Hearty spoonfuls of fresh squeezed mediocrity

What about cruel and unusual punishment?
Yes, Mancow, what about it?
Jesus, no person should have to handle hard news before noon.

So my quintissential midwestern surfer boy turned west coast movie whore has turned me on to this blogger nonsense. Alright, I'll bite, but only because I respect his inclinations toward intelligent dry wit and theoretical politics. And I like when he doesn't wear a shirt. Excuse me, I'll be having a happy party in my head for a moment.


And......scene.
I had a shitty day last Friday and hence went shopping and spent money I don't have on a dress I don't need, a seemingly frivilous purchase, but it landed me in a maelstrom of drugs and elbow rubbing that lasted until 9am. I haven't yet decided if that's a good thing or not, but it gave me ammo for my soapbox shotgun.
Kristin and Hans took us all to Y Bar, a virtual mecca of boob jobs and coke heads in Armani suits. Basically it's L.A., but everyone smokes and the cab drivers are even bigger assholes. A friend of hers was doing the PR there and she was all aquiver to see a bunch of guys from the most recent "Bachelorette" that were supposed to be there. Personally, I thought it was a load, but sure enough there they were, behind their very own velvet ropes and being subtly molested by their very own flouncing groupies. In good conscience, I couldn't even call them minor celebrities, but they had their 15 seconds and so, despite their rejected status and total lack of social tact, the boob jobs were all over them. It never ceases to amaze me; being kicked off a reality show after one episode by a desperate 30-something who thinks you're a waste of space somehow deposits a pheremone that 85% of women can pick up from 6 bars away. Not that there were any more worthwhile specimans there that night, it just got me wondering: When did the losers get their mojo, and why didn't I get the memo?