Stick it to the Stacy

I'm going to let everyone in on one of my most genius plans. I've been mulling this idea over since literally the age of 12 and unless some asshole who was jealous of my superior intellect and scheming capabilities were to out me, this brainchild is totally legit.

First, some minor background info: I love What Not to Wear. It’s been one of my top 3 favorite shows for as long as I can remember. I watched it when it was Wayne Scot Lukas instead of Clinton Kelly. I’ve seen Stacy London through all of her hairstyle changes, and not only is she on my list of people to meet but she also solidifies my belief that just because a heel is 4 inches too high and painful as shit does not mean that it should be thrown to the depths of my closet. I’ve forced many a boy to sit and watch it with me, which I realize might be a torturous thing to do, but hey, if he doesn’t like it, there’s the door. The bottom line is, watching this show has turned me into a highly judgmental fashion critic. Watching this show has inserted the phrase, “Shut up!” into my everyday vocabulary. Watching this show has turned me into a conniving nightmare.

The whole premise of What Not to Wear is that a person dresses horrifically (usually due to some deep-seated self-esteem issues), an embarrassed family member nominates them, Bozo the Clown gets secretly followed around by cameras for two weeks, then Stacy and Clinton arrive at their doorstep with $5000 to completely redo their wardrobe. Now I’m sorry that Marla Mae was moo’d at her entire life and even though she lost 150 lbs she still sees herself as the Michelin Man, but I think we can all agree that after the team works their magic on her, she’ll go right back to the $6 t-shirt table at Wal-Mart. Not everyone is cut out to be a fashionista. Suddenly, Marla’s stuck with a $350 suede blazer that’ll never again see the light of day, and we all have to act surprised that the $600 black patent peep-toes don’t fit her busy Idahoan homemaker lifestyle after all. Spare me.

You know who could use $5000 worth of new clothes? This girl. Now unfortunately I have pretty on-point fashion sense. I’m no style star by any means, but I dress cute and I try new things and my shoe collection is becoming quite enviable. In summary, I would never be accepted on the show as-is, which is why the following plan came about: I go to Good Will, stock up on all the hideous Tweety bird t-shirts, elastic-waist biker shorts, and Southpole hoodies I can get my hands on (size XXL? Don’t mind if I do!), and get down to the biz. I’d have a trusty friend nominate me, saying, “I know she’s a beautiful person on the inside, I just wish she would put more effort into her appearance so everyone else could see it!” Suddenly, Stacy and Clinton would interrupt my Chinese Art and Architecture class to let me know that I’ll be bringing my entire wardrobe to New York City, where they’ll throw everything away and send me off onto the streets with rules and style tips and of course, the $5000 card. I’d come home with great new clothes, new hair, new makeup, and a new outlook on life…an outlook that would go straight to the boxes under my bed where my real clothes were hidden. My closet would be tripled!

I realize this plan sounds rather selfish and immoral, but I could really care less. Marla is happy with her tapered Mom jeans, and I say, more power to her! She can keep her I Love Lucy pajama pants and the “I give up” ponytail; I’m still in my prime, and damnit, I want to celebrate it with a pair of killer Christian Louboutins. If I have to lie and cheat my way there, so be it.

I'm comin for you two...

Fat Bottomed Boys

I don’t think it’s fair that guys get to go to college, gain 40 pounds, and call it “Broin’ Out,” but if I happen to make friends with the Subway guy and he knows my meatball sub order backward and forward, having a little extra junk in my trunk is the worst thing I could do. The pool in my apartment complex opens in a couple of weeks, and I’ve been prepping for that day since November. Yes, November. You know what that’s called, boys? Maintaining the magic. Remember a few years ago when you were all strutting around with your ripped arms and sick abs and girls thought you were hot? Well after three years of beer, Qdoba, and Call of Duty, your stomach is one big pillow of shame and the only “hot” thing I can think of is the oven I’d rather stick my head into than be forced to look at your shirtless sack of embarrassment and defeat. You know what’s a lot of fun? Not hooking up with someone who’s spent the winter months harvesting a layer of flubber, that’s for sure. Listen baby beluga, I understand that you’re not the star of your high school football team anymore and the club lacrosse team is “full of a bunch of fags who can’t play,” but I also know that I run the risk of becoming a Butterbody and do everything in my power to avoid such a catastrophe. I expect you to do the same. Spending an hour powerlifting in the gym one day a week – sounding like you’re blowing your load and dying simultaneously – is not going to get the job done.

You’ve got a girlfriend? Not for long, Jack Black. Nice job sealing the deal when you still looked like Gerard Butler circa 300, but if you’re grabbing ass as she’s grabbing love handle, girl’s not gonna be around much longer. You see, while you’ve been perfecting the dent in your couch cushion, some of your fellow males have been quietly keeping themselves in line and emerging as Surprise Studs. I’m sure your personality has maintained all of its humor and chillness over the past few years, but college is absolutely a beauty contest, and a competition between his biceps and your razor sharp wit is really no competition at all.

Honestly, I’m sorry that you lost your sex appeal. I’m sorry that countless cases of Bud Light and bottomless Saver Sacks have brought you to this truly unattractive and unfortunate place in your life. I’m REALLY sorry that you fail to see the problem with any of this, because come pool time I know your pale manboobs are going to accost my eyesight and I’ll be scarred for life.

Hopefully I’ll see you on a P90X commercial in the near future…or, more realistically, The Biggest Loser. A title you so thoroughly deserve.

Yeah, you're welcome

People frequently ask me where my humor comes from, as if I randomly pull a witty comment out of a coin purse every time I’m feeling a little clever. Sure, I’m inspired by the offensive comedy of the likes of Chelsea Handler and Tucker Max, and the aggressively absurd style of Dave Barry always gets me going. Hell I’d even drop a Kevin Hart joke or two if I was the right race or gender, but that’s not the point. I find these people funny, but I’m not going to jack their style like those damn chickens did to Fergie – I’m better than that. To be completely honest, I don’t even find half the things I say all that humorous. I had a rando once ask, “Did you just come up with that?” after an especially quick one-liner, and it caught me completely off guard. Never one to instigate an awkward convo lull, a quip popped out to maintain the flow and all of a sudden I’m the Michael Jordan of hilarity all over again.

I’m starting this blog for this reason. My humor just comes. Not from any special place, not for any special reason, and definitely not for any special person. I say what I say and when people find it funny, it obviously makes me feel good, but it doesn’t make me. I’ll be posting about my random musings and pet peeves, awkward run-ins and eavesdroppings. I will definitely hurt your feelings because it’s a proven fact that I’m funniest when drunk, pissed off, or hyper, and since those three states of being comprise 99.9% of my life, you now have something to look forward to. I will also confuse the hell out of some of you because I’m under the personal impression that if you don’t understand a joke, it’s not because it wasn’t funny, it’s because you’re a dumbass. Finally, I can promise that every single thing I write will be a must-read, because I’m just that talented. Did I mention I’m really humble?