Godammit, I’m Mad!

Today, Queen Marie discussed her hatred of Keira Knightley and I was excited to find that we share this bias. Shared biases are as pleasurable as shared enthusiasms….sometimes more.

To be fair to Queen Marie, I don’t think she used the word “hate.” Most people save this word for special occasions but not Sister Wolf. Ma haine dure, remember?

So because I’m a little tired and braindead, I thought I would offer up a little explosion of hate for the weekend. Let’s call it a Festival of Hate. Okay, here we go.

1. Keira Knightly

2. Kate Hudson

3. Jessica Simpson

4. John McCain

5. Chloe Sevigny

6. Lou Dobbs

7. Sarah Silverman

8. Blake Incarcerated

9. Dr. Phil

10. Mischa Barton

11. Maroon 5

12. Christy Turlington

13. Eric Clapton

14. Eva Longoria

15. Jude Law

This is just a fraction of the people I hate, and I didn’t include my favorites like Selma Blair or Robin Williams.   I also hate girls who wear hats like that awful girl is wearing in the photo.

Nominations for a new list?

My associate Dr. Larue alerted me to an article in the New York Post about moms bringing in their pre-teen daughters to get waxed.   He knew it would upset me. Not that it takes a village to upset me.   One spa owner believes it’s good for girls to start young and suggests that in ten years, “waxing children will be like taking them to the dentist or putting braces on their teeth.”

Another advocate for early waxing is Nair, whose hair removing line called ‘Nair Pretty‘ is clearly aimed at kids. Check out the kid in their ad.

Childhood will soon be no place for children.   These developments are not good news for Lourdes. Let’s hope Madonna doesn’t read the New York Post.

In a more appealing direction, men’s underwear companies are reaching out to men who want a little oomph in their pants.   Men, you work hard, you play hard; why not LOOK hard?   The brand C in 2 makes some nice briefs that are designed with ‘Trophy Shelves’, “which enhances a man’s assets with incomparable support.“   Compare the Trophy brief with the standard D & G brief.

If women need to wax, they should fucking well expect a Trophy in return, don’t you think?

“Loss” is an occasional nightclub in London that promises its patrons an evening of exquisite misery. Apparently, it’s based on the popular crying clubs in Tokyo, where stressed Japanese businessmen can rent rooms by the hour to watch weepy movies or pay $10 to attend a group cryathon.

Hahaha! I mean, Waaaa. I think this could be a great idea.   My friend Ann suggested a couple of years ago that people opposed to President Bush get together for massive public cry-ins.   Since we felt there was little we could do to get rid of him, at least we could express our grief over the destruction he has wreaked.

It’s not too late to have a good cry about the Bush Administration. If you think you’re over it, try watching news footage of Hurricane Katrina.

Back to Loss, a project of “The Last Tuesday Society:” It is the work of a Romantically gloomy young man who calls himself Viktor Wynd.   His pose of exhausted misery is pretty funny, once you read the stuff at his website. He describes Loss as a place for “the miserable, the pathetic, the beautiful, the dying and the divorced” to “sit around the dying flowers, crushed velvet, mouldy taxidermy, old broken children’s toys and dead butterflies…” He will even provide chopped onions for those who need help getting their cry on.

Viktor, I love you! I get your joke! You are so beyond Emo, you’re almost anti-Emo! You are a dedicated performance artist who doesn’t just offer jars of shit at your ‘art’ exhibits; you label them “Realtor Shit” and “Pharmacist Shit.”

If you need more crying, here’s a photo of Robert Downy Jr. from a collection of photos by British artist Sam Taylor-Wood called “Crying Men.”

Remember that first Why Did I Buy This? I ended up giving that item away. This time, I’m hoping to keep my purchase, however baffling, and actually wear it.

I never wear frilly things or sheer things, or things with crap all over it, so why did I buy this shirt? It may have been on sale, but that doesn’t explain it. It’s by Rebecca Taylor, and it has a sewn-in silk camisole. When I tried to put it on, I had to keep starting all over again. You have to synchronize the inner and outer shirts as you stick your arms through.   I didn’t study that in college, so how I am supposed to know how to do it?

The stuff on it is like little silk petals and crystal things.

What can I wear with this, and still feel like me?

High-waisted wide-leg jeans? Narrow jeans? Black jeans? The black McQ pencil skirt that I’ll never wear because it’s too uncomfortable? What about footwear?

Help me work with this, you fashion girls!

Has everyone already heard about the giant inflatable turd by “artist” Paul McCarthy that was blown away from its moorings at a Swiss museum and knocked down a power line before breaking some windows at a children’s home? The turd, entitled Complex Shit, is the size of a house.   Here is a description of the show, at the Paul Klee centre:

“interweaving, diverse, not to say conflictive emphases and a broad spectrum of items to form a dynamic exchange of parallel and self-eclipsing spatial and temporal zones”.

Whatever you say, pal.

While we’re talking shit (double entendre!) Rachel Zoe is featured in Bazaar magazine, with a photo-shopped image of her as a size 8, next to her real self, a size zero.   Ms. Zoe says “Are you kidding me?” several times in the short interview, which will help you understand why she’s so well hated, if this is still news to you.

Finally, Ben Stiller’s new movie, Tropic Thunder.   Disability Rights groups are up in arms about the movie’s use of the word “retard,” including a slogan that is already available on a t-shirt.     I admit I hate Ben Stiller, so he doesn’t have to   do anything but keep breathing to make me mad. And yet, now I’m more mad.

The word retard is a pejorative term that hurts those who are least able to defend themselves. In the same way that we now know not to say “Fatty!” when we walk by an overweight person, we can all learn not to use “retard” in connection with a person who seems slow, autistic, has Down Syndrome, etc.

Ben Stiller and Dreamworks want you to feel that those who are boycotting the movie are a bunch of fussbudgets with no sense of humor.   In fact, they are people who know the challenges already out there for people with disabilities or special needs.

My special need is for Ben Stiller to leave the planet, or at least retire.

Those are the exact words I said aloud while laughing at my new blog a minute ago. It wasn’t an evil laugh, but a laugh of pure joy at my own cuntishness. An acquaintance once described me as “vulnerable, with an edge.” I was flattered at the time. Now it might be more accurate to say, “A cunt, with a heart.” How would that be on a gravestone?

Anyway, here is my Tribute Blog. It is dedicated to my very special fan, The Crazy Muffin Woman. I need to figure out how to remove my Sister Wolf photo without having to change my google profile thing. Who can help a Sister out?

The photo of Megan Fox as Mother Theresa is how I like to think of myself. It’s such a ravishing image, isn’t it? It’s the kindness that so reminds me of me.

However, when you’re feeling bad about yourself, and you need a lift, you can feel better just by looking at images like this:

Go ahead, click on them! If god didn’t want you to take comfort in Priscilla and Lisa Marie and Donatella and Woody and Soon Ji, He wouldn’t have created them for us!

Have you ever marveled at the unmitigated grotesque awfulness that is Ed Hardy? This brand and its ugly stepsister, Christian Audigier, are not only repulsive to the eye, but really expensive, too.

I showed the t-shirt above to my teenager, who was speechless for a moment. I think he may have been scared, and with good reason.

This is a brand to fear more than root canal. This shit is everything a normal person wants to avoid projecting to the world: It says “I’m not only stupid, but blind. Just kill me!”

Or maybe it’s saying: “Hey man, I totally rock!” Same thing, really.

What I have learned from reading fashion blogs is that styling is everything. Just take the Ed Hardy t-shirt above, as it’s presented by the super-elegant fashion mecca now known as Electric Couture. It used to be called Electric Ladyland, but Jimi Hendrix probably returned from the dead to get them to change it.

Anyway, who else but the geniuses at Electric Couture would think to style it with a huge fake Chanel necklace and two tons of garish chain belts and Kenneth Jay Lane bangles, plus weird cargo-like bell bottoms?

Here is another look, featuring a Christian Audigier mini-dress and some fabulous, realistic pearls, with enough fake Chanel to make you forget about the shoes. Not!

Ed Hardy is only good for identifying its wearer as an imbecile. If there were any doubt, the Ed Hardy would seal the deal.

Every night, I am glued to the TV while Nancy Grace sneers and yells into the camera that Casey whatshername is lying about the whereabouts of her two year old daughter Caley.

No shit, Nancy! The mom did it! The frustration with this mom’s failure to just admit it is driving Nancy and me nuts.   Nancy is like a circling shark, and I’m right there behind her. My husband can’t understand why I need to watch this, so I tell him it’s like people who love reading murder mysteries.

But it’s not really. I just want that bitch to admit it so Nancy and I can move on.   I know there are other things happening in the world, bigger stories, momentous events, but I need to get to the end of this grisly road. I need that woman to stop lying.   I’m taking it personally.

On the album “Nothing’s Shocking” by Jane’s Addiction, there is a song called “Ted, Just Admit it.” It’s about Ted Bundy, who didn’t confess until after he was sentenced to death.   On the eve of his execution, Ted Bundy gave an interview in which he blamed pornography for making him a serial killer.   Who knows what this emotionally vacant mom will blame.

I loved that Jane’s Addiction record. To this day, when someone I know is in denial about something, I mutter “Ted, just admit it!”   It never gets me anywhere, though.

Today I read a boring article by Gen X poster boy Douglas Coupland about growing old. He notes that we all have two ages: the age we really are and the age we are in our heads.

Later this month, Sister Wolf will be 55. If you are taken aback, think how I feel.   No one wants to be this age but, ahem, consider the alternative.

Being 55 means nothing much except that it isn’t considered a good thing by men who blabber on and on about women losing their appeal after 30. As if.   I am completely awesome, so I am happy to refute that line of thinking.

I have come to love my cute hospital bed and my beautiful red sheets, but all things must pass and the hospital equipment is being picked up on Friday.   I love cranking up my bed to read and I love knowing I can’t fall out. Oh well. Maybe I will end up buying a hospital bed for two….do they exist?!   I’m excited just thinking about it!

During my recovery, I bought this Mischen silk dress online, because it was drastically reduced and because it has zippers down the entire length of each side. The fact that I won’t ever wear it is hardly worth mentioning.   Bring on the Rapture! And the fucked-up looking hem in the photo isn’t like that in the real dress.

The age I am in my head is around 14.   My oldest son is 32, and people generally think I’m his sister or girlfriend when we hang out together, but they don’t realize that in my head, I’m still a defiant hippie girl, angry and insecure but much cooler than those awful straight people.

How old are the rest of you in your heads?

Oh help me Jesus, I have posted and deleted another blog about the crazy whore who keeps getting all up in my shit. I know I should just turn the other cheek, but You know I can’t roll like that. I am not the person to fuck with, that’s all.   Please grant me the wisdom to know how to shut her up, and the courage to kick her ass to kingdom come, amen.

Let us think about shoes instead.

These are all from my-wardrobe.com.   The lime satin ones are on sale and they have my size, but eh, I’m just learning to walk again.   What I love about all three is the color.   Each color is a neutral. That’s right, a fucking neutral.   Please don’t argue about it, I am completely drained by that stupid crazy whore.

A neutral color is whatever you say it is. I’ve always thought of red as a neutral, and most of my life I’ve had red shoes or a red bag to prove it.

Shopping at my-wardrobe.com is a lovely experience. Last year I bought a gray leather bomber jacket by Malene Birger. It is soft velvety leather with long zippers at the cuffs. I never wear it but that’s okay because the point of clothes and shoes is to stockpile them.

When the Rapture comes, I’ll have more shoes and clothes than an army of women, and I will be proclaimed the winner of all battles, including the one with you-know-who.