Methinks somebody’s a little ruffled that he spread for votes and still lost. (read the full article)

Words and sayings that are overused or subject to malapropism ultimately lose all real meaning.

Every chick and her auntie is a “diva,” even though the term can only really be applied to an accomplished opera singer, an awesome 1981 New Wave movie, and Annie Lennox’s first solo album. Any form of calamity, misfortune, catastrophe, or upheaval is a “tragedy.”

What preening narcissist doesn’t always trigger “drama!”? Osteoporotic Rachel Zoe has literally beaten “literally” into the ground, and look what the Dubya years spent on the Dark Side did to “patriot,” “terrorist,” “elitist,” “embolden,” “freedom,” “victory,” “stay the course,” “global war,” “weapons of mass destruction,” and “nookular.”

I fear now that “gay icon” may have officially jumped the shark. (read the full article)

“Judge Walker’s ruling raises a shocking notion that a single federal judge can nullify the votes of more than 7 million California voters, binding Supreme Court precedent, and several millennia-worth of evidence that children need both a mom and a dad. During these legal proceedings, the millions of California residents who supported Prop 8 have been wrongfully accused of being bigots and haters. Nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, they are concerned citizens, moms and dads who simply wanted to restore to California the long-standing understanding that marriage is between one woman and one man – a common-sense position that was taken away by the actions of another out-of-control state court in May 2008.”

– the sore asses at Focus On The Family, staunchly defending the morality of a majority limiting the rights of a minority while simultaneously crying foul when one lone gay person takes down Goliath.

We can do Biblical references too.

Hell is other people.

Whenever someone says something ridiculously jejune like “I really think all people are basically good deep down,” all I can think is that they can’t possibly believe that.

Not really?

I’ve often been accused of being bitter and cynical by readers — guilty? — and I have to admit that I am essentially Jigsaw from Saw: I want people to be better than they are and to rise above their shortcomings, but inevitably I’m disappointed. Carnage ensues.

I know people like stereotypes because they are oddly comforting in their simplicity, but the truth is that stereotypes are often indicative of human frailty — a surrender to the lowest common denominator. As a fringe personality who’s always moving on the outskirts of things, I find that gives me the objective distance to observe and question.

Once when I was in college I candidly asked a semi-acquaintance — who, the previous night, had pulled a coked-up spectacle right of Requiem For A Dream in a crowded bar — why he did the things he did. A self-admitted mess, he looked at me wearily and unguardedly, saying “It’s too much work to be better. It’s easier this way.” The gulf between us was yawning, and many has been the time since when I’ve felt like the girl at the end of La Dolce Vita waving at someone who can only shrug diffidently at me as they return to the maddening crowd.

“You’ve got to climb Mount Everest to reach the Valley of The Dolls” may be a campy line from a trash epic, but I’ll often hear it in my head when I think of the desolation that comes with having to be on all the time. “You’re alone, and the feeling of loneliness is overpowering.” (read the full article)

This is some generic actor from some lame vampire franchise that I haven’t seen and avert my eyes from any mention of because it was much cooler when it was called Dark Shadows, Forever Knight, Buffy, or Angel.

I’ll call him Dakota Hammer.

Clearly graduating from the Josh Hartnett school of forehead furrowing = emoting, Dakota assures us that his employer Men’s Health has “great articles to read” — We know! We’ve read all five of them! — and so you know he’s a filthy, lying man-whore who’ll say anything for cash. His tell? He glances for a moment offscreen as if to query, “Wait? Am I telling a not-truth? For realz?” After he postures and flaunts it for the camera, he opines “It’s a great men’s…magazine…,” and while the too-practiced cock of his eyebrow makes him seem confident of that fact, the rising inflection of his voice makes it instead play interrogatively.

“It’s a great men’s…magazine?” (read the full article)

What would Jesus do?

The question has, fittingly, become something of an inane T-shirt slogan along the lines of “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” or “No Fat Chicks.” If he was real — he still falls into the same category as Robin Hood or King Arthur for me — then why the hell would he want anything to do with the lovely cross section of humanity that’s turned him into a QVC tchotchke, much more sit by idly as his followers arrogantly put words in his mouth?

If you’re looking for the perfect embodiment of the dissonance between what a bearded, down-at-heel hippy and the star-spangled superpatriots among us would do, then thankfully there’s Tea Party Jesus, a site devoted to literally using Big J as the puppet through which the very worst Tea Bagger illogic is funneled to wince-inducing effect. Yes, somehow our savior was able to anticipate such events as financial reform, gays in the military, and the turbulent 1960s. Simply click on a captioned picture to reveal which God Wad said what jaw-droppingly heinous pontification about which apocalyptic social development/hated class of people. (read the full article)

“I’m sorry, but your child suffers from chronic nepotism. It’s a potentially crippling condition, as of yet, there is no known cure.”

I know, nepotism isn’t a disease per se, but when you really think about it, it is pervasive, often debilitating, and it does make me sick.

It’s the product of dynasties after all, wherein you don’t necessarily need talent or drive, just the right last name and enough backing from Mom’s and Dad’s end. We’ve all come up against the boss’s kid who really believes that he or she got where they are because of merit, and my primal Id’s response is to slap the bitch up — palm first, then back with the knuckles for making me go to the trouble.

Every culture has it, but America has a special sort: a flash-the-cash, suffer-the-brat, pull-the-strings kind of fail-forwardism that’s permeated every sector where prestige abounds, from business and the military, to Hollywood and the Presidency itself. For those who have skill and may’ve coasted on the family rep just a little, I’ll forgive your trespasses. For the rest — the hapless, the helpless, the hopeless — it’s a testament to humans’ too-secure position on the food chain that you haven’t been picked off from the herd by now. (read the full article)

Because it’s still hilarious. Clearly, only an all-knowing deity would select a washed-up, insufferable ’80s sitcom star and a self-styled shaman/Darwin stalker to school us on the verisimilitude of The Flintstones. Watch all your egotistical, willful Atheist leanings just melt away thanks to a barrage of condescending back-patting, faulty premises, lame anecdotes, awkward gay tension, beyond-trite conclusions, juvenile attempts to cast man-made objects as complex life forms, clumsy banter, and an unintentionally hilarious exposition of the Yahweh-approved blowjob so clueless that even Mike Seaver can’t keep a straight face.

Nailed it!