K A B L O O E Y ’ S No-Resolution New Year Plan


Resolutions don’t work. That’s why I’m not making any this year, and I suggest you don’t either. Instead, I’m making Declarations of Self-Purpose.

How do they differ from resolutions, the skeptical among you might ask. Well, which pole dancer makes more money: Bertha or Starla? It’s all in the name. Resolutions have baggage, but no one has any bad associations with Declarations of Self-Purpose, so they’re sure to succeed. It’s called branding, yo. You’re welcome.

Anyway, here are mine for 2013:

  1. Stop trying to use Siri, then getting angry when she (again) passive-aggressively fails to understand what you’re asking her to do. You will only get hurt.
  2. Come up with a sure-fire best seller series to rake in the bucks. Maybe a wizarding academy where everybody is into BDSM? And vampires.
  3. Knock it off with the self tanners, already. This one should be a cakewalk, since you don’t use self tanners. No harm in setting yourself up for a little victory, right?
  4. Develop a catchphrase.
  5. Finally become fluent in Ubbi Dubbi. It’s in danger of becoming a lost language, like Hopi or Yiddish. If you can’t find an Ubbi Dubbi version of Rosetta Stone, ask Santa for a DVD Box Set of Zoom episodes.
  6. Quit practicing auto-erotic asphyxiation and find a healthy new hobby, like geocaching or dodgeball. [Read more...]

Memoirs of My America – When is Dressing Stuffing?

Thanksgiving is meant to be a celebratory time, of when the Pilgrims were helped by the Native Americans and there was a horn o’plenty of food. It was a good harvest, and along with eating there were three days of games and social cooperation. Peace among the people, eating together and sharing alike. No one cared that you called it corn and another called it maize. The feast was delicious and it filled your belly; and it was a time that would go down in history.

Giving of what you have to others should bring out some warm fuzzy feelings of love for one another. And Thanksgiving can do that, except when someone reaches across the table and asks another to “pass the dressing, please.” And that person a few chairs down sends a bottle of Wish-bone Green Goddess back their way.

“Excuse me, I asked for the dressing.”

“Right. And so there you go–dressing.”

“No, the dressing. The side dish there, the savory croutons drowned in butter. Please.”

“That would be stuffing. You want stuffing.”

“No, it’s dressing. My mother called it dressing. Pass the dressing, please.”

“Dressing is salad dressing. That’s what I gave you. If it’s stuffing you want, I can give you stuffing.”

“I don’t call it stuffing. Stuffing is made inside the bird. This was made on the side. I’d like that bowl of dressing that was made outside of the turkey. Please.” [Read more...]

Héléne Bouffant: Fashion for Obscure November Holidays

I am Héléne Bouffant, world-renowned fashion stylist. Welcome to my column on FNS. Most likely, you have not heard my name before. That is because I – like Voldemort – am She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named in the fashion community. It is whispered that if you say my name three times, I shall magically appear and offer you a pair of sequined harem pants. But do not fear, Not-Sluts, I am simply a misunderstood genius.

Happy November, my peasant friends.

November is a month that most people associate with family, and Thanksgiving. But not me: Héléne Bouffant. The month of November is a month of mourning for me.

You see, as a child, while most little girls begged for kittens and ponies, I pleaded for my parents to gift me with a turkey. Oh, how my schoolmates laughed. But ever since first setting eyes on those noble creatures at my Mamaw and Papaw’s farm, I was enchanted.

 

Majestic. Like Helen Gurley Brown wearing a feather wrap.

[Read more...]

Memoirs of My America – Dream Whisperer

One of the very first things we had to do when we woke up as little children, was to find our grandmother and tell her our dreams from the night.

She mentally had the Field Guide to dream interpretation as the backdrop of her mind. My Abuela knew it all; the meaning behind the color of the dress you wore, or whether your hair was loose or pulled tight. You’d present the facts, she’d pose a few questions back to you, and there you’d have it: what your subconscious was trying to tell you.

I’m lucky enough to still remember some of her interpretations and now it’s my children who come to the breakfast table and in between spoonfuls of Frosted Flakes, tell me about the mouse in their dream that tried to come in through the wall behind their bed.

I always begin with the first line of action: information-gathering. [Read more...]

MAKE IT like The Girlfriend Mom: Sex with My Manicurist

I’m not gay (as far as I know) but I would like to get it on with my manicurist. Is that wrong? I’ve always wanted to ‘experiment’ but the opportunity has yet to present itself. Of course it might help if I leave the house once in awhile, but my agoraphobia is a whole other post.

I probably should’ve done something about this when I was in college. Isn’t that when this sort of shit happens? There’s a fraternity party on the quad, and you and your sorority sisters are doing jell-o shots with the men’s AND women’s lacrosse teams, one thing leads to another and the next thing you know, a pillow fight breaks out and you trip and fall right into your roommate’s cooter? At least that’s what I’ve always imagined that it would be like. I know, too many Lifetime movies and porn. [Read more...]

Keeping It Real – Like the Pioneer Woman

A Pioneer Woman Parody by Heather Davis.


On Saturday mornings, when we raise our heads at the crack of dawn (or about 3 hours afterwards), we like to have a nice family breakfast (when we’re lucky enough to have all the ingredients together – otherwise it’s each man for himself!). We start with gathering the eggs. Expiration dates? Did you know there are expiration dates on eggs? Really? You did? I had no clue. But I say, screw it! They’re pasteurized, right? Besides, if I get sick, the stay in the hospital will be a nice break … I’m just keeping it real, here!

sausage
Lucky us! We found some sausage! The expiration date is very important on sausage; however, it was on the part of the package that is no longer with the sausage. There were no fumes or green tints, so we used it.  This sausage is not organic or freshly ground.  I don’t believe in actually making my own sausage. I do believe in buying the cheapest, fattiest sausage I can find at Hellmart, which I live just down the street from.  I’m just keeping it real here! [Read more...]

K A B L O O E Y’s Dope of the Day – Bieber is no Reader

dope of the daybeebs

Justin Bieber just passed his high school equivalency exam, and apparently, he’s really stoked to be done.

“At school, usually you have to do a lot of writing and reading. I’m really not into that stuff. I like to be out there.”

Usually, he hires a Harvard grad to read him his assignments and a Yalie to do his writing.

“It’s awesome!  They don’t cost that much, and when they wear out I just buy new ones.  And sometimes I make them have chicken fights in the pool when we’re just kickin’ it after a show.”

All right, I made up that second quote, but the first one’s real.  And this from a kid looked up to by millions of impressionable, hormone-fueled tweens.  He also said that his jet-setting lifestyle has enabled him to travel the world and that’s given him a different perspective. [Read more...]

K A B L O O E Y’s Dope of the Day – Unknown

dope of the dayIt’s hard to tell who The Dope of the Day is here. Is it the copy editor, the ad agency or the company which signed off on the stupid ad? Or is it the student who read the thing and thought “These are the perfect people to guide me to the future of my dreams”? Or is it me, for obsessing about an internet sidebar ad instead of… I don’t know… working?

Then again, should you want to “Pursue a Career in SOCIAL WORKER,” you’ve clearly found your path.

social-dope

[Read more...]

I’ll Stay Here and Guard the Knife Drawer – Fan Letters

by Traci Foust

Nowhere Near Normal: A Memoir of OCD Traci FoustThough it’s been almost a year since the release of my book Nowhere Near Normal a memoir of OCD, the messages I receive from people who have actually read the book still jam up my email at a computer-crashing rate of at least two a month. Most of the responses come from smart, sensitive readers who make me feel worthy of baring my soul—and causing a few members of my family to never speak to me again—into a book that one Goodreads reviewer called “An excruciating long read” about what it was like to grow up with obsessive compulsive disorder.

But every so often I’ll get an email from someone who is angry, crazy and/or telling me the secret to curing my OCD lies within the bulging fibers of his jeans. [Read more...]

An Open Letter to My Grandma’s Harp – Nancy Davis Kho

nancy davis khoThere you sit, in the corner of my dining room, a 100 year old beauty in a state of Miss Haversham disrepair. Your sinuous curves, outlined to great advantage with thin scrolls of gold paint, contrast sharply with the strings that pop out in odd directions. You exude such a magnetic charm that children and adults alike are drawn to pluck your strings, to run their hands along your dusty angles, and finally to ask the question that you hypnotize them into uttering:

“Who plays the harp?”

And I have to answer, every single stupid time, “No one.”

Ok! I never learned to play you! Get over yourself! You’re not the only instrument in the world!

My paternal grandmother was what might be diplomatically be called “reserved,” stiffening her arms at her side when we hugged her and sending back our thank you notes with red-lined corrections. Once, when my brother complimented her cooking, she sighed, leaned heavily against the counter, and said as if in pain, “It’s only a casserole.” So when my father told me after her death that she left me her precious 1923 Irish harp, I was touched. She remembered me! And this is the harp she carted around to old folk’s homes to give concerts, when she herself was an old folk. “She knew how much you like music,” my dad said. “She wanted you to have it.”

Music as in going to concerts and downloading songs until the credit card is smoking, yes, I like that type of music. Music as in playing it myself? Not since that fateful ninth grade day when I broke my arm in a game of tag football and finally had my escape from Mrs. Hargrave’s piano lessons. Or as my brother refers to it, “That day you stopped playing piano, one month exactly after Mom and Dad bought you a brand new one.” [Read more...]