I should've seen this one coming

Even though I'm a rabid sufferer of Clinton Derangement Syndrome, I've recently unearthed my bepenised feminist sympathy pills. And for Sen. Clinton, Sarah Palin's nomination is like a Christmas Day turd. Yes, Sen. Clinton is still a race-baiting corpo-fascist, but I know a Christmas Day turd when I see it.

This one stinks to hog heaven.

I thought Republicans were afraid of The Vagina. They spend so much of their time cowering in fear, trying to own it or get back inside it. But White Male Penis Power™ generally dictates that imperialism and the clutches of victory outweigh the inevitable counter-effects.

This presidential race mumbo jumbo is like pulling off the Band-Aid motherlode. Somebody make it quick and painless.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

“Gays: finally bringing developing African countries into globalization's bosoms.”

Dear Mark A. Rose

Dear Mark A. Rose,





Feel free to fuck yourself.

Best,
T.V. Fritz

This blog is officially gay

See more Kristin Chenoweth videos at Funny or Die

Sheesh. My BMI Lehman Engel Musical Theater workshop audition is next week. Cut me some slack, honeychild.

My warped mind is addled with imperfect rhymes and misaccented words.

Scenes from Edinburgh

Beatboxer Adam Matta and actress Lizzie Wort

Scenes from Edinburgh (Part Deux)

Breeder experimental circus composer Sxip Shirey.

This picture proves John McCain's evolution in douchebaggery

Can anyone else pinpoint the exact moment when John McCain became a supreme douche? Ugh. He's morphed into a Republican android.

Us Weekly dishes on Madonna's limp dicked Hitler-McCain analogy. (Really, Madge? How nouveau riche.) Meanwhile, Idolator belches the factoids on McCain's celebrity endorsements. If his Daddy Yankee shout-out doesn't deliver the 12-year-old Mexican girl vote, I don't know what will, dear reader.

"It's not surprising that Barack Obama and his fellow celebrities stick together," McCain spokesperson Taylor Griffin sniffed.

Apparently, Griffin's been reading Bill Hobbs' wah-bulance playbook again. Cry me a frickin' river.

The devil went down to Edinburgh

Off to Edinburgh. See you honkies on the flip side!

I can't stop listening to this song

Cyborg r&b singer Janelle Monáe was originally schooled in Sondheim at the American Musical and Dramatic Academy in New York. Luckily for us, her Broadway dreams fell into the gutter.

Her futuristic rock opus, Metropolis will be released by P. Diddy's (or whatever the hell he calls himself these days) Bad Boy Entertainment. But don't let Douche McDouche's association sway you. The concept album is a homage to silent film director Fritz Lang as told by Monáe's alter-ego, Cindi Mayweather.

Standing on the edge of control

Via Feministing

The blog post where I adopt my Groundskeeper Willie burr

Aye sir, Scots. Have ye gone waxy in your beester? Nobleman Greg Walloch wilt be appearin' in "And The Devil May Drag You Under" in the month of August at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Good for what ails ya!

The Manhattan Project Presents: This Day in Douchebaggery

This is my childhood

I remember...

Dressing up as "The Boy with a Sandal Taped to his Ass" for Halloween much to my family's general befuddlement.

I remember...
My childhood TV show, Such a Good 'Ol Cow.

I remember...
Shaking my ass suggestively to Uncle James and Aunt Katherine at Thanksgiving dinner much to their general befuddlement.

I remember...
my mentally retarded childhood friend, LuAnn. (Ditt-her, ditt-her)

I remember...
looking pensively into a print-screen poster while dancing to country-rock band, Sawyer Brown.

I remember...
neon glow-in-the-dark halos at dustbowl rodeos.

I remember...
taking a poo on the front lawn while my mother showed the Orkin Man the latest bug infestation.

I can't stop listening to this song

The blogzines jizzed all over themselves in late-2007 with the release of Black Kids' four-song demo, Wizard of Ahhhs. With Morrissey-style vocals and spazzy neo-retro synths, "I'm Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" is a slice of indie-pop opium. With their recent Columbia Records debut and Letterman appearance, expect the hipstertards to fall back on the 'ol "slutty capitalist sell-outs" mememe.

Ticky-tacky

I'm not sure whether I'm down with the new season of Weeds. Nerve.com's Remote Island seconds that emotion.

In the brilliantly constructed Season 3 capper–spoiler beef patties with narc sauce ahead!–yuppie drug lord Nancy Botwin doused her McMansion in gasoline and struck a match. In that single action, the finely tuned pasquinade of suburbia went up in flames. Yes Virginia, figuratively and literally.

At the moment, Botwin's slumming in the purgatory moors. She's on the run from the feds and herding weed-packed mules through a Mexican border-hopper version of the Underground Railroad. The whole shebang reminds me of Northern Exposure, but with a beach!

In other plot development points, Botwin's stacked stud muffin son (Hunter Parrish) has been receiving plenty of moments-in-mantittery lately:



This doesn't make up for the general suckage.

When Doves Cry

Dubbed the Paris Hilton of New York performance art, the nebbish post-modernist Neal Medlyn will be performing his Prince faux-concert "Unpronounceable Symbol" through July 20 at Performance Space 122.

In a strange way, Medlyn's lycra-bottomed interpretations have been mired in urbane fetishism among the gay elites. Instead of lapping the edges of a Dianabol-pumped beefcake, the gay elites swoon over Medlyn's yoga-toned arms.

It's called progress, I suppose.

In this clip, Medlyn re-enacts Beyonce Knowles' recent Staples Center concert.

Conversations with my boyfriend

Me: Eh. Look at the blurry taxicab picture. I look hideous with my blotchy skin and bloodshot pupils. But then again, I was slightly stoned when you took that picture.

Boyfriend: You're stoned now.

Conversations with my mother

Mom: "You're making an Indian dinner with rubberdick spices?"

Me: "Aromatic spices."

I can't stop listening to this song

Santogold's "L.E.S. Artistes" is like The Hipster Handbook, but with throbbing handclaps and dripping sarcasm. Sometimes, I listen to this song without a trace of irony.

"It's true. New York City donkey-punches Nylon Taffeta Slim Fit-wearing nabes from suburbia," I sob.

If only Santi White asked me to appear in her hipper-than-thou vid. I would've danced my capri-fitted ass off.

Conversations with my boyfriend

Me: Did you have high school superlatives?

Boyfriend: We didn't have those.

Me: I won two high school superlatives.

Boyfriend: Uh—

Me: Most Unpredictable and Most Sophisticated. The last year of high school, I showed up to school everyday stoned off of my ass. I think it really took people by surprise.

Boyfriend: Nothing says Most Sophisticated like being stoned off your ass.

Me: I'm pretty sure that 'sophisticated' was a code word for 'gayest.'