Flavor of Jones

Since it seems that the news is now completely dominated by celebrity goss, I am trying something new. Inspired by FLAVOR FLAV! I have decided to bust out a few names of my own for some famous people, so we don't have to go to the trouble of remembering (or for that matter even learning) their real names until we are sure we actually give a shit about them.

1.

From know on, thou shalt be known as Senator Tailcoatz.

2.

Why do I get the feeling these guys will be visiting your local trailer park sometime soon. It's Lyfe Ruiner and Pathetick.

3.

How you doin Plasstick? Tell ya sister Jeenyis I said hey.

4.

Look, it's everyone's favorite fake couple! Know to be known as Beerd and Clozited.

5.

Hide your diet pills and get your barf bags ready for Skynnie and Starvz.

6.

Say hello to my new friend Drugz.

7.

His name may not be on the back of his jersey, but you can call him Wayste of Doh.

8.

He sang about him and dressed like him so I now dub him: Jeezus.

9.

Oh look, it's everyone's favorite child star, Cleeshay.

10.

This one is obvious. Meet Siphiliss.

What becomes of the broken heeeeeeaaaarrrrrrrrrrted?

A day of heartbreak.


1. The Mets-we won't even go there. I still love them dearly but let's not. even. go.




2. Haley Joel Osment sees drunk people now.



3. I still have my plague on MySister'sBacheloretteParty Eve.




4. T.R. Knight (aka George O'Mally, my McDreamy) cleaned out his closet and found his McGay. Women like me all over the world die a little inside. I should have seen it coming.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

The verdict: Guilty of heartbreak in the first degree. I hope some nice guy makes a McDreamy out him.

Happy Birthday to me!

As some of you know, I turned 25 this past Monday. And karma decided a suitable gift would be strep throat, a wicked headache and an awful fever. So sorry for the lack of wit and recap of my party. Let's just say that I am paying for my sins of the weekend...

Who would I give a Volvo to? Apparently unhappily married couples with wackjob kids.

Ok, I love kids. They are cute and cuddly and say the darndest things. But if I see this little girl on TV one more time I may just have to swallow some bleach.

Let's analyze:

1. So it looks like she's being picked up a little late by Daddy. Or maybe it's a little early. Because she puked or pooped herself. And they already used her extra set of clothes that they make everyone bring in the first day of kindergarten so teacher dressed her in the rejects from the 3rd grade production of "Annie."

2. WTF is she saying? "...they're really good and they lived in the house that he likes the most but one day they wanted to change the color of him..." Umm, that sounds racist. Looks like teacher was reading "Song of the South" that day. Let's continue...

"Just a pretend stick but it really thin and it has legs and I don't know what it is..." Yea. I do. It's called a switch. Or a whip. Like the one they used to hurt Jesus like you saw in "Passion of The Christ" yesterday in your crazy teacher's class. And if you don't make this floor shine like the top of teh Chrysler building...I digress.

"And there's worms and some bugs." Yes. That's what you see when you die.

"Mom talked about it. But his head is so tiny..." Yes Daddy, mom told me your head is so tiny. But not the one on top of your neck...

This guys looks like a cross between Michael Jackson and Stephen King

3. Maybe racist teacher told this little girl that if she was creative and told Daddy stories, that maybe just maybe, he won't leave, or hit her anymore, or make her wear the Amishiest clothes I have ever seen. Maybe. I wonder what he's thinking.

"It's so easy. I just pull the car in the garage, let her out and shut all the windows. Then I'll be able to go to sleep. Forever."

OR

"Damn bitch. She said adopting would make us feel like Angelina and Brad or Madonna and Guy."

OR

He's has a commercial stuck in head all day long and can't get it out so he's gonna gop home and take it out on his blog.

Total Request ew

Hi, my name is Jonesy from New York, NY and I want to give a shout out to my girlies that live on the Upper East. And at number one today is my request for Carson Daly to go eat a sandwich today..WOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAA!

I know, I know

I've been a bad Jonesy. I've been a little crazed so I haven't had to much time to post, but here's a little weekend love for you all. In case you missed K-Fed on CSI last night...



Unfortunately, they don't have his full performance on YouTube in which he quotes the line:

"This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee all the way home."

You can't make TV gold like that up. If anyone finds it let me know!


In other news, My birthday party is this weekend, so I'm sure I will have fun tales of debauchery from this Saturday night, when I slowly drink my youth away!

I heart this soooo much!

An Open Letter to the New York Mets

Dear New York Mets (most importantly Willie, Carlos, David, Carlos2, Jose, Paul, Jose2, Endy, Tom, Steve, Orlando, Chris, and Julio):

Hi guys. Just wanted to let you know that I am a huge fan of yours. Like really huge. Not meaning that I'm fat, I just really like you guys A LOT.

It all started back in 1986. I was 5. David, you were just 3 or 4. My Dad wanted to spend more time with his daughters and since that other New York team (which he is a fan of) wasn't doing so well, he decided to take us to see baseball played at its best. I don't remember too much about Shea Stadium back then. But I remember liking the hotdogs and the name Dykstra (I still heart you Lenny). I remember the song of that year (We got the team work, to make the dream work, Let's Go! Let's go Mets!) I was too young to remember Game 6 (I bet Bill Bucker still has someone kick him in the balls every night for his mistake) of that World Series, and the Game 7 win.

This:

led to This!!!!:

As I grew up we grew apart for awhile. I didn't come to your house for many years because, well, you were in Queens, I didn't have a car, and I liked cheerleading more than baseball. I didn't sell out like some others, I just kind of forgot about you and you well, forgot how to play baseball. Let's face it, you really sucked. But deep down I still loved you and supported you.

Flashforward to me as a teen. I found you again. You got your shit together. I supported our dear friend Mike with open arms. I clapped for Rey Ordonez even though I knew that most of the time, he was going to strike out. And then you came through. In 2000, you shocked us with your Wild Card win. And then actually playing like magic to make it to the World Series. That was great! Deep down, I knew you wouldn't win but I was overjoyed! You didn't suck! No one could make fun of us! Actually, the obnoxious fans of that other New York team could but they are obnoxious and mostly ugly and probably play on dodgeball teams called The Hotness.

But then what happened? Half of you left leaving Mike to carry a torch with a fat first baseman and a team that he couldn't commuincate with because no one spoke English. It felt like the early 90's all over again. But I stayed. And I cheered. I gave you everything. I even accepted Mike's blond facial hair. Give me some credit here.

Much like Jason Giambi's weirdo 'stache, in the days of yore, Piazza rocked some odd hair.

Flash to 2005. A shining ray of hope in the form of a very very very HOT third baseman named David. He came to us. And it was good.

The tongue thing just does it for me.

I understand why Mike had to go. He was getting a little old and lets face it, no team can have that much hotness at one time. You said next year is now. And while the division was tough last year and you were all so close, next year ended up not being now.

This year you told me it was the team and the time. And I believe you. I bought tons of tickets. I even travelled to that other New York team's house to play with you. I have spent more than I can afford of $6-7 beers and $4 hotdogs (which, by the way, you should have never have gotten rid of Kahn's, they were so much better). I have invested my time in you. And it's paid off. You've been working hard. You want to do well.

So I have one small favor to ask. Please don't ef this up. Even the Red Sox fans are counting on you. You scared me last week with your nonsensical losses. So play well, be strong, and I'll see you Thursday. I'll be the one screaming in the blue and orange.


Sincerely,

Ms. Jones
(David's future wife)

P.S. Really, though, just do your best. Let's go Mets!

Example:

Please refer to around 4:05 of this clip to see what I mean:

We need Patches O'Houlihan

Dodgeball Game #1 Recap:

Last night marked game 1 of my dodgeball season this fall. I joined the team to be social ("demented and sad but sort of social") and to have fun with my friends. Apparently the teams we drew in the first round were in it for different reasons. Scary reasons.

Let me describe:

Team 1:

Name: The Hotness

Uniform: They brought their own tie-died t-shirts with nicknames on the back that included but are not limited to: The Rock, Johnny Boy, Clutch and "The Shocker" (he literally had the phrase "one in the stink" printed on his back.) Oh yea, and The Rock wore wrestling shoes and a headband.

Description: This collection of B&T guidos on came to kick ass and get rid of their roid rage while their skinny minnie girlfriends hung in the back. They not only aimed for girls more than boys, they aimed for girls in the head. One of them literally yelled "PUT HIM IN A BODY BAG JOHNNY" as if our "friendly" game was equivalent to the final battle in The Karate Kid.

Ralph Macchio I am not. Damn you Kobra Kai.

Team 2:

Name: ZS4 (ZS=Zog Sports, the peole that created the league)

Uniform: Purple zog sports t-shirt

Description: A collection of obvious dorks who didn't have enough friends to form a team of their own. One scary player, which someone dubbed the Tsunami, would wail the ball at girls with no shame. He would hide in the corner and just peg people. Then there was scary red head who I think misplaced her crazy pills before she showed up. The two combined looked like this:

Team 3: Us

Uniform: Sage Green T-shirts (could we get a weaker color?)

Description: A collection of former athletes who in the past 7 years have well, let's just say we aren't really "athletes" any more (with the exception of one or two).

We need to work out like these kids.

So yea, when only 8 of our 12 showed up I realized I would have to play. Play against the scary guidos. My strategy was to hide in a corner (which I got yelled at for). That didn't work.

So then I actively tried to throw caution to the wind, disregard everything I have ever known to be true and try to get some of these people out. And again, I proved to myself that I throw like a 4 year-old. No aim, no rhyme or reason and ever so softly. Every time I th
rew, I was out.

My teammates stayed strong, and one back injusry and 8 sore bodies later, we ended the night 1-2-1, not too bad considering we faced a Rock and a Tsunami.

We play again on 10/11 (we have a week off). Hoepfully, I won't have sit an entire day with a heating pad on my back after that one. And worse comes to worse, we will no doubt get the best drinking team award. Nothing helps a bad back like a big glass of cider.

Saved By The Bell: Still Ruining my Life

Read this from The Daily News Rush and Molloy Column:

"He may have played nerdy eighth-grader Samuel (Screech) Powers in the sitcom "Saved by the Bell." But former TV geek Dustin Diamond can now take his place with Colin Farrell, Tommy Lee and Kid Rock as the star of his very own sex tape.

Everyone who remembers Diamond as a lovable putz is in for a shock once they see a 40-minute video in which he engages in a kinky three-way with two women, sources tell us.

We can't get too graphic here, but word is that the action includes some bodily functions and an act known as a "Dirty Sanchez."

Phoenix-based agent David Hans Schmidt, who has brokered some of Hollywood's biggest celebrity-skin deals, confirms that he's acquired the rights to a tape featuring Diamond.

"Just when you think you have seen everything in this business," he tells us, "mankind has raised the bar another notch. Or lowered it."....

The sex vid's working title is "Saved by the Smell." Ewwwww."

I just hope Tori Spelling doesn't make an special guest star appearence as Violet Bickerstaff.

Effing 4G!!!!!

To the bastards down the hall:

When the delivery man came to your door with MY tacos and MY quesadilla that you obviously didn't order why did you not point out that you are 4G not 4J. You took my food. The messed up part is that I didn't pay for it yet. You paid for my food and ate it. You PAID for it. That's so weird.

I can forgive you for making me listen to your stupid conversation about the VMA's and who Jared Leto is. Oh, and the name of his band is 30 Seconds to Mars, not 20 seconds to Jupiter. Jerks.

And when Tiny Dancer (who just wanted to see if you got the food and the taco place wasn't lying) knocked on your door, you came to the door, looked outside and didn't answer the door. You sat back down and turned up the Yankee game.

So 4G this is WAR!!! I will get you back. Hard Core. I will tackle your delivery men in the hallway and take all of your orders from now on. And I'm gonna spit on your door knob and other such shenanegins. Bastards.

Now you'll never see me naked. And one of is you is fat and smells like dirty sweat.

Love,

Someone who hates you

A Fond Farewell

Last Sunday I was at my mom's house recovering from the festivities of my sister's bridal shower. I laid in her bed chatting away and flipping channels and then we stumbled on something that was at the same time both wonderful and sad.

The WB 11 was airing all of the pilots of their most popular shows. It was their wayof saying goodbye to my generation, the kids who grew up watching Buffy, Felicity and my favorite of all time Dawson's Creek.

I haven't seen the DC pilot in years. I own it, but I usually skip over it because I knew the plot line. For years I have been proclaiming that I practice Dawsonism. It's my religion of sorts, in which, whenevr faced with a life problem, I refer to DC wherein I will always find the answer.

I thought this was a completely original idea.

Nope.

As I watched the pilot, I learned that I totally stole this idea from Van Der Beek himself. Dawson and his Speilberg theory (the same as my Dawsonism) is introduced within the first hour.

While I watched the magical montage in the last few moments, I saw my teenage years flash before my eyes. And then I realized how much I suck because the one basic priciple that I always thought that I had dreamed up actually came from the place it was based on.

Really though, I suck

Crap or should I say crack.

I must have been on crack. I signed up to be on a dodgeball team. With the most athletic girls I know. Crap. Let the maiming begin.

I wasn't kidding.

She can already do blue steel. Just make sure she doesn't kill the Prime Minister of Malaysia.

I want a DNA test...that I pay for.

Vanity Fair is so nice to give us our first look at Suri Holmes-Cruise.

Yes, Suri has been hiding in Tom's jacket the ENTIRE time! And doesn't Kat(ie)e look like she's confused? She's like, who is this kid and why am I here? The baby is the only one who can look us in the eye. And that's because she's too young to lie.

She's adorable (but no Shiloh), but I can't help but be reminded of a certain really rediculously good looking person:

Whoa here she comes, watch out boys she'll chew you up

In my drunken stupor last night I texted one of my young ones (this one is actually still in college). He always writes or calls back immediately and with enthusiasm. He is adorable, but why do I do these things when he is a half a country away and let's face it, young?

It's because I have decided to become the cougar/puma/jaguar that Hall and Oates were singing about, let's see how that works out for me.

Happy Labor Day weekend...and happy end of summer.

It could have ended upon Jay Leno's headlines...

I almost posted this on a friend's myspace, as I know she will be at the beach all weekend.

"Don't let Ernesto get you too wet!"

Meaning the hurricane. I'm the worst.

Apparently my boss thinks I need a boyfriend too....

After a discussion about Valentine's Day cards and how there is nothing really new about them and how e-cards are lame he says:

"Well when was the last time you sent a Valentine?"

Do I smell like single or something???? I just thought I needed some lovin'. Go figure.

"This is why I need a boyfriend Goddammit!"

I am not handy. Not at all. I can't reach the lightbulbs in my apartment, Spike has to change them for London, Tiny Dancer and myself. When our dishwasher broke, I just stared at it. It took us over a year to fix our DVR. My closet doors were broken when I moved in. Needless to say, they still are.

So you can only imagine how I felt on Saturday, when, as I was rushing to hop in the shower for the Future Mrs. Krabbypatty's (FMK) birthday party, I heard the loud clango f metal hitting the floor. The bed that I had been so peacefully napping in not too long before, had decided to, well, dismantle itself. Oh. Dear. God.

A reeactment: Replace the smirk on his face with sheer horror.

Since I had helped my Mom assemble the thing when I moved in, I made a weak attempt at lifting the mattress and box spring and the metal bed frame to try to fix it. Nope. Then I enlisted London and our other friend to help. Nope. Useless. All of us.

London and company had to leave for an appointment at the Genius bar at the Apple Store leaving me to my own devices. So what does a single girl in New York City do when she faces a dilemma right before she has to go to a party? She starts using her resources. I called all of the Westchester folks to see if they happened to be taking the West Side Highway so one of the husbands could help me. Nope. The party was on the UES so I pretty much knew I was screwed.

So what does a single girl in New York City do when she is really screwed? She cries. Wrapped only in my towel in my hot bedroom after a half hour of trying to fix my twin bed (which has survived Jdate, Mr. Brightside and Cougar Bait) I sat down on the floor and started balling. And I shouted over the phone to London: "This is why I need a boyfriend Goddammit, to like, you know, fix stuff!" I was a sad little girl.

In the end, I stacked some books under the bed, got rediculously drunk and at the party, and came home and had it break all over again. This time I took in stride, got up, puked and then crawled into Tiny Dancer's bed. The following day, London and I took apart the bed and now I sleep on top on the mattress and box spring on the floor. My decorating style has become ghetto feng shui. Come and get it boys!

I know. I need a grow up bed.

And yes, I know I don't need a boyfriend to fix stuff. I just need vodka.