Hey there, old ladies!
I’m not clear how your mother, Vogue, religion or society in general dropped the ball on filling you with a healthy self-loathing about your body, but where did we go wrong here?
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Rapping Tomato
7 posts
Somehow I’d lived all these years without knowing the corporate joy of working with dictation software. (I hate to name names but let’s just say it rhymes with “Mac Speech Dictate.”) Trust me when I say I was enunciating.
And how’d things go? A little something like this.
I said:
Hello, I’m not sure if this dictation is working or not. The words aren’t appearing on the screen. Hello, I’m not sure if this is working or not, but I would like words to appear on the screen please. Please. PLEASE! Please, please, please, please. I’m worried now because please is an easy word. An EASY word.
What the machine wrote was:
Hello I’m not sure depletion is working or not at the words to appear in the screenplay hell I’m not sure if this nation is working or not but I would like some words to appear on the screen needs plea plea USENET believes to be for Lee believes leave believes he easily worried if and eat EA is if it is an EEG word if an easy word
I tried reciting part of the Pledge of Allegiance next. What came out was… I don’t know what this was:
If I worked in worked is that if worked a day or way old lady old he only with a don’t lay I know I can say is and I just saved my and make her I am I just stayed out of just a just staying gestating A.D.
Finally, this is the alphabet as the software heard it:
ABCDE and GHIJK era (and no PE you are asked TUV W. at why is the lets try that again a PC the 80 GHIJK and Amanda PQFT you see preview at line and see what you
Then I tried to make it type “burp”, because that’s what you do when you’re 11 and someone hands you a new robot toy to play with:
Brooke bunt brute bump bump bump butt, but but bump
This is all cut and pasted exactly as it came out. I’d still be saying “burp” over and over into a microphone, but the cleaning lady walked in. You’d think things couldn’t get more awesome, but oh they can. I emailed the text to myself and the targeted gmail ad for this gobbledygook text was:
As our brave Snookis and DJ Pauly Ds prepare to wash up on Italian shores for season 4, let us celebrate them in verse:
With hair looking all gelled up and spiky
your name is probably Joey or Mikeyor Cousin Paulie or Anthony
(Though you pronounce it Ant + Knee).Everyone else calls you a guido,
but you think you’re all pretty neat-o.Your tan’s slathered on, your T is too tiny
and for some strange reason your jeans are all shiny,and by the way, nobody believes the jacket’s Armani;
it’s made in a sweatshop by an Azerbaijani.You keep protein powder over your fridges
and come Friday, cross Manhattan’s tunnels and bridgesto hit the clubs and Gallagher’s 2000
before returning to your house andordering up some eggplant parm;
you’re a simple guy, you mean no harmcatcalling to every girl within earshot,
telling her what she needs is what you’ve got.She’s getting away! There’s no time to be subtle!
Better yet, on to the next before her rebuttal.You’re oblivious to the city’s despise
and second-person plural is always “Youse guys.”Wow oh wow, your friend has on a nifty striped shirt
and if someone spills beer on it, they’re gonna get hurt.Hey look at that! A fancy gold chain!
Does the 7-pound cross cause you neck strain?Does it remind you of Jesus’ cross?
Was it a gift from a Mafia boss?Come summer, you’ll be at the Jersey Shore
causing a ruckus with girls dressed as whor…nevermind.But you just want to meet a nice gal
to make her your wife. You’ll find her! You shall!She’ll have bangs so high and nails like talons
and she’ll spend half your paycheck at the local salons.She’ll send four kids down her birth canal
before leaving you for your cousin Sal.But tonight is for partying, hell yeah muthafuckas
and inspiring jealousy in the rest of us suckas.
Of course, you were searching for “How to Throw an Adult” and landed on this page. Then you got curious and your mind wandered to exactly what happens at an adult egg hunt. (Also, if someone ever combined the eHow of porn and the eHow of conception, Adult Egg Hunt should also be the title.) You’re a liberated, Cosmo-reading woman of the ’90s, so kick up your heels, have a drink, head to the nearest adult book shop and talk your friends into abandoning their kids. Because it’s Easter! Continue reading
Like everyone, when things go wrong in your life, my first thought is to turn to eHow.com to offer clarity in this mixed up world. Today, let’s learn what eHow suggests when you have discovered a skin thingy and need medical attention.
First off, you should know that eHow gives you the option of Tweeting this knowledge so you can keep your friends in the loop on your skin dramaz. Or you can send it via a Facebook message, as the most public and passive-aggressive method of letting Christy we can all see her funky forehead bumps.
The highlights: eHow teaches us what a dermatologist is, just in case you’ve always had a hankering to see one without being quite clear on what it is. For the purposes of this example, the doctor will be a man, because female doctors are called nurses. (Zing.)
EHow rates this as Difficulty: Moderate. But with a little forethought and elbow grease we can dial that difficulty level to simple and make you the pimp of pimples.
Instructions
1. Ask the doctor’s office staff about his credentials before making an appointment. Schedule an exam only if the doctor is certified by the American Board of Dermatology.
This is a great first step! Much like you’d never go to a restaurant without demanding to hear about the chef/Sandwich Artist’s childhood, don’t let that smug Dr. Zizmor uses his Rainbow of Skittle Vomit™ to his dig around your inflamed pores before first berating Tammi the receptionist for not being able to send a picture of the good doctor posing with his transcript and a newspaper with the date. If she can’t fax over the doctor’s med school transcripts, you have no choice but to drive over there yourself until she’s located his yearbooks and you’ve independently verified he was German Club president and heard a few heart-warming anecdotes about him calling spaghetti “pasketti”.
Remember: Certificates of live birth and diplomas from Arizona State don’t count.
2. Learn about your condition before meeting the doctor so you can ask informed questions and thoroughly discuss treatment options. If you have been treating your condition at home, write down the names of products used in the past along with their effect on your health.
I’m not going to lie, this is going to require you to Google Image some nasty things. You’re probably avoiding your own reflection by the time your condition has gotten doctor-worthy (thanks a lot, Obamacare!), so you may want to enlist the help of the next person who blanches at the sight of you.
This can be accomplished in several simple sub-steps. You’re minding your own pimple/rash/cyst business when an unsuspecting stranger’s monocle drops. Just remember the acronym ARG!
2a. Ask: “Would you say my face looks offensive in a small red bump way or more or a puss-filled mass way?”
2b. Refuse: to stop using the salad bar tongs to scratch.
2c. Google: Once you’ve been kicked out of the Ponderosa (fascists!) rush home and fire up the Googles.
Gather up all the infomercial skin products you’ve purchased, along with the skimask you generally wear in public these days.
3. Inquire about the doctor’s level of experience with your condition. If he lacks specialized knowledge in the necessary area, ask him to make a referral. If your dermatologist biopsies a mole and diagnosis you with skin cancer, he may refer you to an oncologist for further treatment.
We’re back with Tammi. March in that office like a boss, slam your fists down and demand answers. There’s no time for niceties! You have a skin thing, dammit! Tammi will be flattered about your attention to detail. (Note: See if Tammi is single.) Once Dr. NotGoodEnough moseys in, he’ll likewise be excited to hear you’ve made an appointment to determine if he’s worthy to look at your infection.
4. Talk to your dermatologist about prescription medication. If he prescribes a prescription cream to treat acne, for example, ask about side effects. Some oral medications for severe acne can cause dizziness or sensitivity to the sun, so it’s important to discuss your lifestyle with your doctor to determine what type of treatment is best for you.
Once the doctor has answered your riddles three and been allowed to gaze upon your blemishes, you’re going to want to get naked. Shit’s about to get real, people. Tell him all about your love of “Estty Lauder” cold cream you get in Chinatown and your penchant for scratching with salad buffet tongs. Brag about your year-round base tan and investment in the Sun Suite Tanning franchise in the strip mall. Try to get him to invest, painting it as the potential for more business.
Once it’s been determined what the hell your problem is (skin version) and the doctor has given you a prescription, you’re going to want to second-guess everything he says. Practice a disappointed, “Hmmmm, I don’t know about that. Will it make me faint if I’m exposed to sunlight?” When he – arrogantly! – dismisses your concern and makes a suspicious note on your chart, look out the window, shout out “HEAVEN FORFADE!” and swoon to the floor.
5. Ask about preparation, recovery and success rate if your condition requires surgical intervention. The doctor should inform you of all possible complications and risks involved. Dermatologists often perform small procedures in the office using local anesthetic.
Once you’ve come to, ask the doctor to give it to you straight. You know your odds: You have a skin thingy, for God’s sake. You’re wasting precious time! You’re probably not getting out without amputation. Demand surgery. Preemptively contact your parish priest, rabbi, imam (hedge your bets), next of kin and attorney. Yell, “Tell the world my story!” and change your will to note you’d like Dana Delaney to play you in the Lifetime movie. Grab the mask and knock yourself out.
6. Watch closely if your dermatologist performs a skin exam. If you have moles that have changed size or shape, the doctor may remove them in her office. She may ask you to watch particular areas of skin, so discuss with her how to spot suspicious moles.
Get the dried ice and carrot peeler and go to town. Learn too late what a freckle is. Congratulations, you don’t have any left.
7. Look at before and after pictures for your procedure. Keep in mind that everybody reacts differently to treatment and that your outcome may not resemble those in the doctor’s portfolio. Speak with the doctor about how he thinks your results will compare to those in the photos.
Get vain! It’s now safe to look in the mirror again! Force strangers to admire your variety of exciting new scars and compare them to your baby photos, which you’ll take to carrying around. Update your Facebook status with pictures. Hold your head up high and go win your job back at Ponderosa. Then file a motion to sue the doctor.
I don’t want to brag, but I’m a really great gift-giver.
As those Yoplait commercial idiots would say, like “Shoe shopping while eating chocolate good.” (Ad guy 1: “My ex-wife likes shoes a lot. Let’s add that in.” Ad guy 2: “I see a lot of girls eating candy bars when they have their periods. Gotta rep that too.” Ad guy 1: “Great, we’re done here. Time to bash stuff with football helmets.”)
For my birthday, my friend got me the novelization of “Snakes on a Plane,” which weighed in at a logic-defying 400 pages. Single spaced.
It was a direct nod—some might say a thanks—for a summer 2006 filled with my Snakes on a Plane song-and-dance routine. (“Song and dance” could be overstating it. It was more of a musical chant “Snakes on a Plane, Snakes on a Plane, I’m so excited to see Snakes on a Plane!” combined with a mix of the running man and The Carlton. I’m telling you, it did not get old.)
So my friend gave me 400 pages of snakey goodness. The only thing I had to worry about was finding a gift to match the brilliance.
Enter the NASCAR Harlequin romance book “In the Groove,” the heartwarming/sexy story of a simple kindergarten teacher who has an ex Photoshop her face onto a nude body and distribute them on the Internet. After she loses her job, she gets hit by a car driven by a NASCAR heartthrob, and well, you know the rest. Story old as time.
Please, please, if you do nothing else for yourself today, treat yourself to the description:
“She wouldn’t know a NASCAR star if he hit her with his car…and he just did. Sarah was a kindergarten teacher until a sleazy ex-boyfriend got her fired. Now the only job she can find is driving the motor coach for racing star Lance Cooper. She doesn’t know a thing about NASCAR – and she’s off to a rocky start when she doesn’t recognize her ultra-famous boss. Lance can’t help but notice Sarah’s sweet smile – and how seriously unimpressed she is with his fame. Her reaction piques his interest – and he’s convinced she’s a good-luck charm. But Sarah has no interest in Lance’s jet-setting life; she’d rather deal with spitballs than one supersexy race car driver. Too bad whenever he comes near her she turns hot as race fuel. Soon things begin to heat up on the track, and Sarah begins to wonder if she might be able to teach one famous race car driver a few lessons about love. ”
It’s not just the awkwardly shoe-horned in racing imagery, like “her checkered past might distract him from the checkered flag,” or the pandering moments like “she had a plain face but there was something pretty about her.” And “I think being a kindergarten teacher is a noble profession.” But just the puzzling sentences like “His stomach felt like he’d just eaten 12 monster tacos.” First of all, who would eat 12 not just tacos but monster tacos? And why would this be used to describe being nervous before The Big Race instead of being about to be sick?
This book should get a Pulitzer. It’s funnier than Dave Barry. But in the words of Reading Rainbow, you don’t have to take my word for it. Here are two actual reviews from Amazon: (all spellings are sic)
“In The Groove is a blast! It’s funny, sexy and romantic. My daddy has always been a huge NASCAR fan so all of the quips and explanations about sponsors, teams and fans had me smiling in remembrance. Lance is sexy and handsome and he’s a really sweet guy too. Sarah is the kind of girl you want to see happy. She is such a nice person and her kindness and positive attitude are infectious. In The Groove is a story that I just raced through. It’s so entertaining I couldn’t put it down. I finished the last page with a satisfied sigh. Read In The Groove. It will take you on a fast, fun and romantic ride!
I took ITG down with me on the loooong drive to the Daytona 500 this past Feb and it was the best thing I could have done! It got me psyched for the race, it made me laugh, made me cry…UNREAL!
The character of Sarah is so loveable as the every-girl you could totally see yourself in her. The driver Lance just oooozes the kind of swaggering sexuality that you would imagine your favorite driver to have. Pamela makes it EASY for you to tack the face of your Jeff Gordons, Carl Edwards or Kevin Harvicks out there onto Lance Cooper and that was more than enough for me!
The story was so hot that I must admit, at parts I found myself reading so fast I had to go back over it all and soak it in! LOL. Trust me, you will NOT be disappointed by this book in the least!!! I cant WAIT for Pam’s next book “On the Edge” to come out!! Thanks Pam for writing these deliciously wonderful books that tantalize the need for NASCAR and some goood lovin!” – Chrissy
Congrats “Chrissy,” you’re the first person who’s ever combined a NASCAR event and reading something that wasn’t printed on the back of the Cheetos bag. And really? It made you cry? I guess it makes sense, what with the shocking ending of them ending up happy and all. And don’t “LOL” yourself, makes you seem desperate.
Another take:
“The chemestry between them is great and real, but I’ll tell you this is a squeeky clean romance novel. There are NO sex scenes in this book. It completely skips over all the physical romance. Even the language is vague and tame. No dirty or highly suggestive words. There is a hot kiss or two, but that is it. I only mention it because I know I like my romance novels steamy, but besides that I still found this book great.”
Cause I like my NASCAR romances, but I’ll be damned if they’re gonna make me read between the lines (or lanes. Har.) But I’ll be double dammed if I’m not getting some car sex scenes for my $5.99.
Well, not my roof, but someone’s. Someone precariously close to my apartment. I came out of the subway last week and stepped into a scene from “Backdraft.” There were eight or nine fire trucks blocking off streets and professionals scrambling up ladders a few buildings away, trying to get on the roof.
I don’t think the fire was all that serious, since the people in the building were amusedly watching the show from the windows. And at one nearby intersection, a woman meandered through the crosswalk as a fire truck tried to back up. Bitch, you’re gonna get us all killed.
When she was finished, the driver asked me if it was safe to back up. Seriously? This is the method you’re going with? I’m suddenly in charge of saving lives?
You should know about me that it’s my greatest urban fear to have to use my fire escape for something other than drinking. (Safety first!) I was walking around a few weeks ago and there was a big puff of white smoke that emerged from the top of this building, like a magician had just finished a trick. I had the 9 and the first 1 dialed quicker than you could say, “Habemus Papam.”
And I know that if there were a fire, I’d panic and try to save random stuff.
Laptop. Logical enough. My coat. Practical, no problem there. Photos. Aw, memories.
But I know the firemen (sorry, fire-people. Girls can be anything they want to be!) would find my charred self in the shower with my fingers still around the shower curtain rings, mid-unfastening. I love my shower curtain. It’s periwinkle, which is a harder color to find than you might imagine. It brings joy and sunshine to my showers, even when the hot water decides to 
not make an appearance.
(Sidebar: The last time the hot water flew south, the super came up and all but scolded us for wasting his time. “What you want hot water for? It’s not even winter yet.”)
So, here are just a few of the things I would throw down to New York’s Bravest while flames lapped at me:
- Shower curtain. Aforementioned great color.
- Various favorite dresses and sweaters. I’m be damned if I’m wearing burned clothes to work.
- Favorite books (including but not limited to: “America, the Book,” “The Know-It-All” and “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.” I’ll want to stay literate as I begin my new life on the mean streets. (And I have to say that I love the image of me not just trying to save random books, but frantically combing through my bookshelf amidst a housefire for specific ones.)
- Marshmallows. For roasting. I’ll be the hero of the fire.
- My TV. Out of spite, because I’ll probably be angry and not handling it well.