Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!

You know, when you're kinda drunk, and things aren't quite as they appear to you, in your slightly altered state? Like when I think I'm being really, really quiet, trying to avoid the one creak in our kitchen floor at 1:30 am because I've decided to try and remove stains from an old hoodie with my super-duper Ban It bar over the kitchen sink.

Turns out I sounded like a herd of elephants running from poachers, stepping on that damn creak one too many times, awakening my beloved who was peacefully slumbering in our room directly below the kitchen. 

I blame the boyfriend. We have a wine drinking routine that works very well. We share a bottle; we both get about two and a half glasses of wine, and are nicely marinated, not drunk. He broke the routine. Mayhem ensued. He decided he wanted beer instead of wine after we had opened a bottle and he had merely had a few sips.

Then, he went to bed, and left me unsupervised with a half-full bottle of wine. Tactical error. You know I'm gonna down that shit. Drunkenness ensued. I usually head to bed around 11 pm on Friday nights, 'cause by that time, I'm ready to pack it in, when I'm sober.

In my drunken haze, I decided to start watching an episode of Six Feet Under around 11:30 and discovered that this is not a show one should watch under the influence of any drug that lowers your inhibitions and opens wide the doors of perception. 

That was some deep shit yo, and my wine-laden brain was cracked open, like an oyster offering up its pearl. Except the show is about death, and dying, and what lies after death. In my inebriated state, all I could hear was Jack Nicholson yelling: "You can't handle the truth!"

I then started watching a second episode. I needed something to do while I polished off the vino. Then, around 1:30 am, I decided to go and see if this hoodie I was cleaning earlier was dry and noticed yet another stain. Why not try to get it out now! says I to myself. No time like the present! 

My senses were obviously askew, and I thought perhaps I would have a case for appearing on that Strange Addictions show. Woman addicted to removing stubborn stains from clothing in the wee hours of the morning. I was pulling some genuine Lady Macbeth action: "Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!" except I hadn't convinced my boyfriend to shank anyone, you know?

The next day, my hangover was not merely as proportional to the amount of alcohol I consumed (thank God for small mercies). I pulled out a Nalgene bottle from the cupboard, a 32-ouncer, and filled it with water. I needed hydration, people. And it was one of those badass BPA-laced Nalgene bottles. I live on the edge, man. Can you handle it?

I realized the last time I used this bottle was about eight months ago, when I was seriously hurting after, you guessed it, too much wine consumption. So I baptized it the hangover Nalgene bottle. It's pink. How cool is that?

There's bad, awful, worst of all time, and then... these album covers

My stepdaughter sends me a link to a blog post listing the worst album covers of all time. Below are extrapolations on some of my personal favorites.

Ken was the original prototype for the Ken doll, of Barbie lineage, but he refused to shave his 70's porn 'stache, claiming he had issues with authority and wouldn't be told what to do.

Ken's rebellious ways saved him from spending the rest of his life in the shadow of public humiliation since the Ken doll was devoid of any masculine genitalia, and it would have been assumed the real Ken (by request only) was a eunuch.

To this day, Ken is grateful for having grown up within the confines of a renegade, orthodox Christian sect, a hostile and dysfunctional environment in which Ken's anti-establishment leanings could be fully developed.

Although he can't keep a steady job because he inevitably challenges authority and gets fired, Ken is content caring for his squirrel colony (he has a particular sensitivity for squirrels since they were regularly offered as sacrifices in his sect), and making sweet music.

Remember Joyce? Of course not. No one does. That rose in her hand is symbolic, as in "wallflower". The thorns represent Joyce's daily struggle for acknowledgement of her existence and the leaves catch her bitter tears of disappointment when, despite getting a bad perm, she still went unnoticed. 

Sure, Joyce puts on a brave face but she's dying inside. Literally. Joyce has bleeding ulcers because of her secret addiction to drinking Calgon bubble bath.

Sadly, she misunderstood the slogan "Calgon, take me away" and assumed it was a suicide aid. She thought it strange, at first, that they would advertise this kind of thing, but in her desperation, she put all doubts aside and downed her first bottle in one sitting. To Joyce's surprise, she didn't die right away but there was no turning back, and her addiction to drinking Calgon bubble bath began its destructive journey.

She turned to music to try and fill the void that no amount of Calgon could quench but no one bought her album.

Little known fact: Orion was Ronald Reagan's original inspiration for his "War on Drugs" campaign. Nancy Reagan took Orion under her wing following a chance meeting at a campaign stop in Bobo, Alabama.

It was obvious Orion had suffered severe emotional trauma. It turned out Orion's childhood pet, a large potbelly pig named Beaver (for his proclivity to bite things) had sunk his choppers into Orion's right testicle in a faux wrestling match out in the mud patch on their farm. Orion was only five at the time.

Desperately trying to come to grips with this unintended and painful molestation, Orion turned to drugs, specifically LSD. With prolonged drug use, he developed an alternate personality (clearly on display in this album cover), which he named Hooker, feeling his only destiny was in the sex trade since his innocence had been permanently sullied at such a young age.

But Nancy changed all that. Orion's life now had meaning. He was to be the poster boy for the "War on Drugs" but felt he couldn't possibly remove his mask for fear that he would spontaneously liquefy upon revealing his true face (the dude's on LSD, what do you expect?) so he became Nancy's pet project. She felt music would have a healing influence on Orion and might convince him to one day take off his blue mask and rediscover who he truly is. We're still waiting...

Believe it or not, Tino was one of the first Abercrombie and Fitch models. His classic open leg, one hand awkwardly placed on a body part so as to look "sexy" pretty much defined Abercrombie's image as purveyor of fine clothing to perfectly muscled, waxed male models, and skinny bitches. Below, an Abercrombie model. See the resemblance?

Tino grew up in the rough and tumble town of Rancho Cucamonga, California. Tino was branding cattle by age 8 but always knew he had a larger destiny, one in which he could provocatively display his sinewy, latino body in suggestive clothing.

His first attempt at modeling occurred when some Hollywood producers blew into town looking for extras for a Spanish version of Ghostbusters. Tino used his charm and obvious physical attributes to try and sway the movie executives but they didn't feel he was right for the part of "hysterical, screaming pre-teen on verge of nervous breakdown due to close proximity of popular heartthrob".

However, due to a chance encounter in a sleazy hotel room, one of the movie executives heard Tino singing in the shower and realized the boy had a gift, a gift for music. And the rest is history. Arcane history, but history nonetheless.

Click here for more inspiring album covers.

The Code

You know, sometimes I wonder why I bother trying because every time I think I'm all that, lookin' good, feelin' hip, something reminds me that I'm pretty much a walking dufuss.

There was an incident, not too long ago, when I had just come out of a business meeting, went to the bathroom and saw that I had a big ass clump of mascara under one eye, leaving a trail of black ooze on its descent toward my cheek. The code was violated. No one told me. I'm sure someone saw something yet said nothing.

There is a code, people. A nice way to tell others they have something terribly embarrassing going on, and that they better rectify it immediately or risk being labeled "that freak".

You see, I go to the gym on my lunch hour, and on that particular day, which I've now dubbed "mascara mayhem", I had inadvertently made the mistake of not checking my makeup before heading back to the office.

I had just finished an especially challenging spinning class and sweat like a hog. You'd think I would have stopped in front of a mirror to assess the situation. What can I say? Sometimes, I ain't plugged in. So I went merrily on my way, thinking for hours that I looked socially acceptable.

Except I didn't. And those surrounding me remained silent. Do I exact revenge, or decide to forgive? The next time someone has a big honkin' piece of spinach stuck in their teeth, maybe I'll just smile and nod. When there's a trail of toilet paper under someone's shoe, and they're dragging it around like an idiot, I might take a secret video and post it on YouTube. I'm not a forgiving person.

Too much cleavage? I'll laugh as everyone stares in either disbelief or lust. Ass crack hangin' out? I'll point it out, yelling "plumber's butt!". Muffin top over too tight pants? I might ask: "blueberry or chocolate chip?"

Have no doubt, the evil giant has been stirred and is not content. I spend far too much time obsessing about my appearance to simply forgive others for letting me walk around looking like I've been punched in the eye. That ain't cool, yo.

Russian Dating Chat - it wasn't what I was expecting

So I open up my Gossip Junkie app to check out the celeb scene and the first thing I see at the top of a long list of inane articles on celebrity happenings is an ad selling "Russian Dating Chat Hot Girls". I'm assuming this was written by someone who speaks broken English. Does Celebuzz vet its advertisers at all?

This could be a human sex slave business. A dodgy dude in some rundown Moscow brothel promises its overworked, underpaid, malnourished prostitutes a "new life" in America. 'Cause being a prostitute in the States is much easier.

Unless you start smoking crack. Then, forget it. You'll be hangin' out on some rat poop infested mattress in a condemned building with people who have names like Cutter and Tweaker, sucking back diet Coke while your teeth rot, your skin peels off your face, and your cooch dries up. Then what?

Or maybe it's a mail order bride service. "White collar criminal with "unique" sexual appetites seeks foreign girl desperate for American citizenship to fulfill every whim and fantasy. Must not get nauseous at the sight of blood."

How do we know these girls are even Russian? They could be starving L.A. actresses practicing their foreign accents, dreaming of their "big break". Except that moment never comes, and they end up converting to Mormonism, moving to Salt Lake City, and becoming the 5th sister wife of the leader of some obscure polygamist sect.

Their sense of fashion suffers greatly as the sect will only allow them to wear Little House on the Prairie inspired outfits and they spend the rest of their days struggling with feelings of jealousy and inadequacy.

You can't see these girls, either. Are they really hot? Maybe they're homely kitchen help in some Siberian gulag, forced to have phone sex with foreigners and never seeing a dime for themselves since the profits are siphoned to a Russian mobster in St. Petersburg who's running the prison system through bribery of law officials.

Anyone posting these types of advertisements should really think twice before doing so as they could lead some curious horny pubescent boy down the wrong path.