Dear Ryan Seacrest,

Dear Ryan Seacrest,
I need my own tv show. It's not so much a want, more a need. For both of us.
A bit about me: I am a typical 9 to 5'er (correction 9 to 6'er, that whole "9 to 5 bit" is a major falsity, I'll write to whoever started that lie later), who feels my talents would be better served in front of the camera of my own half hour (could be an hour if the editing was done right) television show. I am willing to do almost anything on my show (well except maybe bite the head off of a pigeon a la Ozzy Osbourne, but definitely don a unitard and walk the streets of Los Angeles with a midget a la Chelsea Handler - I love love love miniatures, but that's a separate letter). I am also great with people and can chase them down in 5 inch heels if necessary (don't ask). I think alcohol is 50% of the food pyramid and carbs should be the other 50. I used to be so ugly I had to sneak up on water to get a drink. I have a dating history that rivals "Another World" (RIP). I can also have an entire conversation with an answering machine or any other inanimate object.

Call me.


P.S: I don't eat meat.


Tuesday, January 31, 2012

IHop - the best form of birth control


This past weekend my dad and I went to the finest breakfast establishment ever built.....IHop.  Now for all you haters out there, knock it off. Quit trying to uphold some hoity toity "image". It's literally impossible not to like IHop. Never ending pancakes? Check. Nutella smeared crepes? Check. 4000 calorie stuffed french toast? Check. Latte served with whipped cream and chocolate chips? Double check.

And where else can you see all walks of life converging for one meal? The guy to my right was studying (ya, fuck you starbucks), the family diagnoal from me had 7 children (tied with the Gosselins, long way to go to the Duggars), and then there was the family where the woman kept putting whipped cream on her nose trying to get her husband to lick it off and instead it kept falling on her boob - which was being held up not by a bra, but by the table.

As I was eating my delectable granola pancakes (yes they have them - I'm sure they're covered in sugar - but I tried) and having an engaging political discussion with my father I look up and see a man holding his son/grandson/kid he kidnapped (who knows) and then it happened. Old faithful blew it's cap. Vomit starting running out of this kids mouth a river. It. Just. Kept. Coming. My face must have contorted into some awful expression because my dad goes "what the hell is wrong with you?". Silence. No words. The dad/grandfather/kidnapper proceeds to take the boy out of the restaurant. Vomit is straight up everywhere. Seat, table, floor. Nothing ruins a meal faster than vomit.

Next time I think I'll keep my eye on the table boob woman and her whipped cream...

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