SAN GENNARO FESTIVAL THREATENED BY SNOBBY BOUTIQUES

Alright.
This is the last fucking straw. (Or should I say cannoli.)
I just read this: SAN GENNARO FESTIVAL UNDER ASSAULT

So these upscale boutique owners who set up shop waaay after the San Gennaro Festival began 85 years ago now think they have the right to push people out. They knew damn well that this festival is a tradition in Little Italy. Both tourists and locals look forward to it each year. It's a New York institution. Fuck these bastards for trying to squash it to sell their overpriced bullshit. And yes, I know. They just want to limit the festival to Kenmare Street. But that's where it starts. They'll probably keep pushing it back more and more until it's just one guy selling sausages for one hour on a Saturday.

We have enough frou frou boutiques selling stupid handbags in this town. There's only one Little Italy, and it's shrinking by the year.

And this is a trend I'm seeing across NYC. People move into areas renowned for nightlife then get pissed off because the bars are too loud. YOU'RE LIVING IN THE LOWER EAST SIDE, ASSHOLES! The bars, barflies and denizens of the night were there first.

Honestly.

It's like people want to turn this town into one big, boring gated community. I'm tempted to open up a bar called "The Clubhouse" and model it after a Florida retirement community. We'll play canasta, serve Sanka and sway to a little Perry Como.

Of course, I bet the neighbors would find fault with that too. I can just hear the complaint to 311 now:

"Hello? Yeah. I'd like to register a complaint. The people at The Clubhouse are swaying too loud."

FOREVER COCOONED

The above photo is what happens when two straight guys from Wisconsin design attire: you get Couch Potato Couture.
You get something worse than the Snuggie.
Because at least the Snuggie isn't pretending to be anything more than a blanket with sleeves.
It is not masquerading as clothing.

What you're looking at here is an abomination called Forever Lazy.
And it is quite literally "100% Anti-Pill Polar Fleece" proof that we have turned into weird, flabby pod creatures who just want to return to the womb.
And not our mother's womb.
A techno-womb of our own creation.

These adult onesies remind me of some futuristic construct where man and woman are not differentiated by our bodies but by the colors of our state-issued uniforms: pink or blue.
The fucked up part is that these Forever Lazy onesies aren't state-issued. People are actually buying them of their own free will.

So the truth is...the future is now.
When we actually leave our pod homes we wander around, oblivious to our surroundings. Instead we are mesmerized by our Blackberries, our ears clogged by earphones piping in music of our choice. We are disconnected to our neighbors, our environment and our bodies.

We shop, entertain ourselves and socialize online. And when we're socializing online, we complain that we are lonely and that no one understands us. Then we step outside and tune everyone out again; ensuring that we will never have to deal with the pressure of actually meeting people in person.

The Forever Lazy is truly a sign of the times. We've become an insular culture of shapeless, formless blobs too lazy to actually connect with our world.

At this rate, we will be Forever Cocooned...But at least we'll be dressed appropriately.

MY REBUTTAL TO PATTI STANGER'S BITCHERY ABOUT NEW YORK STYLE

Patti Stanger, I’ve noticed that you and your two Goth love wranglers have descended upon NYC for a new season of “The Millionaire Matchmaker”.
You’ve proclaimed that us New Yorkers are in dire need of your dating advice.
Well, that may be.
But when you had the nerve to say that New York women aren’t as stylish as L.A. women, that’s when I say: back it up, bitch.
It’s the East Coast -West Coast style divide and I’m here to represent.

Let's kick this off with a few defining factors about New York Style:

1. Unlike L.A., most of us live without a car here in New York. So our style is both fashionable and functional. We actually walk in this town. A lot. You might have a business meeting in Midtown, a lunch date in TriBeCa and then cheer on a friend doing a poetry reading in the Bowery. Moreover, we run up and down the stairs to our walk-up apartments, chase down the hot guy who just crossed the street and sprint for the bus in our cute shoes. We navigate sidewalk grates, subway steps, and those clanging metal doors that shield underground caverns below restaurants and delis.

2. Walking more than you do, we battle things you L.A. women don’t have to worry about—like mud puddles, dripping AC window units and gusts of hot air whooshing up from subway grates. We can handle the unexpected with flair. As a result, New York women are savvy, smart and capable. A New York woman can hail a cab, text her boyfriend and tell the jackass on the stoop to fuck off—all at the same time.

3. We're on display more than you. You can go to a restaurant, show off your revealing outfit then retreat to your car. We can't. The sidewalks here are perpetual runways.

4. Unlike L.A, New York has real seasons. So we have more diverse ways of expressing our personal style than you do. We look adorable in our gloves and hats in the winter, our rain boots in the spring, our flirty dresses in the summer and our chic trench coats in the fall.

5. We believe in diversity of beauty. We don't have a cookie cutter, botoxed, plastic surgery-sculpted definition of what a woman should look like. We appreciate women of all sizes, ethnic backgrounds and fashion perspectives.

6. This is reflected in our after hours style too. In L.A., it seems like you just wear as little as possible and that’s considered stylish club attire. And sure—L.A. is full of beautiful women. You’ve got tanned skin and toned thighs and you look great. You’re very sexy. But we're sexy in New York too. The difference is, when we head out for the night, we take the opportunity to try out outrageous looks, unique styles. If you look around a New York club or bar, you might find a sexy librarian, a retro 60s seductress, a motorcycle hellion, a glamazon. It’s not just about showing flesh. It’s about showcasing style.

And while we’re on the subject of clubbing--when New York women go out, we go out. We’ve got stamina. That defines us too. There’s no finer sight than coming home as the sun is rising over the East River.

Now, I visit L.A. on a regular basis. And I love your town. It's great. But your bars and clubs shut down absurdly early. People are booted out on the street at 1:30 am. What’s worse…many of them actually go home. Like, to sleep.

This is totally uncivilized.

New York women are just getting started at 1:30. On a Thursday. When there’s a sales presentation scheduled for 10am the next morning.

In conclusion:
Patti Stanger, alias Millionaire Matchmaker, I wouldn’t dream of speaking on behalf of my city.
New Yorkers are quite capable of doing that for themselves.
It’s what we do best.
But from me to you: Patti, you don’t know shit about true style.

New York women kick ass…and look damn good doing it.

THE CURLY HAIRED ANCHOR BAN

As a curly haired person, I have wondered something for a long time: why aren't curly haired women allowed to anchor the news?

If you just plug in "news anchor" to Google images, you will not find a single curly haired woman in the bunch. Not one! While there is more ethnic diversity than there used to be, that diversity stops when it comes to hairstyle. All women must submit to the stereotypical, straightened, laquered news helmet. (See Megyn Kelly above.)

So I want to know: what the hell is wrong with curly hair?

Are curly haired women viewed as untrustworthy? Unprofessional? Crazy? Unkempt?

Who decided that a woman with curly hair can't read a TelePrompter? News organizations will occasionally let a curly haired woman report from a war zone, but she tends to be wearing a flack jacket too. So I guess the curly hair is a prop, conveying the message that, "I'm a serious journalist. You can tell because I have no time to flat iron my hair as the bullets whizz past my ears."

So I say enough with this shameful ban on curly haired women at the anchor desk.
It's time to show some Curly Pride.

SECOND HAND LUNGS

So-
I have a bit of experience in purchasing second hand items. In fact, second hand books are cooler in some ways. You might see that the previous owner underlined certain phrases and wonder what kind of person they were. Of course, you occasionally wonder what that disgusting green glob is on page 152.
Which brings me to this story from the Associated Press:

Woman Received Lungs of a 30-year Smoker

LONDON – The family of a 28-year-old British woman who unknowingly received a lung transplant from a smoker says she would have been "horrified" and have lodged a complaint.
Cystic fibrosis sufferer Lyndsey Scott in February received a double lung transplant from a donor who had smoked for three decades. She died in July of pneumonia.
Britain's top transplant official Chris Rudge defended the decision and said patients should be told they are not getting a "brand new" organ. He said on the BBC that "lungs from a smoker can be working perfectly normally."

Now, I think this transplant official is kind of a prick. Of course this patient knew she wasn't getting a "brand new" organ.
It's not like they stock new lungs at your local Target.
But getting this particular set of lungs is a bit like getting Pamela Anderson's used vagina.

The bottom line is:
If you're getting something used, it's best if it's "gently used", to use a vintage clothing term.
It seems to me there ought to be a Kelley Blue Book for second hand organs.

DEATH TO THE OVER POPULATED PITY PARTY

Well-
I am sweeping up the cigarette butts and deflated balloons, recycling the beer cans, taking down the limp streamers and unclogging the toilet because my pity party of the past two weeks is over. I even deleted a couple of pathetic posts.
See, that's the dangerous thing about pity parties today.
It used to be that when you threw yourself one, it was a small affair. You'd mope around the house, watch bad TV, eat fattening food, kill a bottle of wine.
Alone.
But now, we send out invitations to our pity parties, through our blogs, Facebook and Twitter. Look at me! I'm miserable! Boo hoo!
I can't believe I succumbed to it.
It's embarrassing.

The point is, I'm back.
The ridiculous, curiously attired, peculiar person you've come to love (okay...barely tolerate) has returned and I've sent the glum bitch packing.

I've never been so happy to see a party end.

RECYCLED SLOGANS FOR OUR CORPORATE RUN AMERICAN GOVERNMENT

For those of you who missed it, the U.S. Supreme Court just served up our 50 States on a silver platter to corporate interests yesterday. Corporations are now free to influence our political system and can conceivably dictate who wins and who gets stuck on the shitter without toilet paper or reading materials.

So it occurred to me that many of these corporations really wouldn't have to change their slogans much for their new role as political strongmen. Many of these famous slogans can be recycled. I just made a few subtle tweaks and presto! They're perfect for campaign ads. See for yourself:

Sprite: Obey Your Government

Smuckers: With A Name Like Joe Lieberman, It Has To Be Good

Energizer: Nothing outlasts The Schwarzenegger. He Keeps Going and Going

State Farm: Like A Good Neighbor, Newt Gingrich Is There

GEICO: So Easy Even Sarah Palin Can Do It

L'Oreal: Senator Mike Crapo--Because You're Worth It

DESOLATION BOULEVARD: BLOGGING IN THE HARSH GLARE OF KINKOS

Hello Peons!
Just checking in with you to tell you I'm not dead. Neither is the blog. What's dead is my computer. But it's with the nerds at the Mac store, where I can only hope they are treating it with as much love as I do. I cannot tell you how forlorn my desk looks now, with only a cookie crumb infested keyboard on it.

Until my computer and I are reunited, I'd just like to leave you with this bit of information: Southern Cooking Personality Paula Deen was smacked in the face with a ham yesterday.

Back soon with more of the useless shit you've come to expect from this blog...

-VJDutton

FACEBOOK ANNOYANCE DU JOUR

You know, I have enough people trying to make me feel guilty: PBS with their fund raisers, my mom on the phone, Hallmark with their insistence that I'm a bad friend who doesn't care enough to send the very best if I don't buy their cards.
Now Facebook is joining the guilt chorus.
I see in my suggestions column that they've taken to putting a friend's face there and saying, "You haven't connected with ___________ on Facebook in a while. Send______________ a message."
Better yet, they put: "Help make Facebook better for her."

What is the meaning of this shit? How did I become a Facebook charity work volunteer?

Why is Facebook telling me that I'm an uncaring asshole? Facebook is like one of those irritating, overbearing moms who always tried to mediate grade school conflicts:

Irritating, Overbearing Mom: Wendy, why can't you just forgive Saara for trying to steal your Little Pony, even though I'm sure her family can afford to buy her one and it was very rude of her.

Wendy: No! She's fat and ugly and I hate her!

See? And I understand Wendy's outrage. Truthfully, I still hate her too. Plus, I already had a Little Pony, I just took hers out of spite. And I'd do it again, bitch!
So Facebook, stop dropping unsubtle hints about friends I may be neglecting.
But if you still want to emulate an Irritating, Overbearing Mom, at least have the courtesy to carpool in an unflattering velour tracksuit, bathed in Elizabeth Arden perfume while you're doing it.

NEW HOOTERS OUTFITS

Well I am just beside myself.
It used to be that in this world of uncertainty, there were still a few precious things you could count on to remain unchanged:

1. That gross liquid discharge on the top layer of yogurt

2. Acoustic guitarists in Hawaiian shirts playing Jimmy Buffet songs at Florida beach resorts

3. The Hooters Outfits

The original Hooters outfits are the gold standard: Orange, camel toe-inducing shorts, tight tank top with the owl eyes stretched out over pendulous/surgically enhanced tits and of course, the shiny beige pantyhose. This sublime workplace attire was a source of national pride. Now they've gone and changed it to the monstrosity pictured above. Why camouflage? These women do not need to hide in a Vietnamese jungle. They need to serve me fucking hot wings and beer!
Damn. Another piece of iconic American fashion history is relegated to the dusty recesses of our collective consciousness...

HELP SAVE MR. CLUCKY!

This is an abomination!
One of Miami Beach's most high profile residents is getting the boot:

MIAMI BEACH, Fla. – A celebrity rooster and Miami Beach tourist favorite named Mr. Clucky could soon be evicted from the condo he shares with his owner.
The Miami Herald reports that a dramatic city hall plea from Mark Buckley wasn't enough to stop officials from giving city code officers authority to remove Mr. Clucky and his hen girlfriend, Wallflower.
Buckley was also ordered to pay a $50 fine for the rooster, known for perching on the handlebars of his bicycle.
Miami Beach code prohibits keeping poultry and other livestock in residential areas.
But there might still be hope for Mr. Cluckey: Buckley can ask city commissioners for an exception or appeal to the courts.
Mr. Clucky has become a favorite subject of tourist photos and was even grand marshal of a parade.

My theory is that this is what happens when Florida is overrun by bored, fun-crushing members of the Homeowners Association. Bunch of sour pusses.
My Mom and I have long been suspicious of these elected killjoys, and have more than once defied their "No Horseplay" warnings at the pool.

These dull Association bastards are not real Floridians. Florida is the Potluck State--land of pirates, booze smugglers, leathery divorcees in leopard print bikinis, cocaine cowboys, free-wheelin' grannies and night club lotharios. It's populated by wacky Carl Haaisen characters.

As such, Mr. Clucky is a Floridian original, and deserves respect. According to his website, Mr. Clucky believes in "peace, protecting the earth and being kind to animals."

He's a goodwill ambassador. He's Cock of the Miami Beach Walk.

Save Mr. Clucky!

EXTENDED WEAR UNDERPANTS

Hello Peons!
I have some truly startling news to deliver today...

HOUSTON (Reuters) – Teen-age boys, are you tired of embarrassing questions about when you last changed underwear? Japan's space scientists may have just the answer -- a line of odour-free underwear and casual clothing.
Koichi Wakata, the first Japanese astronaut to live on the International Space Station, is testing the clothes, called J-ware and created by textile experts at Japan Women's University in Tokyo.
"He can wear his trunks (underwear) more than a week," said Koji Yanagawa, an official with the Japanese Aerospace Exploration Agency.

This is terrifying.
Is this "extended wear underpants" discovery the new Tang?
You know, an appalling product that was specifically designed for astronauts but for some inexplicable reason found it's way into homes across the nation?

I don't even know where to begin on this one.

BLOW UP SEX DOLL BANDIT

Just woke up in my footie pjs, ate some leftover Chicken parm, popped a few aspirin to stave off a hangover and found this delightful story:

SYDNEY (Reuters) – An Australian man broke into three adult shops, had sex with blow up dolls named "Jungle Jane" and then dumped his plastic conquests in a nearby alley, local media reported Wednesday.
"It's totally bizarre. It's a real concern that someone like that is out on the street," said one of the owners of the adult sex shops.

Now, what makes "Jungle Jane" so special? You'd think he'd want a little variety. If he's going to all that effort, breaking the law just to stick his weenie in an inanimate object, you'd think he'd give some other sex dolls a test drive. Surely they are worthy of his attentions too. What about:

1. Catheter Cathy

2. Truck Stop Trish

3. Pittsburgh Polly

4. Port-a-Potty Pam

5. Food Court Fran

The list of missed opportunities must be keeping this bandit awake at night...

NEW DIMENSION OF DISGUST

The other night, a friend of mine told me a story.
It seems an acquaintance of hers was on vacation, and did not have a dressy pair of trousers for a specific event.
She asked the woman she was staying with if she could borrow a pair of hers.
This woman replied; "Sure, you can borrow these, as long as you don't mind the clitty litter."
CLITTY LITTER.
Clitty mother fucking Litter.

There are so many, many problems with this story:

1. No woman over the age of 13 should borrow another woman's trousers. If I didn't have suitable attire for an event while I was far from home, my plan would be thus:

A. Put on some fabulous lipstick.
B. Wear whatever sequined unitard, billowing Hammer pants, scratch n' sniff ski boots, fringed and beaded bustier, Bedazzled chaps or plaid poncho I had in my suitcase. (And yes, some of those items have been found in my suitcase before.)
C. Hope I could slide by on my wit and charm.

Shit, I didn't even like trading clothes when I was 13. Made no sense to me. I was never interested in joining the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

2. If you are offering trousers {shudder} to another woman...GIVE HER A CLEAN PAIR!

3. I cannot stress how grossed out I am by this "clitty litter" term. It is so vile that it haunts my dreams and every waking hour. I will not be able to eat cottage cheese for months. I will not look at cats or trousers or litter boxes in the same way again. I will be dropping off all of my trousers at the dry cleaners, even ones I haven't worn yet. If this condition persists, you will probably find me hallucinating in an alley way somewhere, wild-eyed, frightened, chanting "clitty litter, clitty litter, clitty litter" over and over again, rubbing myself with raw meat.*

*Reference to a brilliant 1993 Lifetime movie starring Valerie Bertinelli called "Murder of Innocence". The raw meat scene is acting at it's finest.

PEON CONFIDENTIAL PARTY ETIQUETTE

So-
I've been reading a lot of these "What Not To Do At An Office Holiday Party" lists like this:
OFFICE PARTY PERILS
And I have just one thing to say:
For the love of all that is good, juicy and delicious about this festive time of year: Throw that dull bullshit out the window.
Honestly, what the fuck is wrong with these list-writing, fun-crushing assholes?
The whole point of an office holiday party is to create gossip for the next day. And what are people supposed to talk about around the water cooler if no one is generous enough to provide good material?
Picture it:
Imagine if no one xeroxed their ass? If no one propositioned the boss with a can of whipped cream and a sly smile? If no one did the cabbage patch? If no one lit their socks on fire? If no one barfed in a ficus plant? If no one burped out "Jingle Bells"? If no one did anything they regretted the next day?

What would be the point?

So I'm begging you:
When you attend your office holiday party--drink too much, tell dirty jokes, wear your underpants on your head or find some other unique way to embarrass yourself.
And then e-mail me with all the details.

SARAH PALIN CAN KISS MY FAT MEDIA ELITE ASS

I don't normally get political on this blog, mostly because it was created in the spirit of fun and CNN nostalgia. I started it as a way for us "peon" CNNers (past or present) to connect and goof off together. But just bear with me today. Because we're 7 days away from the most important election in years, and I'm pissed off.
And I know this post isn't going to matter, because only 4 of you read this blog. So consider this a personal catharsis.

Bottom line:
Sarah Palin is an asshole.

But I'm so fucking sick of idiotic shit like this:

WHY SOME WOMEN HATE SARAH PALIN

This is not why she provokes such a visceral reaction. This is not why she inspires an intense desire to hock a loogie on her smug face, and watch it slide down her cheek, smearing her orange makeup. I am so annoyed with the notion that women hate this ruthless, ignorant, phony, manipulative moose killer because we love a Dynasty style cat fight (with or without the swimming pool) or we can't stand to see another woman succeed...especially if she's pretty. Or because she's a "mean girl" who gets all the male attention.
That's not the point.
Neither is this:

WHY THEY HATE HER

No, that's not why "they" hate her. As in me. As in most of my colleagues. As in my relatives. As in my friends. As in smart, savvy bitches across the country. Her private decisions should have no bearing on her political career. These decisions don't affect me, or the economy or geopolitical events. Those are family issues. What she does in that realm is a personal choice, and I firmly believe in the right of choice for all women. Even if Sarah Palin would never give me the same respect in return.

So why is Sarah Palin an asshole?
Glad you asked...

Top 10 Reasons Why I Hate Sarah Palin And Cannot Wait For Her To Face The Harsh Morning Light Of November 5th:

1. She is totally, unequivocally, unqualified. This isn't sexism, this isn't partisanship. This is obvious.
And any women who want Sarah Palin to be VP just because she has a pussy should have their right to vote revoked.
I didn't believe these types of moron voters existed until I heard it with my own ears.
That's not progressive.
That's an embarrassment.

2. She is vain, self-centered and proudly provincial.

3. That awful voice.

4. She's a hypocrite. She seems just as corrupt as the "Boys Network" and " Washington Insiders" she rails against (plus she rails against them with that awful voice.)

5. All that GOP money on clothes and she still looks like a cheap insurance saleswoman who fucks the boss to get ahead on their business trip to Topeka.

6. A woman in a position of power does not automatically benefit women. Look at Margaret Thatcher. Look at Imelda Marcos. If Stalin had been a woman (Stalina, perhaps) would women have reason to sing? As much as Palin claims to love Democracy and freedom, she has some seriously despotic tendencies.

7. Her fake folksy ways. So damn transparent. As evidenced by...

8. ...when Joe Biden started tearing up about his family at the VP debate, and she didn't even acknowledge him. She seems incapable of understanding other people's perspectives. Which relates to...

9. Zero empathy, zero ability to connect with Americans she deems "not real" (i.e. people who live in big, Blue State cities.)

BUT MOST OF ALL:

10. The whole "Media Elite" thing. I guess I just don't get it, mostly because I've been in news for over a decade, and most of the media professionals I've known are in no way "elite." They bust their asses (and no, those asses aren't as hot as Sarah Palin's tight buns because they spend less time jogging and more time logging soundbites at the computer.) They're the lowly folks who scramble to meet deadlines or get the news on the air, who beg for overtime to pay the rent, who carry their lunch to work in Tupperware. They hand off their kids to their spouses in between shifts. They wear crappy clothes.

There's a reason this blog is called "Peon Confidential". Most of us, the ones who do the grunt work, we're just trying to get by. It is absurd for Sarah Palin to blame this murky "Media Elite" for her inability to present a coherent political platform during an interview. Who exactly is she talking about? Yes, celebrity reporters and anchors are wealthy, well-connected and well dressed. But they aren't even half of the media equation. The traditional image of the journalist has always been the rumpled schlub in a dirty raincoat; the same outfit of choice as the crazy homeless guy or the flasher pervert down the street. We're often broke, tired and have bad breath from consuming nasty coffee at odd hours.

Most of us ARE Joe the Plumber, just transplanted to a hectic newsroom. Instead of unclogging toilets we push buttons in a control room.

So Sarah Palin, fuck you.
Seriously.
Fuck you and the moose you rode in on.

FAREWELL, STAR TREK EXPERIENCE

It is with more than one tear in my eye that I bid adieu to the Star Trek Experience in Las Vegas. Apparently, yesterday was the last day drunken conventioneers and hard core dorks could have a Klingon Encounter or undergo a Borg Invasion.

A fellow Peon and I were fortunate enough to enjoy this attraction during our last trip there. When I mentioned this tragic turn of events, this person said,

Vegas is a sadder place now.
First Sigfried & Roy and now this!?

What's next? Shutting down the all you can eat buffets?
And where do the displaced Trekkies go?

I thank the Lord Almighty we got to see it while we were there.

I couldn't have said it better myself.
But does anyone have an answer to this person's question?
Honestly, just where will all the displaced Trekkies go?

NO BOOZE OR NUDITY AT THE OLYMPICS

Okay-
I don't have the money or inclination to go to the Olympics in Beijing. But it's a damn good thing that I'm a broke bitch with no interest in sports. Because from what I can tell, I'd last all of 28 seconds with the rigid, Draconian, soul crushing, joy stomping rules that have been established for all Olympic spectators:

BEIJING (Reuters) - Do not sleep outdoors to save money at the Olympics. It is banned to "maintain public hygiene and the cultured image of cities." Do not let the stifling summer heat tempt you into streaking, do not get drunk nor set off fireworks nor wave "insulting banners." Anyone with mental illnesses or sexually transmitted diseases is banned. Smoking is not allowed at Olympic venues.

Just who the hell is supposed to go to the Olympics? Mormon families and Reese Witherspoon?

MY DRUGGY PAST

Just read an AP article today that completely destroys a huge part of my childhood:

NEW YORK - Drug company sales representatives will have to stop doling out coffee mugs and pens that push their products when they visit doctor's offices. But they can still sneak in the occasional free lunch.
Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America announced Thursday that it has revised its conduct code for interacting with health care professionals.
The updated guidelines ban the knicknacks bearing company and product logos.

This is tragic. Since my dad is a doctor, I cannot tell you how many of these drug company emblazoned items floated around our family homestead when I was growing up. Nearly every grocery list/diary entry/letter to granny was written with some herpes medication pen.
Aside from pens, we also received...

1. A Nerf football (Those of you who know just how amazingly athletic I am will appreciate just how much I used this.)

2. A wooden gavel (This was simply so the drug rep could deliver the line: "You be the judge.")

3. Countless mugs (Which I filled with colon blow-strength Starbucks, took to school and left in my locker until A) they became moldy and B) there were so many crammed in there that they came crashing out onto the floor.)

4. A penis statue from Viagra (Which my mother sent me in one of her infamous CARE PACKAGES and I left behind after vacating an apartment. See above photo.)

5. Tablets of paper in the shape of Anaprox pills

6. T-shirt showcasing a cheery, smiley-faced cartoon liver and the message "Be Kind To Your Liver" written on it. (The fact that my hard drinking father used to wear this item frequently was beyond ironic.)

7. Key chains

8. Several baseball caps (Who wouldn't want to advertise constipation remedies on their head?)

GIRAFFE AS WORKPLACE LIBERATOR

This AP story is for anyone who feels imprisoned by their job:

AMSTERDAM, Netherlands - Amsterdam police say 15 camels, two zebras and an undetermined number of llamas and potbellied swine briefly escaped from a traveling Dutch circus after a giraffe kicked a hole in their cage.

Police spokesman Arnout Aben says the animals wandered in a group through a nearby neighborhood for several hours after their 5:30 a.m. breakout.

The animals were back at the circus later Monday after being rounded up by police and circus workers with the assistance of dogs. Aben says neighbors fed some of the animals — which he said was a bad idea — but they were tame and nobody was hurt.

Says Aben: "You have to imagine somebody rubbing his eyes first thing in the morning and saying, 'Am I seeing things or is that 15 camels walking past?'"

Kudos to that kick ass giraffe!
Because of his/her ingenuity, these hardworking circus performers were able to savor a few precious hours of freedom.

Now if only that giraffe would gallop over to my newsroom and knock over the computers, trample the TelePrompter, push the anchors off the sets and kick the pasty cube drones out the door. I'm picturing a bunch of Dockers clad producers and overly shellacked anchors wandering the streets of New York, bewildered, blinking at the sunlight, confused, foraging for food.

Unlike these circus performers, their freedom would not be appreciated.

They would be only too grateful to be herded back to the newsroom--back to the safety of readily available make up artists and a plentiful supply of Doritos in the vending machine.