Hey, remember when I wrote about that odd little half-remembered Christian cartoon from my childhood called Jot? Well, apparently "Jot" means something really filthy in parts of the Indian subcontinent, because my innocent little post attracted a total of 63 comments from spambots hawking Bangalore escorts, Mumbai prostitutes, and the like. Yeah, I know. Third world spammers saw my musings on a wholesome children's show about an animated ping-pong ball learning lessons about Jesus and thought THAT was an appropriate venue to peddle their prostitution whores? 

SINNERS! You defile Jot, you defile Jesus, and now God is pissed. 

"You're going to hell, you blasphemous dickbags!"

Good thing I didn't write about Davey and Goliath. Who knows what sort of  unholy smut that would attract? 

Oh the humanity!

FUN FACT! Did you know that Davey and Goliath was made by Art Clokey, the same dude who created Gumby? Personally I always found D+G a bit creepy, but Gumby? Shit, Gumby rules! I love me some Gumby!

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An original from my own collection: 

Don't judge! Bendable figurines have needs just like the rest of us.

#sexpositive

Anyhoo, what really cheesed me off about all the spam that Jot post attracted was the time I had to spend going and deleting every comment individually. The bright side was, I did come across some comments that were amusing enough to use for blog fodder. Here are a few (BTW I removed all the hyperlinks, so your computer won't catch herpes): 

Y'ALL READY FOR THIS?

• My name is Nayra, I am a young Escort from Kanpur. I am tall, slender, and dress fashionably. I really love men. I don‘t care how yo look like or how old you are. If you are a real gentleman and you are polite, courteous and have very clean cleanliness I will give you the best time of your life.

Pictured: Nayra. Tall, slender, dress fashionably, and really loves men? 

Technically true, I suppose. Except for the "dress fashionably" bit. 

• I am a final graduate, i am having one week of holiday so i came here to Singapore. I have just arrived to Singapore this morning. I am now staying in a hotel in the central, i am looking forward to meet up with you all and have some good wild sex together.

Incidentally, the posting above had links advertising "Nagpur Escorts." Nagpur is not Singapore. 

Pictured: Not Singapore.

Like Miss Vanessa Williams, I went and saved the best for last:

• Our independent bangalore escorts are fully taught and perfect define entertainers. They are so beautiful and gracious than any other woman you have square with. How many men have bravery to deal all these things in this busy daily life? Now a day 19s woman always cheats their partner and treats them weakly. And these all are reason of a divide. Many of man who was dating with this kind of woman can tell you the story of tears, cry and sadness.

Wait a minute.

Am I crazy, or are those last two sentences sort of.....poetic?

And these all 

are reason 

of a divide. 

Many of man 

who was dating  

with this kind of woman

 can tell you 

the story. 

Of tears, 

cry 

and sadness.

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Whew, well at least I was able to make some art out of that annoying spam.

RESCUED FROM OBSCURITY
"Don't let it get me, don't let it get me, don't let it get me...."

Perhaps this is a little-known symptom of memory loss in aging Gen Xers: you start mixing up your Martha Coolidge movies. Then before too long, you're confusing Amy Heckerling movies. And by the time you get to where you're mistaking Say Anything for Singles, you're well on your way to an early Alzheimer's diagnosis. But I'm probably over-thinking this.

At any rate, I woke up with this song in my head the other morning and now I'm kind of obsessed with it. For some reason, I was convinced that it was featured in a scene from the 1984 Martha Coolidge flick Joy of Sex, where a horny teenage boy is seen pedaling a 10-speed bike down the street to his girlfriend's house, psyching himself up to get laid for the first time. The thing is, I don't know why I thought the song was from Joy of Sex, a movie I only had vague recollections of from clandestine late night HBO viewings as a preteen. Plus, Joy of Sex was pretty lame, so it's not a film that I would've sought out all that much back in the day. It's definitely no Valley Girl, which is the movie that Martha Coolidge is (rightfully) remembered for, because Valley Girl kicks ass. Better story, better actors, and a KILLER soundtrack. I've also seen Valley Girl like, WAY more times than I ever saw Joy of Sex, for all the reasons mentioned above. And, it starred Nicolas Cage back when he was still badass. Yes children, long, long ago in another time, another place, another dimension known as the early '80s, Nic Cage was really fucking cool. 

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Be still my heart.

I love this movie. Love it. One of my favorite scenes is the one where Julie, the titular "valley girl," flips out at her hippie mom for refusing to yell at her after she stays out all night. "Like, why can't you guys just punish me like other parents do?" "Bad karma, dear." I love that line. The hippie mom was played by Colleen Camp, by the way. I only recently found out that she was the same actress who played the sexy French maid in Clue. Random bit of trivia there.

But back to the rather joyless Joy of Sex movie and the song I was so desperate to find. I had no idea what the song title was, so I couldn't Google it. I could only remember the familiar refrain: "Don't let it get me, don't let it get me," along with the image of that preppy kid riding his bike down the street. Like I said, I was somehow convinced that it was from JoS. Why? I have no idea. But I did manage to find the full movie on YouTube, and decided to watch it the other day while I got some unpacking done. I found out a few things:

• Colleen Camp (hippie mom/French maid) was also in JoS but she was truly awful in it, horribly miscast in a "comic relief" role as a narcotics officer going undercover trying to sniff out all the stoners at the high school. It was a really dumb subplot that, like most of the movie, fell totally flat.
• Christopher Lloyd played the main character's surly gym coach father, and he was actually pretty funny in it. One of the film's few bright spots.
• There was this one part in the movie that my brain had somehow retained after all these years, although I was beginning to think I'd imagined it. It was a scene at a drive-in with a carload of teenage boys sticking their asses in the air and lighting their farts on fire while screaming "Blue flame!" Their combustible flatulence finally succeeds in blowing out the car windows, causing mass pandemonium among the teenage couples making out in the surrounding vehicles. Okay I'll admit it, that made me laugh. I'm not made of stone, people.     

And the song. The song! It was nowhere to be found in Joy of Sex. Frustrated, I Googled "songs featured in Valley Girl," but there was nothing titled "Don't Let it Get Me." There was, however, a Sparks song called "Eaten By the Monster of Love." I found a recording on YouTube, and yep! That's it. And it WAS in the bike riding scene from Valley Girl, after all. Why did I think it was from Joy of Sex? Early onset Alzheimer's? I'll be 46 next week. Still a bit young for that, but who knows? 

No matter. Here is the full version of the song, and it's all kinds of awesome. 

The only reason I knew the name Sparks is because of "Cool Places," that song they recorded with Jane Wiedlin of the Go-Go's, which also happens to be the jam. (Jane Wiedlin can do no wrong in my book.) Bonus! Here it is:

PSST! TRUMP IS A BABY-EATING COKE FIEND. 

PASS IT ON!

This is old news by now, long since forgotten as everyone is surely discussing (insert the latest thing Hair Furor said/did/fucked in the past hour), but still I feel the need to comment. 

It's the video clip of Trump and Epstein partying at Mar-a-Slag-Ho in 1992. It was quite illuminating. 

What did we learn? Well....

• We learned that even as a "young" man, Jeffrey Epstein had a face like a dropped pie. Were we surprised by this information? Nah, not really. But still, the more you know.  
• Trump bites his lip and claps his hands on the downbeat when he dances. Did we know that when Dumpcake busts a move, he looks like '80s Eddie Murphy doing an impression of a doofy white guy? No, but again, not all that surprising.
• We learned--well, remembered--that Rhythm is a Dancer was a huge hit during my senior year of high school. At the time my friend Liz really loved these early '90s dance club anthems, (see also "I Got the Power," "Gonna Make You Sweat," etc.) but they just left me cold. I tend to favor bands that play actual instruments. That said, I must admit now that "Rhythm" doesn't sound all that bad. In fact, I kinda dig it. Maybe it's because my ears have since been exposed to Katy Perry and other varieties of soulless autotuned shite that makes this long-lost track sound downright melodious, but still. 
• And the thing that actually did surprise me? Donald Trump looks high as fuck. I'm not just being snarky, people. Seriously. The coke eyes. 

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I know Dumpty's team has done a good job of selling the narrative that he's a booze-hating teetotaler. And I can totally buy that he doesn't drink. But I fully believe that he did and probably still does other stuff, and this video--along with the pervasive rumors of his fondness for Adderall--is proof enough for me. 

Seriously, go back and watch the clip of Trump and Epstein again. You can't unsee it. 

Well, this certainly has been educational! Remember kids, if you ain't learning, you ain't living. 

And that's....

Indeed it is.

Trump is a cokehead. Say it again, and spread it far and wide. TRUMP IS A GREASY COKEHEAD. Does anyone care? No. Would this information change anything at all? No. Because we're all numb now, and like Dan Aykroyd in Ghostbusters, we have chosen the form of our destroyer.

Sorry Venkman, I'm terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought.

At this point, Trump could saunter into a migrant camp, rip a newborn infant from its mother and devour it whole in front of live television cameras, then spit out the umbilical cord and dry hump an American flag.

And in the ensuing (admittedly meager) outcry:

Trump's inbred fanbase would shrug and say, "Hey, if Juanita don't want Trump to eat her baby, she shoulda stayed in Mexico. MAGA!"

Mike Pence would literally turn his back on the whole scene and say, "Well, this is tough stuff. And none of it is our fault anyway. Blame those stinky Democrats in Congress." Then he'd tell a female journalist, "Sorry young lady, I'm not allowed to converse with single gals when Mother's not around. By the way, I'm 110% heterosexual. Make sure you print that. No homo!"

Melania would don another fugly jacket, this one emblazoned with NOW I REALLY DON'T FUCKING CARE, BITCHES! and then disappear for five months to have another operation on her "kidneys."

One of the interchangeable plasticized Fox News bimbos would tweet: "Oh ho ho, since when does the left care about babies? They're perfectly fine with the ones murdered every day by ABORTION!"

And we'd wake up the next day and Trump would be on Twitter: "Me and Kanye are helicoptering into Sweden to free my homie A$AP Rocky. Then I'll free Tupac. See black people, I'm down with you! Peace off!" When that isn't enough to deflect the public's attention away from his migrant baby eating, he'll send more troops to Iran.

And then we'll all die.

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UPDATES AND MORE

I'm back! Actually, I never went anywhere. Well, except Texas. Yep, John and I moved to Texas and bought a house in the Dallas suburbs.

For those playing along at home, since starting this blog in 2003 I've lived:

• 2003 - 2012 St. Paul/Minneapolis
• 2012 - 2013 Baton Rouge, LA
• 2013 - 2016 Reno, NV
• 2016 - 2016 (four months) Salt Lake City/Bountiful, UT*
• 2016 - 2019 Reno, NV again
• 2019 - McKinney, TX

* We moved to Utah when John got a job in SLC, but the company went bust (as video game companies tend to do) and John's old company in Reno lured him back. In retrospect, I'm glad we moved back to Reno, because it's beautiful there and we had good times and met some great people. 

So now we're in McKinney. I'm glad to live in Texas, which is a sentence I never thought I'd write, but even more happy with our new house.

A HOUSE, Y'ALL ! WITH A YARD AND EVERYTHING!

No, that's not a giant Texas bug on John's shoulder. I blacked out our house number because I'm not posting our address on the internets for all and sundry. Besides, if you know me, 

you already have my address (or you will shortly). 

I love my backyard.

Anyhoo, jeez Louise, do I have more to post! And I will get around to it. By the way, in case you were wondering, I have no desire to ever abandon this blog. It might get updated sporadically, but it will still be updated. My blog is my last online refuge. And over the years I've seen so many blogs disappear, blogs that I LOVED--my friend Marcus's blog for one, as well N is for Neville (long gone), and the blog of an online friend (who was also the editor of my favorite zine in the '90s) a blog that had been around forever that she recently took down (much to my chagrin) because she writes serious articles for the internet now, and she deemed some of her older blog posts to be "problematic" as the kids say, and didn't want them dug up by any nosy parkers. I understand her reasoning, but damn, that blog made me laugh til I was physically sick and I miss it dearly. So for the smattering of people out who follow my blog--but mostly for myself--I'm never ending this one, dammit. Old school blogs like mine are an endangered species, and I feel a great need to keep it going despite the odds. SO THERE.

STILL HERE, BITCHES!

ADVENTURES IN SCAM BAITING, PART IV:

007 WILL RETURN IN....
 GOLDENASS

This hopeful suitor contacted me over Christmas. I guess scammers don't take holidays! It's a 24/7 kind of job, ya'll. Anyhoo, here's how it went for him.

Above: no, I don't live in Vegas, but I do live in Reno. Reno is about eight hours north of Vegas, actually, but I'm still thousands of miles closer to Vegas than johndolan1231, who's likely sitting in a one room shanty in Lagos, staring into a stolen iPhone screen and fingering his prostate.

I've visited Vegas many times and I'm pretty familiar with the city by now, so I tried to get him to say where in the city he lived. Since he obviously doesn't know anything about Vegas and probably couldn't even point out the US on a map, he tries to evade the question by telling me that Las Vegas is in Nevada.  

Below: ah of course! He's a doctor, and he's working in Spain. A lot of these assclowns claim to either be from Spain or working there in some noble profession like medicine. I don't know what that's about. He probably couldn't pick out Spain on a map, either.

He also dodges the question about his private Instagram account. They ALL have private Instagram accounts. 

As soon as I mention my lavish lifestyle, johndolan1231 suddenly has an urgent need to chat with me on Google Hangout. I plead ignorance. 

Oh yeah, I went back to that Rowsdower/Kavanaugh trope "Do you like beer?" I know, I need new material. I'm working on it.

Our convo goes on for a little bit...

Below: He "won'ts" a relationship, and he's trolling women on Instagram to find love. Yes, this guy is 100% a jet-setting doctor. Totally. 

This is the point where I drop the ass-dipping-in-gold bullshit on him. It's something I pulled out of my ass--figuratively speaking--while messaging with johndolan1231. I vaguely remembered reading about some brouhaha with a female celebrity dipping her ass in gold, so I Googled it and discovered that Lady Gaga, that lovable scamp, did it a few years back for a photo shoot with icky perv Terry Richardson (ugh, why has that fuckface not been MeToo-ed into oblivion by now?). 

I think johndolan1231 must have thought I was a dream come true: a tacky rich American who spends money on ridiculously useless shit like golden ass-dipping would probably be naive enough to send him hundreds of thousands of dollars if he came up with a good enough story. Ha ha, sorry bitch! 

After that last message, I blocked and reported johndolan1231 for spam. He bored me. 

Also, despite my comment, I don't think I'd dip my ass in gold at this point. My 45 year old ass is not something I want to immortalize. I mean it's okay, but not gold-worthy. Maybe my ass at 19. That was a good year for my ass. Actually, I think my ass peaked at 17, but since 17 is underage in most states, it's probably taboo to admit you'd want to preserve your underage ass in gold. Even though it was my own ass.

Come on, it's not sick if it's your own ass.  

NEW YEAR CHEER

ADVENTURES IN SCAM BAITING, PT. III:

ROWSDOWER. ZAP ROWSDOWER.

This scam bait is an eclectic hodge podge of themes: Mystery Science Theater 3000, Led Zeppelin, Brett Kavanaugh, Lorenzo Lamas, Pauly Shore, and The Red Green Show, to name a few. I don't plan these out in advance, I just go with the shit that pops into my head when I'm messaging with these morons. Spontaneity is the spice of life. (So is variety, I guess.) 

This guy puzzled me, because he seemed to be a native English speaker and his grammar didn't make my brain all hurty. That's faint praise, but still, he was something of a rarity. 

Zap Rowsdower is a character from The Final Sacrifice, a Canadian film that was riffed by the guys on Mystery Science Theater back in the '90s. The movie is a big steaming pile of poo until about 25 minutes in, when Zap Rowsdower shows up. Then, it becomes awesome. (Plot in a nutshell: nerdy kid finds out his dead father was in a cult, cult comes after nerdy kid, nerdy kid meets Zap Rowsdower, a mustachioed, beer swilling, bemulleted drifter and he and nerdy kid battle the cult and discover shit, blah blah blah.) But ladies and gentlemen, Zap Rowsdower is the true reason for the season.

OMG, some awesome MST3K fan made a Rowsdower action figure. 

Is it too late to add this to my Christmas list?  

The guy compliments me on my beautiful name. I should've just said my full first name was Zap, but I feminized it to Zapressa (which is a name that actually exists, according to the internet).

Below: Zeppelin song lyrics: "I come from the land of the ice and snow....." If I'd quoted lyrics from some Ariana Grande Latte song (do her songs even have lyrics?) he'd probably catch on, but he's too dumb to recognize Zeppelin. My youngest nephew is well-versed in Led Zeppelin, and he was born in 2002. I thought Zeppelin was just part of the collective consciousness by now?

Yes, "Over the Hills and Far Away," another Zeppelin song dumbass! I guess he's too busy pretending to be taken with my name to notice. 

I had to throw in some references to Rowsdower's love of beer. It's a running joke in the MST3K episode. 

Above: a mashup. "I wonder if there's beer on the sun," (a Rowsdowerism from the show), and "Yes, we drank beer. My friends and I, the boys and girls. Yes, we drank beer. I liked beer. Still like beer. We drank beer." I'm quoting that bitchy old boozebag Brett Kavanaugh, of course.

Below: yes, The Festival of Trout, that sacred Canadian holiday. I almost wrote The Festival of Flannel, but I thought that would sound too ridiculous. He probably wouldn't have noticed.  

Above: somewhere in Hollywood, Lorenzo Lamas is beaming with pride at being called the greatest actor alive today, because that sentence has never been written until now. 

Below: I hope the guy just consulted imdb.com and didn't really know all those Lorenzo Lamas movie titles by heart. My Grease joke sailed right over his head, anyway; Lorenzo Lamas played a big dumb football player who didn't have any lines. 

Below: The cultural impact of Pauly Shore movies in the late 20th century. Not gonna lie, I'm pretty proud of that one. 

Above: UGH, Liberty University? If you're not familiar, it's a Christian college founded by Jerry fucking Falwell, which tells you all you need to know about it. I don't understand, the guy's an internet scammer, he could've claimed to be an alumnus of any college. Why not some Ivy League establishment, if he's trying to sound impressive? 

Above: thanks for the sermon, freak. Just my luck, I get a scammer who's also a God-botherer?

Below: More Zeppelin lyrics in response to his "are you married?" question. Again, it's a question that could be answered with a minimal amount of digging on my Instagram, but the guy's too lazy. Ah well, Zap Rowsdower likes to be mysterious anyhoo.

Below: I'm starting to get tired of the guy, so I try to provoke him. I was actually impressed by his English skills, though, so that comment was genuine. His spelling sucks ass, but I guess you can't have it all. (Again, faint praise, but English as a first language is uncommon among these dickheads.)

Below: has he not been paying attention? Zap Rowsdower is as Canadian as it gets!

Above and Below: asking me about kids. Dude, I'm 45 years old. If I wanted kids, I'd have procreated a long, long time ago. It's not like I never had any chances. And for the record I DO like kids, I have stepchildren and stepgrandchildren and nieces and nephews and I adore them all. And it's not limited to kids I'm related to through blood or marriage, either. I've babysat many times for friends who have kids, and I happened to love it. In fact, I was just talking to a friend from Minneapolis about babysitting her daughters (aged 4 and 6 at the time), and all the fun we had singing songs and making up dances and running outside to meet the ice cream truck. (Those kids are in high school now, unbelievably. Where does the time go?)

Oh yeah, I got him to chat about music. One Direction and Maroon 5? No wonder he didn't know any Zeppelin. He listens to musical diarrhea.

I listed all Canadian bands as my favorites, because why not, eh? Fun fact: I actually saw two of those artists in concert back in the '80s. Can you guess which ones? Bet you can't! ;-)  

A few days passed between the messages above and below. I'd all but forgotten about the guy, and then he messages me with some more bullshit.

Obviously, I was no longer in the mood to entertain his ridiculousness with fake answers. So I cut the crap and started asking him some questions. 

Below: oopsie, did I hit a nerve? I think maybe I did. So this is where it ends. The dream of Lorenzo and Zap is no more. I decided to close it out with some Rowsdower humor and, lastly, a quote from the Canadian national treasure that is Red Green. 

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RESCUED FROM OBSCURITY:

"LIGHTS OUT! UH HUH!"

It's too bad this song doesn't get more love. I remember it being a big hit on the radio and MTV, although according to Billboard it only peaked at #24 on the Hot 100. The problem may have been that "Dancing in the dark," (the song's refrain) happened to be the title of another song that was also in heavy rotation during the summer of '84. You know the one. I will say that Peter Wolf's dancing is--ahem--pretty much on par with Bruce's (i.e. not very good), but Peter gets points for at least throwing in a few spins.  

"Lights Out" has been on my mind a lot since John hooked up the Amazon Echo to our new living room lamp. See, now instead of reaching over to pull the chain, I have to say "Alexa, lights out" (or on) and the device complies. John loves it because it's all space age and he's a techie. I'm more of a tactile type, so I've had some trouble remembering to keep my hands off the chain in order for the lamp to stay in sync with the commands. But my learning curve has had the added bonus of reminding me of this song, because every time I talk to the lamp, I hear "Lights out! Uh huh! Blast, blast, blast!" playing in my head. Weirdly enough, when I try to get Alexa to play "Lights Out," she pleads ignorance, telling me she can't find it. Thankfully, YouTube usually comes through in situations like these.

   

Of course, Peter Wolf is better known as the lead singer of the J. Geils Band. I like their work, but it's a bummer that most people only seem to remember them for "Centerfold." Personally, I much prefer "Freeze Frame." It's way more fun, and I adore that wacky ass video, a shining example of early MTV at its finest. But most people only know "Centerfold." Tragic. 

During the past week that I've been listening to "Lights Out," I recalled a few odd facts about Peter Wolf that I had to Google to make sure I was remembering correctly. The first is that he was roommates with filmmaker David Lynch in college. David didn't care much for Peter, because he found him too weird. Seriously! I mean, what a freaky badge of honor to be too weird for David Lynch. 

  

Another awesome Peter Wolf factoid is that he was once married to Faye Dunaway. Yes, Peter Wolf and Mommie Dearest were married! 

Don't make her angry. You wouldn't like her when she's angry.

Actually, they looked surprisingly good together, like your typical kooky bohemian '70s celebrity couple. 

I'm kinda digging the facial hair.

But they were only married from 1974 to 1979, which means they'd split up by the time Faye starred in Mommie Dearest. However, that does mean they were together when Faye made the epic campfest The Eyes of Laura Mars in 1978. If you've never seen it, do yourself a favor, 'cause it's a real hoot. You got a bunch of generic disco-era fashion models getting all nekkid and murdered, you have Tommy Lee Jones sporting David Cassidy hair, Faye runs through a warehouse shrieking "Donaaaaaaaald!" about 75 times, and Raul Julia hams it up with lines like "Ah, but YOU! Instant star in the world of chic!"

No decade did camp quite like the '70s.

But this is about Peter, not his ex. And Peter's pretty awesome. This is another forgotten gem, the title track from his 1987 album, Come As You Are. The video is similar to Janet Jackson's "When I Think of You," made to look like one long continuous shot, peppered with a few disguised edits to maintain the flow. Also, Peter appears to be hopping through the set of The Truman Show, a film that wouldn't be released for another 11 years. He was ahead of his time, that Peter Wolf.

  

ADVENTURES IN SCAM BAITING, PT. II: 

THE LEGEND OF BALLSACK GIRL

Well, at least he's not pretending to be Rod Stewart, but he's still a trolling POS. 

This one messaged me out of the blue under the pretext of "Nice Guy looking for love." If you haven't seen my Instagram--and there's not much reason for you to follow it unless you know me in real life--it's just photos of my cats, John and me, and whatever else I feel like posting. This guy obviously didn't look at my Instagram before messaging me, which is typical; I've deduced that most scammers just message several random women without looking at their profiles, then wait to see who bites. Lucky for robert_paul124, it was me. 

This is where I decided the theme for this one would be lyrics to John Mellencamp's Small Town, hence my name-checking Seymour, Indiana. 

It's pretty clear from my Instagram pics that I'm married. Lazy ass can't even be bothered to check. But whatever, I'll play along with some confusing responses. 

I think this asshat just copied and pasted a bunch of words. That's still no excuse for that hideous sentence structure.

Below: yes, I used "Nail Polish Tester" as my job title again. I pulled that out of my ass, thinking it couldn't possibly be a real job. Then I Googled it and turns out that it actually is, according to spammy clickbait site Mashable. 

ALSO, note that he claims to be a badass bomb disposal specialist in the army. What is it with these jackasses pretending to be in the military? 

Yes, I have a special man, you nipplehead. He's called MY HUSBAND and if you'd bothered to scroll down on my Insta, you'd see the evidence. And nice question about whether I rent or own. That's not obvious at all. 

Below: buckle up for the best part, "I invented Post-Its"! It's a reference to Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, because that movie is fabulous as all hell and I happen to love it. 

If you haven't seen it, a bit of background: Romy and Michele are two ditsy L.A. girls who travel to their hometown for their 10 year high school reunion. At the last minute, they decide their lives are not cool enough to impress the popular douchebags who harassed them back in the day, so they cook up a story about how they invented Post-It notes and (presumably) became multi-millionaires. No one at the reunion buys it, of course, but the girls still triumph in the end, and it's awesome. There's also some flashback scenes with everyone sporting hilarious '80s hair and clothes, an insane dream sequence, and a choreographed dance to Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time."

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Word to the wise: never trust anyone who can't have fun watching Romy and Michele's High School Reunion. 

And now, back to our story.

And here are some more Mellencamp "Small Town" references. I love the notion of someone becoming hugely rich off their invention and choosing to stay in a cow town like Seymour, IN. "Welcome to my estate. It's so peaceful here, most days you can barely smell the hog farms! Would you like to see the tennis courts?" 

There are some quaint, picturesque towns in Indiana--Ferdinand, for example, and James Dean's hometown of Fairmount--but Seymour ain't one of them.

***BTW, that song is misleading, because Mellencamp didn't stay there as the lyrics imply. I know he's got a place outside Bloomington, Indiana, and probably Beverly Hills or somewhere, too, but not Seymour. But anyway....

"Dancing to the oldest music." Yeah, I don't know what the fuck he means by that, but it gave me something to riff on.

Re: "Shadow Chant" below--that was an autocorrect gaffe--the oldest known song is actually the "Shaduf Chant." I learned this from Duran Duran's "Planet Earth" video. (Everything I needed to know, I learned from Duran Duran.) 

Sure, Wayne Newton, Nine Inch Nails, and The Osmonds. I'm wasting all my smartass answers on this guy, he's not even reading them. 

Asking for a photo of me because, AGAIN, he hasn't looked at my photos on Instagram. That's really a good thing, though. I don't think I want him rooting around in there.

So I Googled "weird model photos" and found this meme:

I cropped out the poor girl's hair, trying to make it look like a "selfie" (although it still doesn't look like a selfie, the angle is all wrong). 

And here's where the story ends. He never replied after seeing this pic, like he's too good for Ballsack Girl? It's not her fault some asshole hairstylist decided to give her that nasty 'do for a runway show. I feel strangely protective of Ballsack Girl. Sure, her hair sucks but she's got nice skin and her bone structure is poppin'.

I got news for robert_paul124. Ballsack Girl wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. She is still miles out of your league, with or without ballsack hair. Besides, she heard from her sister's ex-boyfriend's brother that you have gross backne and your breath smells like French onion soup. 

So there. 

Oh yeah, this is also the point where I blocked this guy and reported him for spam, natch. 

***OMG, you guys, I just remembered that John Mellencamp is dating Meg Ryan. What a weird, random celebrity coupling that is, no? Although, I can see their '80s versions hooking up: 

Oh yeah, DEFINITELY.