through my get up, I prioritized other timeles American traditions throughout the course of the weekend: Bartles and Jaymes by the pool, aluminum cans of Coors Light, bars with mechanical bulls, fries and cornbread, NY pizza at 3 am,  so-co lime shots from strange men, Hall&Oates and excess in general.

There is one major American Tradition that is not on the list: fireworks. Fireworks, actually, were invented by the Chinese and originally used to scare away evil spirits. Per usual, the Europeans stole them from the far east. Later, a much younger America became a pyromaniac, kind of like when my sister, the neglected middle child, went and played with matches behind the garage.

Fireworks and I have a very touch and go relationship. As a child, my favorite part of going to the fireworks was getting glowrings ( later I would learn that glow rings show up much more often than just in a field on the 4th of July, thank god). I would save them in the freezer until my mom threw them away, claiming that chemicals were leaking all over the frozen chicken. I did not particularly like sitting on wet grass ( i have a thing about grass) and being mauled by mosquitos.

As an adult, I had a horrific experience at a firework display in downtown Atlanta where a local  referred to me as a 'bitch ho' for stepping on her picnic blanket and threw a tumbler of gin and juice at me to teach me a lesson on territory.  Last year, my friend megan and I began our 4th of July at about 5pm and ended our 4th of July at 11 pm with all american cheese fries and a philapdelphia steak sandwich. Talk about let freedom ring. 

This year, I had no particular interest in fireworks, but, apparently, they still wanted me. After prioritizing dinner at a wonderland of wild western fun called Saddle Ranch where we saw countless Americans forced to gyrate atop a mechanical bull, We decided to change it up and hit the W hotel where there were rumored to be fireworks. Upon arrival, we learned very quickly that the fire works had already set sail 15 minutes ago (bummer) but luckily a man at a nearby table had saved some for me. 

Within two minutes of meeting this man--an all american man who wore striped button down, worked for Ford, and had even driven a ford truck (probably a red one) at some point in his life-- I felt a POP under my skirt and whipped around to find him getting up off the ground laughing his ass off. Clarification- in the 1 minute that i had disengaged in conversation with All American Boy to meet one of his friends, he had decided it was appropriate to celebrate America between my legs, as he had just pulled a popper apart below my skirt. 

It probably would have made sense to 95% of the female population to give him a dirty look and walk away. Unfortunately, I am intrigued by bold moves and knew that, at the very least, this boy was good for a bizarre 15 minutes and a belvedere and soda. The interaction, henceforth, went like so:

Me: You owe me a drink for that (pointing finger, evil stare)

The American: have a seat ( The American, in addition to a slew of amateur fireworks that fascinate 1st graders, happens to have a table)

[small talk ensues, ranging from ford trucks, ford-lincoln-mercury, Boca Raton, Fl, his sister's affinity for African American men, the fact that he lives by some of the Arizona Cardinals. The waitress serves drinks: redbull and belv- not what i wanted- i am losing interest]

The American: I like your earrings [note: i am wearing large white sea shells that Betty White might have laying around in her jewelry collection]

Me [dry tone]: Thanks- I love Florida and old people. and bingo- but only with greyhounds. 

The American: [ puts his ear next to mine] I am trying to hear the ocean.

Me: How does it sound?

The American: What would happen if you brought home a guy who wasn't white? [I guess we are digressing back to his sister]

Me: I thought we were talking about the ocean. [ I stop myself from saying "i've seen guess who's coming to dinner a million times.]

The American: What would happen if you brought home me? [ well, this is moving quickly, but at least we have abandoned his poor sister ].

Me: well i probably would leave out how i met you.

The American: You remind me of my great aunt Nettie.

Me: You think of me as a 90 year old woman?

The American: No, you are just so quirky. You're a little firecracker!

Me: Oh, so are you. 

the conversation carries on in a strand of non sequiters until Roxanne comes on. The American gets super excited and starts to rock out on the flourescent floor lights. I dance with him for a moment before he twirls off into a new bevy of blondes. 

Ain't that America? Home of the freeeee, yeaaah.