Would Faith Hill be considered such a great singer if she didn’t look like a Barbie doll? Cause seriously, she really isn’t all that good. I’d call her mediocre. And that’s after all the sound mixing and digitalizing that they do on their voices. They can make a Howler Monkey sound good these days. So if you only sound mediocre after all that has been done, then maybe she really isn’t that great of a singer to begin with.
Plus she doesn’t write any songs. She just stands there and sings and looks pretty.
I’m not saying that the people who write their own songs are the only people who should be allowed on the radio, I’m not saying that at all. Because then we’d get a lot of Jewel and people like her.
If they cared only about talent, the people at PopStars! wouldn’t have been so concered with the chubby Karen WhatsHerName who only made it to the second round of auditions. I know this because I watched one episode of that show while I was drunk in my hotel room in Key West after a night of stunning Cosmopolitans served by a hot waiter from Poland. Named Andre or something French like that, I don’t remember. That’s the only reason I got drunk, y’all. Because Andre just kept coming and shaking my martinis and putting so much EMOTION into it, that I, well, couldn’t say “no more martinis, Mister Polish Waiter with a French Name, Sir.”
It was at the Commodore restaurant in Key West. Check it out if you’re ever down there. They have animal print on all of the seats. It’s a mixture of Boston Blue Blood and Drag Queen decor. I loved it.
You know how to sing like Jewel? Pretend that you’ve got a booger on your finger. Someone else’s booger. And then make a noise without opening your mouth. That noise right there, where the air goes, that’s how to sing like Jewel.
NNNNNNNNMY HANNNNHHNNNSS Are ALLLLLNNN I KNNNNNNNHHHOW.
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Yesterday I went home sick (again) with the strange, non-pregnant nausea. I knew I was sick because I was craving Marshmallow Pinwheels. Also known as “Fudge Fluffs” if you buy the store brand. I only want them when I am feeling sick. And conversely, they will make me sick if I eat them when I am not sick.
I ate eight of them yesterday. Thank god for the Fudge Fluffs or I would have wasted down to nothing.
Yeah. That could happen.
So instead I slept, received a phone call from my friend in Ireland, who basically calls long distance to say “watch for my email… I’m emailing you now.”, and read some diarys here. I have a new favorite. She gives me performance anxiety, she’s so good. Very very funny. I especially enjoyed her entries on the oddities of sperm.
And she may just have cured my non-pregnant flutter tummy and raging fever, because today I feel much better.
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I’m sitting here at my desk at my highly technical job and I can’t get into the cafeteria because they’re holding some sort of meeting in there. For lunch today, my non-flutter tummy decided that it wanted Smoked Cheese-filled sausages on buns. Sort of like a hotdog, but with testosterone. So I put two sausages in a clear Glad container and two buns in a bag and off to work I went. But now I can’t get to the refrigerator due to the aforementioned meeting, so my sausages are sitting on my desk.
They almost look obscene.
And people keep walking by, staring at them. And I know that they’re thinking dirty thoughts about them or me or both.
I have this incredible urge to cover them up with something. And I find that very funny. That I would be so sexually repressed that I would feel the need to hide my sausages.
You know, some people in my old department felt that I was the Dragon Lady. And now I almost wish I was back there, so I could flaunt my sausages at them, much like trophies from my many de-penis torture sessions and say “HA HA HA! Look at my latest conquests! Still turgid! BWAHAHAHA!” and prove that all of the rumors were correct.
Now I don’t even want to eat them. Plus I crushed the buns while shoving them into the zip loc bag.
You see, my buns were far too large.
Please try to restrain yourself from the obvious joke there.
I’ll just eat my generic Fudge Fluffs and leave my sausages out to taunt and jeer at my coworkers.
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Another reason I’m a freak:
Russell Crowe never looks bad to me. I had the hots for him in Gladiator, even when he was a phlegm spewing, snotty dirty man. I had the hots for him in The Insider, even when he was dealing with the Pepsi Girl. He was even sexy as a skinhead in Romper Stomper, even while committing horrible hate crimes against humanity. With or without snot. Just yummy.
God help me.
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I got out of getting measured yesterday, since I fled work in terror of the measuring tape. However, I must be measured today. I’m hoping that my strict regimen of Fudge Fluffs and diet Coke yesterday will have reduced my hip measurements.
By maybe 30 inches or so.
I’d settle for 20.
