15 11 2007

Here’s the deal: I work with a bunch of really, really gay men. Some of them are quite hilarious, and some are assholes. Generally, they are like any other group of people and I don’t have a problem with them as I am 1) neither good looking enough or in good enough shape for them to even jokingly hit on me and 2) am so completely self-absorbed that I really don’t have the mental energy to waste on caring about gays and lesbians…unless of course, we are talking about hot lesbians who appreciate the art of waxing. Now, a kid I work with (with whom I share an office) is probably deep in the closet; he’s a good kid and despite an obvious flamboyance and predilection for all things seemingly light-in-the-loafers, no one really knows for sure. It’s no one’s business and he shouldn’t have to explicitly tell everyone what or whom he does on his own time.

There is also a person in my office who will come to me first thing in the morning and our interaction will be something like the following: I’ll say “Good Morning Steve,” [pseudonym] and Steve will quickly retort “Yeah, it was a good morning, especially because I got fucked in the ass last night.”
“Wow Steve, there’s really no need to tell me that ever, in fact never say anything like that again, but I am happy that you are happy.” Of course “Steve” will say something like this to me every day and to the rest of the staff as well. “Steve” is also the person who introduced me to 2girls1cup.com and in general is just a nasty person. He is the gay equivalent of a really dirty frat boy and when it comes to talking about sex; despite his love of cock, he is still a man and has the same mentality as most guys I know. So Steve proceeds to tell people in our office that he had a tryst with my young closeted colleague. Emails from the ladder’s blackberry confirm that he “wanted to suck [his] cock after work.” That’s bad. What’s worse is that “Steve” went on to say that Youngn’Closeted did a terrible job blowing him and that eventually, “Steve” had to start skull-fucking this kid. Now would be a propitous time to mention that “Steve” is no more that 5’5″ and could not possibly weigh more than 110 pounds.

The worst part is, my whole office now knows this poor kid has sucked the cock of a disgusting individual AND that he did a terrible job and ended up getting skull-fucked. He doesn’t know that everyone knows this, but it’s out there, in the ether and his days of playing it close to the vest are over. Now, I am of the opinion that this is bad news for the kid, but there is no need to inform him that I know about his maladroitness for sucking cock. Another colleague of mine almost feels maternall when it comes to Youngn’Closeted. He is a young kid entering a vicious business, and because he is a nice person and always has a smile on his face; his infectious enthusiasm helps my colleague feel human after a 13 hour-day working for Hollywood scum. She desperately wants to alert Yn’C but doesn’t know how to do it, meanwhile I have to sit here and think about how this kid sucks the cock of a person I really don’t like…and manages to do a bad job.

It’s not that I am angry with his decision to be a “giver,” it’s really more about who’s pitching and in this case, it’s “Steve,” who, for a gay man, is very unimpressive to look at. The question is what do I do? DO I STOP MY OTHER COLLEAGUE FROM INFORMING Yn’C THAT EVERYONE KNOWS HE SUCKS “STEVE’S” SCHWANZ? OR, DO I DO NOTHING AND PASSIVELY LET HER INFORM Yn’C THAT EVERYONE KNOWS AND RUIN THIS KID’S EMOTIONAL STABILITY?

Is ignorance bliss? We’ll soon find out.

Until next time…



13 11 2007

So I had heard all the buzz and I have seen an episode from this past season which I found to be less than stellar, but I had no fracking idea that BSG would be as good as advertised. I watched the 4-hour miniseries which was the impetus for the show and was fracking blown away. FRACK that was some good shit. Much props to my friend Lucky for bringing it to my attention and watching it with me (as there was a slight bit of explanation necessary). I think what’s so fracking amazing about BSG is that it transcends its label of “space show,” and what I mean by that is you can apply the plot of BSG to another setting: it could be a western, a mob movie, ancient roman, medieval times, etc, etc, and the show would be just as good. It’s very fracking mythological at its core.


9 11 2007

I went to a crazy high school. I knew this on my first day of orientation when I was handed a then state-of-the-art laptop and later told to guard a Buddhist monk during a game of basketball (I torched his peaceful ass by the way: monks might know a ton about being one with nature but they clearly have never learned the fundamentals of the box-out). So in my junior year of high school it came as no surprise that Jesse Jackson was to be a guest speaker around the time of Martin Luther King, Jr Day. You see, my school, instead of giving us the day off, thought it would be prudent and edifying for us to learn about black culture instead of sitting at home and getting high on dreary January mornings. Other years, speakers have included the likes of MLK’s daughter and other luminary black people whose relevance to me was scant at best.

So our school prepares for his arrival. Sharpshooters on top of the gym, security guards with ear pieces, and what seemed like 100 members of the press core; you know, normal high school stuff. So Jackson comes up to the podium in our state of the art gymnasium and is greeted with thunderous applause and then he makes some assinine speech about society. All I truly remember from his rant (due in equal parts to marijuana eroding my memory and the fact that I was trying to tune him out because he is an idiot) was him talking about a mother with five kids and only two pork chops. “FIve kids, two po’wlk chops, who gonna eat? Who gonna get the pow’lk chops? Not like she got two kids and fiiive pow’lk chops, nah-uh, fiive kids, two pow’lk chops, what she gon’ do?” That was the extent of it. I don’t think Rev. Jesse knows about knives. I know that was a cheap shot, but the rest of his speech made no sense, and all of our parents made the trek to school because of this historic occasion, precipitated by my school’s wealthy founder – a trophy wife billionairess who decided she wanted to be the mother of all modern education, you know, like Oprah, except without the rapings – giving one hell of a check to Rev. Jesse which I am sure [rolling eyes] went to his Rainbow Push Coalition.

Now, I don’t take umbrage with the fact that Jesse Jackson has a numerical value attached to one hour of his time. If someone wanted to pay me a shitload of money to talk for an hour I would gladly accept. Nor do I object to Jesse probably pocketing his $30,000 grand and not giving a penny to the cause which he said he would as he opened his statements. His money, he can do what he wants; the “reverend” tag would make him appear ostentatious if he went hypocrit when it came to tithings so I can understand why he would say that. What I object to most about his appearance was his moral absolutism and the fact that he was harping on many a racial issue in which he diluted the situation with his mere presence. Somehow, our society has come to believe that Jesse = good and that what he’s fighting against = bad.

I say this with an air of disdain because not 24 hours after leaving our school was it learned that Jesse Jackson fathered a child out of wedlock and was trying to keep the situation quiet by bribing the child’s mother (no Angelina Jolie by the way). So Jesse was labeled a hypocrit and then gave another speech to the press (where I guarantee he did not pocket 30 grand). I don’t give a shit about Jesse Jackson’s bastard kid, nor do I really care about the fact that Jesse Jackson was with MLK on the day he got shot because in a way, this makes him guilty of what I like to call the “Rudy Giuliani Approach to Politics” which means: when one profits greatly from the horrible misfortune of others, but is not directly responsible for incidents which could have caused harm. There were others with King on that April morning and while many have used that moment in history as a pulpit platform, it appears – albeit on the surface – that only Jesse PROFITED from this event.

My penultimate point here is that Jesse Jackson is a dick, and just like Tiwanna’s pal Reverend Al, Jesse’s desire to become a part of every struggle in America and to fight vociferously for the underdog (even when said underdog is not in the right) is almost detrimental to the cause. Just like hiring Johnnie Cochran was as good as a guilty plea in the court of public opinion (SEE: Puff Daddy, SEE: gun charge), having Jesse J patrolling your sideline is equally dangerous. Imagine him arm-in-arm with some crusty cadaverous old bitch who is mad because her dingleberries aren’t covered by her HMO. Jesse is singing we shall overcome and I am trying not to laugh and vomit at the same time.

So imagine my surprise (or lack thereof) when I discover that Jesse is now supporting the Writer’ Guild strike against the studios. The main point of contention: dvd and internet residuals (for which the writers currently receive nothing). It is a lifelong dream of mine to be a part of this organization. My intentions and professional aspirations are very clear in that as much as I would love to have this forum for all of my diabolical thoughts and beliefs, the goal is to be a paid screenwriter. Sure I would love to be an editorial journalist or even write a novel, but in the case of the ladder, I would already have my residuals lined-up, and what’s the fun in getting compensated for one’s work?

So the WGA is walking arm in arm with Jesse Jackson. I want to cry, I want to shit, I want to draw blood and tear out my eyeballs. Not since he got the 5 soldiers out of Kosovo has Rev. Jesse done anything POSITIVE for anyone except for…REVEREND JESSE. Now the great freedom fighter is fighting for rights that I want and should I write anything that gets turned into a movie/tv show/entertainment concept, I will be forced to put this vainglorious popinjay into my prayers. For me, this is the equivalent of having Barry Bonds coach my future spawn in little league and teach him about the fundamentals and integrity of the game.

What this post has been leading up to is a question. This man of God, who rescued the five guys who forgot which way the compass points, this rabblerousing demagogue, this corporate charlatan who is just as responsible for having Jesus in the home as any evangelical I can think of, believes in the rights of writers, but what about the pillow-biters I work with? Surely they have just as much a right be unhappily married as any straight person. Not according to Rev. Justice Jesse Jackson, who would rather see a discarded Chinese Baby float in the Yangtze than in the arms of Ellen and Portia DiRossi while suckling the artificial teet that has been festooned to Portia’s busom [thinking, thinking hard, mmm yes, amazing]. ***Sidenote, if ever you want to see Portia DiRossi’s lovely nipples, feel free to rent (or in my case buy) the great movie Sirens which also features a more-often-nude-than-not Elle MacPherson (in her supermodel heyday). It features both sets of nipples together – in addition to two other women – for a total of 8 nipples in one awesomely masturbatory scene.*** Anyway, Jesse is a dick and a hypocrit and you can’t sing “We shall overcome” if you’re going to be an oppressor.

Also, I believe that every American should run for president. This belief was past on to me by my crazy pot-dealing felonious friend Craig X who has made at least two unsuccessful bids at the Oval Office. Every American who has a particular vision for society (whether it be cooky or not) has the right to seek such an office. However, it is also my opinion that once you lose/win and your term has run its course, then you must shut the fuck up forever. Jesse Jackson ran in 1988 and got beat in a primary by Michael Dukakis. Although I feel tacky telling you people that “Dukakis” is spanglish for: to take a shit, it should remind you that Michael Dukakis said he wouldn’t want to kill a person who hypothetically raped and killed his wife. Jesse Jackson didn’t have the brains, the vision, the mental clarity, or the political acumen to beat a loser like Michael Dukakis and thus, he should shut the fuck up or at least be forced to listen to an all gay choir (a redundancy if ever there was one) belt out “We Shall Overcome” (no puns please) during every one of his idiotic speeches. No one gives a shit about pork chops, no one gives a shit about you, stop what you are doing, do not pass go, do not collect $30,000, shut the fuck up, and do something you’re obviously not very good at…LISTEN.


5 11 2007

Like most Americans, I am forced to suffer the indignity of working a 9 to 5 (in my dreams more like 8:30 to 7) job where I am now share a communal bathroom with the rest of the men in my office (about 20, including effeminate gay men who are by law, forced to use the men’s lavatory, some of them three at a time — I kid, I HOPE) and the rest of the men situated on the floor of my office building, which could range anywhere from 10 to 40. There are two urinals, and two stall in this cramped space with poor toilet pressure and even when I was at my old office where there were three large stalls and two urinals in a much larger space, I never felt completely comfortable taking a good old fashioned AmerICAN shit with all the pestering company around. Why you ask? Cause I am afraid of the “Shit Stare.” [in the process of being trademarked]

The “Shit Stare,” you ask, “What is that?” Well my equally fecally-phobic friend, I will tell you. The “Shit Stare,” or SS for short, is when you walk into your communal bathroom and let’s say your co-worker Bob happens to be wearing orange adidas sneakers. Now, orange shoes are a rarity, and when you walk into the bathroom, you notice these orange shoes from afar. It’s a subconscious thing, because when you go into your office bathroom, you need to do a little visual recon-check to make sure you are alone so that you can pick your nose, fart really loud, spit in the sink, scratch your balls, or even, dare I say it…whack off? Of course, those are just some options open to you, but you need to be ALONE is the point. So when you do your check you get either visual, aural, or olfactory confirmation that you are all by your lonesome, but in your case, the orange shoes clearly signify that good ole’ Bob from accounting is dropping a deuce. So you go about your business and the stench becomes fouler, the gastric noises louder, and the repulsion grows deeper, like a flesh eating bacteria starting to fester. You want to leave, but, you are paralyzed by Bob and his amazing colon: how could one asshole produce so much so violently? You wait around for a minute because Bob has flushed, but he spends another ten minutes in there ripping the sandpaper excuse for TP from the machine which doesn’t allow you to steal and then chafes for days after and you wait, you wait. You wonder if Bob is eating enough fruits and vegetables because the cleaning process really shouldn’t take that long. So you stew about, you come your hair and try on different “le tigre” faces. After a brief pause, Bob lumbers out of the stall and before he can even make it to the sink A MOMENT OF RECOGNITION: you’ve been standing there the whole time, and Bob knows you’ve caught him with his pants down (literally). You know that he takes the dirtiest dumps of all, and for the next 4 hours until the work day is over BOB. IS. YOUR. BITCH. But wait, does he think you’re bluffing? You could’ve just stumbled in as he was finishing up, and lots of people go into private stalls to change clothes or blow cocaine, or have someone blow them. Does Bob try and bluff you back by not washing his hands with the disgusting antiseptic pink soap which oftentimes, is the signal, nay, the only marker to identify oneself as the shitting bandit? OR, does Bob NOT wash his hands, thus trying to pull off the “Oh I was just putting on a pair of socks” routine, and RISK having shit on his hands for at least a moment before having to beeline back to the shitorium to use the disgusting pink antiseptic soap which signals that Bob has just taken a shit, but doesn’t want to smell like shit, necessarily.

THE STANDOFF: You don’t break, and Bob can sense this. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead; he blinks first. You’ve caught him in the “Shit Stare” and he looks down as he goes to wash his hands, knowing that for the rest of the day, he does whatever you say, and that you can always harken back to this moment when you caught him in the SS and only when Bob catches you, will he be free of your SS. ***NOTE, it ain’t right to hold your SS over Bob for more than a day, but your SS should COMMUNICATE to Bob, that you have SSed him down and that until he SS’s you, he don’t mean shit.***


THE MUTUAL SHIT STARE: This is more of a dumbfounded brotherhood of fools SS. You could know that you are not shitting alone in the shitorium and aside from actually looking over the partition or pulling a Larry Craig, you search for ways to identify the person you’ve unwittingly entered into a race with. Of course you don’t finish in time, and when you try to alter speeds for ACT II or III you slowly learn that you’ve just mirrored the timing of your combatant. The moment sinks in when you both realize that you will exit the stall door at the same time. It’s like one of those mystery game shows where the contestant wants to see what’s behind door # 3. The door opens and…IT’S JOE from shipping. Of course Joe recognizes you and you both flash each other coy little smile as you know that to give each other the SS would be MAD as in mutually assured destruction. So you leave the shitorium feeling like brothers in arms and realize that you’ve dodged a bullet.

THE I KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO SHIT, SHIT STARE: This occurs when you steal a glance at a co-worker as you’re in the bathroom but it is clear that the reason for your being in the bathroom is a 1 or none type-deal. For this SS it really helps if you confront the offender before he even makes his play. If a urinal is empty, yet Bob is just loafing around the shitter, it means he is waiting for you to leave so he can detonate. DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY WITH IT. Ask Bob about the Yankees, the weather, anything which would force him to talk to you. As you leave, glare at Bob, and then he will know, once again, that he is dead meat.

This one requires a good memory and good presence of mind, also, it is generally the only out-of-shitter SS. Bob could have been copying invoices for accounts payable…but then you realize he had the burrito for lunch, and Bob could’ve easily handed-off those receipts to an intern. You know, and you drop the SS as Bob is getting back to his desk, Bobby, you crazy sum’ bitch, you’re like shooting fish in a barrell.

There might even be a few others, but I think you get the basics. Please feel free to tell us about your experience. And keep the following in mind: if you don’t EVER want to get caught, you have got to shit where they ain’t. I work on the 9th floor of my building so I shit on the 7th. It’s a good idea to have at least a two-floor buffer zone, because if you only go one, you could be dealing with overflow.


5 11 2007

So, I recently had an epiphany and am going to write about stuff that just makes me ornery Enough with the prefacing let us get to it…shall we?


I was at a bar this weekend for a friend’s dreadful birthday party at my beloved bar The Woods right off Sunset and La Brea. While at said bday party, I ran into a girl who I have been trying to sleep with for a long time. Story goes like this: she pissed me off a long time ago and I thought that worming my way into her underoos would make me feel better about her inane comments. So I tried my best and developed a rapport with this girl. It came to be that we spoke on AIM every day for the better part of an hour and believe me when I say this, she gave great AIM; such witty banter has nary been heard from the emotoconers and acronymers across the globe. It was easy for her because she was unemployed and I was looking for a reason to slack-off (at a time when I wasn’t blogging relgiously). It came time for us to go on a date (and believe me, this took MUCH prodding) and said date, she was cold and antagonistic. We decided to take a little break from IMing and when she asked me about this I told her plainly that I had no desire to ‘waste my time’ talking online with a girl whose only intention was to flirt with me, just to pass the days of her miserable existence. She was rather shocked and so was I…then I remembered that I am an asshole and while my words may have not been diplomatic, I was being honest with myself and with others, and that is what matters.

So some more time passes, and we slowly rebuild our bedraggled friendship as I made amense for my sins during a time when I was feeling a need for catharsis and some sort of a sign (It has been a rough post Labor Day season for me, nuff said) that everything was going to be alright. We started talking again and somehow this girl has fineagled her way into becoming my cyberspace therapist. She knows I want to fuck her and I know she is a prude who is twisted enough to string a fella along only to pass time. This past weekend, she unexpectedly shows up at the birthday party at The Woods – a whole nother mess of shit which I will get into later – and we get to talking. I am sipping on beers instead of my usual gin & tonic and I am relatively sober. Sober = annoyed, unsociable, unhappy. Couple that with the fact that my friend who was throwing the party was going around saying things like “yay, it’s my birthday, woooo,” and snapping photo after photo – and then having the gaul to check each photo afterwards to make sure it displays her good side (which is hard to find) – veritably blinding me with a cornucopia of camera flashes. Anyway, I am a jerk, and I am sober, and my beloved bar is action-packed with dudes and I hate brodeos and in talking with her I realize that I have nothing to say to her when we are not both in front of separate computer screens. She tells me I am an asshole and that I need to drink more. She starts tipping my beer in my face and this doesn’t make me that angry. Later when she asks me if I am drunk and I tell her ‘no’ I am not, she SLAPS me in the face, not hard, but not soft enough for me to let this go as a mere joke.

Now I am really upset. My blood is boiling. Can I punch this 5’3″ chick in the face? Is that socially acceptable behavior? No, it is not and as I calm down I look her in the face and she can tell I am not happy. She is going through the stages of dealing with the fact that she did something wrong in the way that bitches normally do: she jovially blames me first by saying “what, you’re being such an asshole, and you’ve been such an asshole to me lately,” then when I don’t budge on my level of anger, she starts to break down and gives me the puppy eyes “Hey, come give me a hug, c’mon, please?” [She wraps her arms around me I push her away] And when the hug tactic doesn’t work, she gets angry and starts asking rhetorical questions: “you’re really going to be like this? You’re not going to hug me back?” It goes on and on and I finally tell her to get out of my way as I put down the two beers I just bought and ask the birthday girl’s little hobbit of a boyfriend to watch my beers. When I come back from my smoke, these beers are gone, and now I have to get in the face of this little fucker whose ass I cannot kick on the grounds that it would not be fair…even though he didn’t abide by the code of ethical bar behavior.
I steal one more glance at the cunt whose idea of a connection is to try to slap me into a preferred state of being, as if I am a tv set which is on the fritz. I grab my jacket and go, making sure to give her the finger on the way out. Mature? No, but it made me feel better, and at the end of the day, that’s all I care about.

I must say that in this society, nothing pisses me off more than a woman who thinks she is the ultra-tough hot chick who thinks she is more of a hellian than most men. Women weren’t biologically designed to be tough and even Ellen cries about puppies in front of 4 million people. Women are supposed to be caring, nurturing, warm, sensual creatures who respond to what they hear as opposed to what they see; the reason for this being, your eyes can play tricks on you, but your ears never lie.

Think Jennifer Lopez in that awful movie “Enough” in which she plays an abused housewife who learns kar-a-te and then exacts her revenge on her typical white male bad guy ex-husband. She’s 5’3″ and he is 6’2″ and 190 pds. But somehow she is quicker and smarter, and she’s not gonna take it anymore! What would happen if Billy Campbell decided to just tackle her to the ground and have his way with her? Why is it so assumed that when a woman does something vicious against a man she has this freedom from reciprocity that other men don’t get when it comes to hitting each other? If a man had slapped me in the face, I would have thought hard about two options: 1) I would’ve fought back and/or 2) I would have filed an assault charge and REALLY have fucked up this dude’s life. I am more of the ladder kind of person as I think about what I would like for the long-term. Black eyes go away, criminal records do not [necessarily] and what kind of person am I? I am the kind of person who would gladly force a man’s family into paying me and my (in)glorious municipality thousands of dollars, just so they could forever feel the financial burden.

There are moments in life when I have deserved to have been slapped and this was not one of them. It wasn’t a hard slap on my person, but it was a hard slap to my pride, and I will be seething with anger until this injustice is corrected. Unless restitution is made to me in the form said offender buying some knee pads and a bottle of bourbon, I am going to be seething with anger.


2 11 2007

I used to like Esquire Magazine. They have published some amazing stories and articles over the years and also have the kindness not to include the cologne samples which all smell taint-juice and bourbon mixed with the slightest hint Panama Jack tanning oil. But when it comes to hot women, their writers/journalists prove that they are not from Playboy. How many times in the past have you been in Barnes & Noble and walked past the magazine rack to find one of the ten most beautiful women in the world seemingly staring at you from the covershot of an Esquire Magazine? Angelina, Jessica Biel, Jessica Alba, Scarlett Jo, etc, etc, etc.

Now, I am a curious lad. When I see these beautiful girls on the covers, I am instinctively driven to the magazine because oftentimes it’s better than looking for a memoir that doesn’t echo the sentiments of the trash Bret Easton Ellis puts into the ether. So I pick up an Esquire and think “Gee self, I am going to stare at some pictures of some beautiful girl, get to know a little bit about her, and I might even find something worth reading, maybe a short story, maybe an article on Darfur, maybe I will find the 10 best restaurants in every city.” So I go to what sucked me in, only to find that every time, the interviewer’s id is doing most of the talking and here’s what it’s saying: ‘Oh my god, this woman is so attractive, I can’t believe she’s meeting me at location X in Los Angeles, we’re going to spend the whole day together, and I am so nervous, I am just a lousy ivy-league graduate who writes for this magazine; normally I use this fact to my advantage when I go out and hit-on literati bitches at the bars, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to suffice in this case. Oh, wait, she’s actually cool, she’s very cool, beneath the veil is not only one of the 5 most attractive women in the world, but also one of the awesomest!’

Now, what the interview will try to say is that Jessica Biel, Charlize Theron, Adriana Lima, etc, etc are just “normal girls” who were often “picked on as young girls because they were tall and gawky,” and that they’re just looking for a “nice guy” who “makes them laugh.” You get to thinking that maybe these women are different than all of the moderately attractive girls who think they’re too good to be hit on by you. You are a “nice guy” and you are hilarious…yeah, that’s the ticket, you’ve got a chance and THUS, you’re going to see Jessica Biel’s next movie, because the two of you have fostered a connection. And every 4 months you’re going to see her new movie in theaters and it’ll be like she is spending two hours with you, and you alone…and then you’ll go home and whack off, attempting to black out in an alcoholic stupor before you start to cry.

HERE IS THE REALITY: Jessica Biel doesn’t give a shit about you, or the interviewer and her publicist has fitted her entire hand so far up the rectum of the writer that puppetry is not even an accurate term; a better word would be ventriloquism. So Charlize sits down in the Chateau Marmont with her handlers, an assistant, and a personal shit destinkifier (just in case, god forbid, she takes one of her three dukes a year.” Hey, she has to prove to this journalist that she eats actual food, so she’s laid off the cocaine for five minutes and must now eat a fucking salad to prove to America that “despite what we think, she does eat, just like us.”

So this ivy-league Pavlovian puppet salivates all over this woman, because she’s intimidating. She’s that hot and she knows it. She doesn’t really want a nice guy, or a funny guy, or even a sensitive caring guy. She doesn’t even want to get laid. What she wants is more fame, more adoration, more power, more drugs, but absolutely, under no circumstances does she want anyone’s cock to get in the way. Chances are, the only thing she gets off on is standing nude in a full length mirror wearing a a million-dollar necklace and doing the finest blow north of Bogota.

Now, I will admit that it is not untrue that the hottest bitches on the planet are sometimes, extremely cool. They know they’re that attractive and it’s difficult for a lot of guys to even talk to them. A gorgeous model will usually be more receptive to talking with you than wil a girl who looks like Lauren Conrad or any of those other bitches from “The Hills.” These are the types of biatches who are not as secure in their beauty as a supermodel and may feel like she is more attractive than is actually true. These are also the types of girls who stalk celebrities and the uber wealthy, hoping to land the job of babymaking-trophy. It’s funny because this dream rarily comes true and most of these girls end up marrying stockbrokers or reality tv executives and have to timeshare their houses in the Hamptons.

But I digress, because the thing that separates the model who actually gives you the time of day from Angelina is that Angelina is not only hot, but she is also famous. “Famous” is derived from the old French word “fameus” which translates loosely to “bitch with attitude.” It is a disease, not a desired state of being. There are perks, and there are drawbacks (like everything else in life), but everything seems magnified in the realm of celebrity. So while Beyonce’s “people” are telling mister BA in compartive literature what to write, Cameron Diaz files her nails (although I have heard that she is actually cool) and smokes a cigarette, waiting for this boring exercise to be over. This is a favor to Conde Nast and to Paramount and it could help generate some steam for her next project which in turn, will help her make a bundle on the backend.

And I’ve got your backend right here. Fah-Q, Esquire Magazine.