Olivia Pees on Doors and Pops Air Mattresses.

But she's still my baby. Mad <3 for the cat that has made it into the top three in the Meow Mix House.

Oh, and she doesn't like old dogs that just wander into the apartment. She wasn't mean so much as she just stared at Cody constantly and scared the shit out of him. Also, I have the best movie collection ever.

Yes, she has developed habits of scratching at Drunk Erin's door, making unearthly noises, running sprints across the kitchen floor and then immediately conking out, and she has been trying to kill the same fly for a week. I think she's wearing him down. Everybody needs to vote for her here.
The end.

On to my neverending quest to acquire mainstream validity for past Vice-Presidents.

Weenie Enema only focuses on the VPs who never became President, because nobody EVER remembers them. Who remembers that Nelson Rockefeller was VP between 1974 and 1977? I know people who can't remember past Al Gore.
Hint:

To be fair, this was probably one of those deals where he had been spelling it like that forever and NO ONE bothered to correct him. Like when I used to pronounce chauvinist as 'cawvinist' or niche as 'nishay' or knowledge as 'nolidge.' I have heard I am insanely intimidating. Maybe someone thought if they corrected me, I would bust a cap. To this day, Inna is the only person who ever corrects mispronounciations, misusage or generally bullshizzle that comes out of my mouth. That is not to say that I'm encouraging others to correct me. I stew and sulk for hours after that happens. I think I just managed to explain why Dan Quayle spells things wrong. Anyway.

Today's VP fact of the day:

Everybody knows something about Aaron Burr. In fact, one of the very first conversations that DB Bogangles and I ever had was about Aaron Burr. Most people are aware of the fact that, unlike me, he actually DID bust a cap on poor Alexander Hamilton, immortalized on the $10 bill. But beyond that, nobody cares and/or was not given a proper education on Mr. Burr. Here's the dizzle.

After Burr capped Hamilton and his term as Vice President ended, he got the hell out of New York. I suspect Mr. Hamilton had a few friends who were very much alive and could have done some serious anal-related damage to Mr. Burr. Just a hunch. So Burr gets involved with this intense plot to basically create his own country in the Southwest, in present day Texas. That way, he would be able to control everything roughly beyond the Mississippi River, which, if successful, would have put a serious damper on all that shizzle about manifest destiny et cetera. I would guess the Oregon Trail would have ended about 50 miles out of Independence, Missouri, making the computer game irrelevent. I'm just assuming Burr would have killed all of the buffalo and bears in the game. If they DID make a computer game out of a revamped Oregon Trail, my guess is that after Fort Laramie, Burr would show up and gut your oxen and take off with the wagon tongues and axles. Tough shizzle.

I think I'm the only person who ever typed 2.

Burr spent a good chunk of his conspiracy planning at the coolest place ever. The home of Harman Blennerhassett. I am naming the next pug I see that. Harman Blennerhassett Bojangles. Harman Blennerhasset was this guy from Ireland who married his niece and got thrown out of Ireland and ended up living in this amazing house on an island in the middle of the Ohio River.

It's technically in West Virginia, making it the only object in the state not named after Robert Byrd.

Very soon, Michelle and I are going to start working on an extensive preview of what the Oscars for 2007 should look like. The only time I watch TV/movies when a Mets game isn't on is when I'm getting pumped up for my annual superficial/pretentious celebrity goodness.
Just in case you didn't know -
Best Actress.

Goya's Ghosts. Tell me I'm wrong.

I Left My Heart Universe Pants in San Francisco.

Weenie Enema was on hiatus while I wandered over to San Francisco for a week to explore California burgers and actual sun exposure. As a result, I have come to the conclusion that San Francisco should forego the bovine experimentation in favor of the old San Francisco stalwart Rice-A-Roni and I have tan arms, which were mostly peeling and infected until today. Word. No one wants to hear a long-winded itinerary, so I will merely supply a few choice locations that a civilized human being would enjoy scaling 88 degree inclines to see.

1. Danielle Steele's mansion.

I heart the Spreckels Mansion. It's in Pacific Heights and I don't think tourists even know it exists. I didn't actually see Danielle Steele or a withered copy of Toxic Bachelors outside on her sidewalk though. She has Mexican workers trimming her shrubs. In the non-sexual metaphor way.

2. The Dumbest Baseball Fans in the World.

Do people who conveniently ignore blatant disrespect for the integrity of baseball deserve to have the most gorgeous ballpark in the country? How did I end up with the sewage-infested blue and orange eyesore in Flushing? If you can stomach obscene stupidity and people inanely cheering for a swollen-headed steroid injecter, it's worth a look. I would not recommend walking through the warehouse district to get there though, unless the thought of sweaty reformed prisoners excites you.

3. Danny Tanner's House.

I know there were others who altered their schedules on Tuesday nights at 8 to watch Bob Saget and his astonishingly unfunny daughters and their "uncles." I'm equally sure that these same people who fidgeted through the end of Wheel of Fortune and impatiently waited for the Tanner family to sprint up the hill and have an impromptu picnic accidentally stumble upon Full House on Nick at Nite all the time now and feel REALLY self conscious about those past transgressions. How did a show with wretched acting and even worse writing manage to hold its own for eight years?

Obvi.
Unless there were a slew of closet Dave Coulier fans. I have a lot of trouble believing that though.
This was the only area of San Francisco where I saw a french bulldog. It was chocolate and had a bright pink tongue that looked like slippery cotton candy.

4. Ghirardelli Chocolate Goodness.

I personally think Ghirardelli chocolate is pretentious and way too rich for my delicate palate that yearns for the simplistic milk chocolate wonderment Hershey's reliably delivers to 2,545 bodegas near my apartment. However, the smells wafting out of the factory/ice cream parlor reminded me of when I used to pretend that I was Charlie Bucket in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. For those who don't eat Symphony bars, they have a golden interior wrapper immediately surrounding the chocolate. I would sharply inhale and imagine that I had just won a Golden Ticket. Then the self-created euphoria would wear off and I would just be sitting on my couch with wrinkled tinfoil and my cat gazing at me sympathetically.

Olivia update!

Olivia's new toys are the blue, sweat-stained inner soles of Amy's sneakers.
I don't think she actually puts her mouth on them, but she likes to stare at them a lot and tentatively tap them with one paw. Then she gets bored, eats two pieces of Meow Mix and falls asleep in the cabinet or behind the futon.

Chris Meloni Impregnated Me With His Specially Victimized Babymaker and All He Got Was A Good Time and an Emmy Nomination.

Yes, the impossible has occurred. Someone other than me recognized how fucking incredible Detective Elliot Stabler is. No more of this Jennifer Garner bullshit or Patricia Arquette getting awards for pretending to connect with corpses. The Academy of Television Arts and Sciences finally gets "it," giving Chris Meloni his first nomination for anything ever, unless you count his Prism award nomination a few years ago. I don't.

The Forehead That Launched A Thousand Ships.

Admittedly, this is old news. I started this post weeks ago and then got distracted with other pressing issues, but now I am back, and it's time for a comprehensive Emmy preview. Also, Drunk Erin and I are having an Emmy party, which means we might be able to convince DB Bogangles and MAYBE that woman who passed out in front of the dialysis center last year to come over. We're very unpopular in this era of post-graduation.

Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series
Larry David - Curb Your Own Enthusiasm
Kevin James - The King of Queens
Tony Shalhoub - Monk
Steve Carell - The Office
Charlie Sheen - Two and a Half Men

This Kevin James nomination reminds me of the Everybody Loves Raymond dilemma that used to follow me everywhere I went. I watched the show. It wasn't funny. And yet every year, it would get nominated for 17 million Emmys and would actually WIN sometimes. I don't see Kevin James even being considered, unless the voters feel sorry for him for having a thankless role in a Will Smith movie, but one has to wonder about the depraved society we live in that thinks The King of Queens is not only a comedy, but is somehow funnier and worthier than, say, reruns of Mr. Ed.
My vote is for Charlie Sheen. He was in Winona's debut - Lucas, 1986.

I heart 30-year-old men playing 16 year olds.

"It's not like I wanted to be the one holding your hand...I just didn't want her to be holding it."

Outstanding Lead Actor in a Drama Series
Christopher Meloni - Law and Order: SVU
Denis Leary - Rescue Me
Peter Krause - Six Feet Under
Kiefer Sutherland - 24
Martin Sheen - The West Wing

I don't think it's particularly fair that Elliot Stabler has to go against insane powerhouses Jack Bauer and President Bartlett on his first run through the awards circuit. It means Chris Meloni probably won't win, but he clearly should, if only for unofficial recognition of when he pees on camera on Oz.

Heh.

I don't care about most of the other categories, so we'll skip to the most important one
Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series
Kyra Sedgwick - The Closer
Geena Davis - Commander in Chief
Mariska Hargitay - Law and Order: SVU
Frances Conroy - Six Feet Under
Allison Janney - The West Wing

Geena Davis won't win. She can't possibly win. That show sank faster than . It should have been called Speaker of the House and just focused on Donald Sutherland, but hindsight, 20/20, et cetera. Mariska forever.

The Only Thing More Clever than the Titles of My Blog Posts are Fall Out Boy and Panic! At the Disco Song Titles

Although to be fair, both of them liberally borrow cliche movie utterances from Dirty Dancing and Casablanca. If I was forming an emo/pop punk ensemble, I would steal lines from underappreciated gems like My Girl and Terminator 2.

Songs on an Album That Emma Will Have After She Writes the Pulitzer Prize-winning tome "Mammaries and Memories."
1. I Beat Thomas J in Monopoly Yesterday.
2. Certainly not the Hand Walking Queer.
I'll think of others. The problem with all of these lovely little punk ditties is that when you actually hear the song "Nobody Puts Baby in A Corner," it says nothing about Dirty Dancing. If I was writing that song, the entire first verse would be about the simultaneous demise of Jennifer Grey's career and her nose. Reminds me of someone.

Note to Ashlee Simpson - no one will hire you if they don't recognize you. Frankly, I'm shocked they were hiring you when they DID recognize you. My cantankerous feline sings better than you when she's gnawing on her extremities in a feeble attempt to get Scoop Away out of her fur.


I have decided that the newly annointed Stupidest Person in the World is Matt Moline, the seemingly tortured husband (soon to be ex) of the most amazing human in the entire world - Kathy Griffin. If you find 40 bucks on the street, I suggest you take it, buy a Strawberry Banana smoothie at Dunkin Donuts, and use the $35 you'll have left to purchase tickets to her show. She makes Oprah incest jokes. And says cunt about 467 times.
According to Devra Bogangles, who knows absolutely everything not worth knowing, Kathy was supposed to go on Larry King last night and explain that she was definitely divorcing Matt because he stole over $70,000 from her. But then Kim Jong Il decided to be a chocolate socket. For the record, I was a big fan of Matt. I saw him on her reality show a bunch of times, and he seemed like a real trooper, taking time out of his own life to sell DVDs at her shows and withstand an absurd amount of abuse in the spotlight. Devra did not like him because he had hairplugs. I feel there are stronger rationales out there for disliking someone. Like when I declared war against Ahmed the taxi driver for trying to murder me on 58th and 1st. Or when Kelly Ripa showed up at my door last night with arsenic-laced Diet Pepsi and I almost drank it before I remembered that Kelly Ripa has been trying to kill me for months and the Diet Pepsi probably had arsenic in it.

How. Badass.

You have to assume that stealing money from Kathy Griffin is roughly equivalent to taking a plane to California, digging up Ronald Reagan's corpse, and defiling it. Number one, if any joy is derived from such action, it is going to be rather short-lived. There's probably a secret military sect that is poised to mutilate if a Presidential corpse is fucked or ransacked. While Kathy Griffin is not nearly as powerful as a Presidential carcass, she is ruthless.org. If you piss off Kathy, 10 to 1, you're going to take up 45% of the material in her next 70 standup shows, witnessed by approximately 200,000 people, and she'll go to the press with her tale if she thinks they'll pay money for it. I suspect if I had been born with red hair and had 3 more enemies, I could be Kathy Griffin.

This hurts me everywhere.
Of course, being me, one of the first things that occurred to me is that Dakota Fanning created this entire story for revenge. I wouldn't put it past her. She's going to be nominated for about 23 Oscars in her career, she might as well knock out her antagonizers early on before other people besides me get suspicious.

"Btw," I had a dream about Dakota months ago. We were basically BFFs in it. If you're keeping score, that's 2 Paris Hilton BFF dreams, one Mischa Barton BFF dream, and one Dakota Fanning BFF dream. I don't know how or if you can categorize the dream with Benjamin Mckenzie where he wouldn't hug me because he had kittens underneath his shirt. I love my dreams.

Mischa chose a "movie career" over this. What a fool. She hasn't eaten food since 1996, when Mariah Carey's hit single "Fantasy" was on the radio. Fact.

The Only Thing Worse Than A Yankee Fan is Someone Who Doesn't Know What Zachary Taylor Died Of.

He shit himself to death.

Things Old Rough 'n Ready was not Rough 'n Ready for - cholera.
Anyway. Any chance I get to talk about presidential fecal matter, I take.

On Friday night, I went smack into the lion's den - Yankee Stadium. The subservient Indian had procured bleacher tickets to the Subway Series, and although my personal religion dictates that I do not worship at religious facilities not named Shea Stadium, I felt it was the sort of justifiable sacrifice that will one day thrust me into the upper echelons of True Met Fandom. I also figured the ratio of Met fans to Yankee fans would be roughly comparable, and the chances of actually being systematically eliminated by a testosterone-ODing Giambi fan were rather slim. Hence me biking to the South Bronx.

You can't see each individual face in the stands, but 98% of them had 'Cunt' written on their forehead. That's a fact, and you can probably see it if you watch one of those replayed games on YES.

I would like to preface my stinging diatribe against the common Yankee fan by saying that it could have been worse - we could have been in Philadelphia, where I would have ended up with a swollen vulva and probably one eye (knowing my luck, the diseased one). To the best of my knowledge, Yankee Stadium does not come equipped with a court system like the old Veterans Stadium had in Philly, but given how evident the frustration of an average, mediocre season was on these people, they may want to consider installing one in that new stadium they're building. Just saying.

Phillies fans are soooo cool. Looby.

Now, if you have ever been to Yankee Stadium, you're probably aware that the bleachers are inhabited with a strange variation of homo sapien known as the Bleacher Creatures. I am not a fan. I'm pretty sure most of them are perpetual drunks whose idea of a good time is sponsoring a contest to see which one of them can stick their penis in a meat grinder the longest. When we sat down in our seats, Subservient Indian misread the section (which is easy to do in ANY sports/concert facility) and we were actually one section off from where we were supposed to be. We weren't trying to steal someone else's seat. It's the bleachers - there are no bad seats. So we're sitting there respectfully, not giving the swarming masses of Jeter shirt-clad individuals around us shizzle for being three games behind Boston. We're mad respectful, especially since this was enemy territory. THEN, this burly fucktard who looked like he stepped out of that weirdo redneck comedy show with Jeff Foxworthy comes over and starts screeching that we're in his seat, we're in the wrong stadium, blah blah blah. Come on. Christ. It's not like we wouldn't have moved. People need to chill dot com. If these were premium seats for a look at David Wright's ball sac, I could totally understand the aggravation. That's a premium holding sack of quality baseball sperm there. But this was row P in right field. Unless you have a fetish for a sideways view of Johnny Damon's ass, there is no reason to almost make subservient Indians cry.

I would pay up to $25 for the ball sac view. I'm not made of money.

My general beef with Yankee fans is that 75% of the people in this city claim to be Yankee fans, and then when you ask them to name their starting rotation, they MIGHT say Mike Mussina and they MIGHT say Randy Johnson, but I have never had someone rattle off the other three. This applies to basically every fan in every sport, but I don't care about the other ones because they're not the ones sneering at me and delivering their Yankees stump speech: The Mets suck, 26 world championships, Derek Jeter, etc. Also, if you encounter a Yankee fan on the street, there's a excellent chance that, if you ask them how long they've been a Yankee fan, they will cite a date after 1995. I'm obviously not saying there aren't people who haven't hearted the Yankees for decades, but every time you have a team with an impressive winning percentage over the course of a string of seasons, you get those batshit fans who get off on short-term gains and nothing else.
Are there Mets fans like that? Sure. I saw three Mets fans in 2003, and I can't throw a tampon without smearing menstrual blood on 35 of them now. However, they're not the ones making Indians cry into their Jose Reyes jersey.

I downloaded two Daddy Yankee songs because Jose Reyes said they were amazing in the NY Post. <3 Gasolina. If someone in the Post told me that I could become President by smearing poop on the Arch in Washington Square, I would do it. I would actually do it if one of my friends casually suggested it.

FECES.