blood sucking fashionistas


Yes, I keep a crisp, white hanky tucked into my pocket even though I haven’t blown my nose in 700 years

Why are vampires always glamorous and well dressed? Sure, I could see busying about keeping up with the current pant length trends for  the first hundred years or so, but after that wouldn’t you just climb out of the coffin and throw on some sweatpants?  The dry cleaning bills alone must be insane, you know how hard it is to get blood stains out of an ascot?

Are you wearing five layers of golden silk to the party tonight or can I borrow them?

It doesn’t seem like they need to try so hard when a simple leather corset and black cape is always appropriate for sneaking up on dinner as it walks foolishly down a spooky, darkened alley.    And why deal with an over-elaborate getup when  they can just use their mind-control-bossiness to lure victims from the super-hip nightclubs they always seem to hang out at, are they just showing off? Like being a vampire isn’t enough of an accomplishment?



These fingers make buttoning a nightmare but it’s worth it to look this good



How do they even get the money to stay so fabulous? They don’t seem to work,  you don’t often have a Bank Loan Manager that is also a vampire.  Did I miss the scene from Twilight where the kids take a break from stalking prey and falling obsessively in love with each other to go shoplifting at  Forever 21?


Why not a nice simple yoga pant?  It’s easier to change into a bat and back again when you’re wearing something stretchy and forgiving, especially with a nice full stomach.


It’s important for a gal’s eyebrows to be razor sharp for eternity

the cold, dead fish of truth

Of all the delicious story lines hanging at the end of last seasons Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt I am most fascinated by Gretchen, and what I hope is her disillusionment-fueled transformation.  It’s my favorite kind.

Gretchen didn’t have to be kidnapped, she thought the preacher had a lot of great ideas and saw her  utter impressionability as a virtue. Like her hairdo. She gave up her life and descended into the bunker with a serene smile and an absolute belief that a man with a beard knew her personal answers.

“I'm proud to be brainwashed. My brain is so clean you can eat off it!”

“I’m proud to be brainwashed. My brain is so clean you can eat off it”

She was good at doing what she was told, good at rocking a virgin dress code,  good at staying in the dark.   Life in the bunker was too dimly lit to really notice details,  read a book, or see the truth, but she knew it finally when it smacked her in the face like a cold, dead fish.

She was the last to understand the deception, but the first to spot the evidence that would take down her beloved preacher.
“You son of a bitch” she cursed, already shattering out of the sinless mold she had carefully pressed herself into.  Did she regret her outburst?  Did she wish desperately to put the genie back in the bottle and go back to the innocence she once enjoyed? Did she want her hero back?  What does this do to a person, this fundamental shift in belief that is suddenly gone in a vacuum of space?

Don't ask me, I'm just a girl

Jesus is my hairdresser

If Kimmy landed on the streets of NY in rainbow, sparkly sneakers letting strangers feel her up on subway platforms what in the ham sandwich is Gretchen going to do?  If Kimmy is a child Gretchen is a fetus, and it’s hard to get work as a fetus.

My hope for her is that she goes full-on slut, making up for the the time she remained chaste for a Gosh that has disappointed her.  Maybe she gets acquainted with Jack Daniels and tries this crack cocaine all the kids are talking about. Maybe she gets mad and turns it into terrifying graffiti art.  Maybe she takes the opportunity to make mistakes that are hers to make, because they will form beliefs that are hers to discover, not ones that have been shoved down her throat like a handful of shark gummies by someone who turns out to be an idiot.

Eventually, everything hits the fan. If you are standing in someone’s shadow when it does  you will be burnt by the sun when they walk away.   And then you will be hilariously lampooned on television.

hottie in a sweater vest

….I’ve already administered the epidural, so… would you like one as well?

He’s that guy to the left of Will Ferrell or John C. Reilly becoming a character so effortlessly you forget he’s even standing there.  His smooth, disarming voice makes him both a believably boring accountant and a nervously unstable sex addict. His doctor lab coat fits him like a glove but then he says things like this…….



He is Chris Parnell, that hilarious guy in every great movie and TV show ever made. Practically.  His career is an elaborately weaved sweater vest of co-starring roles, cameos and insane reoccurring characters, holding up the laugh parachute so everyone else can run underneath.  But when does he graduate to a full-on leading man sweater?

I'm a cartoon guy!

I’m a cartoon guy!


Is it that he lacks the bland, fat charisma of,  say, Kevin James? The idiotic wasted potential of, say, Adam Sandler? The anatomical proximity to boob-joke material of,  say,  Amy Poehler? Isn’t there some Hollywood rule about logging enough hours as the accountant/neighbor/AA sponsor/dentist/base player/hockey coach/school principal/homeless guy/manager of a TGIFridays that you automatically get a coupon for a starring role?  Isn’t that why The Rock still exists?

I'm a backup singer guy!

I’m a backup singer guy!






Holding together the scenes with malleable fingers Parnell both fades into the landscape and steals the spotlight, and almost never gets credit for being a total hottie.  It’s unfortunate, but I guess non-stop Caitlyn Jenner coverage is more important.

he was the only one to not break during SNL's "More Cowbell" skit

a total pro, he never once grabbed christopher walken’s package during SNL’s “more cowbell” skit



secretly a babe

orange is the new blah


save me, heroin!

Nicky is led from the building looking nervously from side to side with palpable dread.  We see from her perspective that she is reluctantly moving toward an idling van sitting ominously with open doors, waiting to swallow her whole.  Her demons have finally broken her, she always feared they would, and now she’ll be swept down the hill to the maximum security wing where the women are scarier and the showers are grosser and no one ever comes back.

We know she’s spunky and hilarious and heartbreakingly love-deprived, but all they’ll write in her file will be the part about the heroin, and the lying about the heroin, and the hiding of the heroin. Her clammy expression let’s us know she believes her mother’s accusation that she has an unquenchable thirst for self destruction, and she hates herself for always managing to screw everything up.  Her charming lies won’t help her now.  We can taste her fear as the van waits for the gate to lift so it can abandon both her and her storyline and get back to the super-interesting sorority girl bitch-banter and hate-sex between Alex and Piper.


let’s make friendship bracelets!

“You shut up.”
“No, YOU shut up.”
“No, YOU shut up!”
Zero to oral in four seconds. Riveting. Oh, they’re doing it in the library this time? Orwellian.

Orange is the New Black, can I call you Orange?
Orange, you are so much better than that.

Your characters are plump and three dimensional, like a Buddha statue or a cheese wheel. Miss Rosa made robbing banks look so fun I wondered why I never tried it.  I want the guy Morello stalks to just stop complaining and admit she was right from the beginning, they were meant to be together, he was just being dramatic with the restraining order and whatnot.  I buy it, all of it. All the complexities, the interesting stories, the many uses for maxi pads,  I shouldn’t have to endure an eternity of Alex and Piper making out in-between mind games and slap fights, acting like it’s prom season.  It’s like getting a shiv in the eyeballs and the lady-parts at the same time.

I’d rather be with Nicky and Miss Claudette down the hill in max.


douchey gervais


libido killer

Ricky Gervais is the biggest douche since K-Fed and I love every doughy inch of him for it. The  goatee’d pale face and muscle-free physique of David Brent is terrible perfection, social discomfort at it’s cringy, butt-clenchingly best. Even now that Ricky Gervais has been Hollywooded down to a lean cutlet you can still see the chubby, smug, insecure Brent just beneath the surface, which is probably why he is positively un-f*ckable.

This seems tragic that his own genius should neuter him so cruelly, and also that it puts him in the position of having to openly acknowledge it.  As the romantic lead in the The Invention of Lying the plot hinged on the idea that he was so physically repugnant Jennifer Garner had to keep averting her eyes in horror. But when, despite all reason, he finally gets the girl – fulfilling the destiny of every romcom ever made – the camera artfully pans away at a moment that should be filled with close-up tongue wrestling and a sex scene shot via vulva cam.   It’s as if he understands, correctly, that it would be traumatizing for the audience to watch David Brent suck the Affleck out of Jennifer Garner, and politely takes it off the table.


you make my ovaries deflate



sexless and fabulous

Ricky,  don’t stop fusing Flashdance with MC Hammer shit.  Don’t resist the urge to confess your relief to an obese woman that she is not your blind date for the evening.  And never stop creating hilarious a-hole characters that no one would screw under any circumstances. Comedy needs you and so do we.


767802-1675b95e-6ad4-11e4-b185-fd998d90ddfaKim, why do I get the feeling if I pressed your ass onto a newspaper comic strip I could pull it off and read a Ziggy cartoon plain as day? Why is it always orange and shiny?  Did you back into an oiled pancake skillet?  I would imagine it’s tough to keep track of a three foot bean bag chair permanently attached to the small of your back, but can’t Kanye keep it away from the stove? He’s up there anyway.

I guess you have a right to be proud of the end result of spin class and airbrushing, but how will you explain your ass-posure to your daughter? That even though you appear to have business savvy and a dad on a Wheaties box you wanted fame without reason, and decided the shortest distance between two points was the crack of your butt? That even though you have enough money to carpet the entire planet you instead hired a team of lighting specialists to determine the best shadows to highlight your taint?

You could be grooming her to lead all of your many charitable organizations, or at least Angelina Jolie’s many charitable organizations.  You could be raising her to use her brain almost as often as her vagina.  You could be teaching her that a pap smear selfie is in bad taste. But you’re not. You’re spreading your butt cheeks over her head like earmuffs, so the first memories she’ll have of you will be looking up to see if your tampon string is showing. And it will be.



liar liar nurse on fire

Nurse Jackie, you little minx, why do I want to believe you?  Is it because I knew you when you were a mom from Queens kissing her perfect husband across the bar he was endlessly wiping with a rag? Sure you were cheating, but it was only with one guy and, I don’t know, I never took him seriously. And Vicodin is delicious, I get it.

You stole a dead nun’s credentials to blame her for a crime you committed.  You used the money for your daughter’s private school tuition at a CVS pharmacy counter.  You broke your own finger and put your foot under a moving car tire because it bought you five more seconds to think of your next excuse.  You have to admire how resourceful you are, especially under the influence of a barbiturate sampler platter,  and still manage to rock those blue scrubs that hug in all the right places.  Some would call that “having it all.”

If a loved one became suspicious you threw a beaker of haughty, righteously indignant  acid in their stupid face and ducked into a stairwell to sniff a bunch of fat lines of crushed painkillers, what’s not to love? You’re a great nurse when you’re high as a kite, what would you be sober, a librarian? I’m not watching a show about a librarian, Jackie.

But now, even the giant tear drops squeezed from your adorable daughters do nothing but give you ideas about speeding up your process by putting drugs directly into your eyes.  I’m still with you, I really am, but using an elderly patient for her prescriptions that you sell to that sleazebag dealer you used to sleep with? Why would you hurt Eddie’s feelings like that?  You know what a sensitive co-dependent enabler he is, come on. And you didn’t even thank them after they medically detoxed you in jail, don’t you realize how much vomiting time you saved? Just because you’re in the midst of a downward spiral is no reason to be rude.


Oh wait, did I put that penile implant in the right guy after I drank morphine in the bathroom?

tina fey is not the boss of me but she could be

Of course you don’t need a list of reasons why Tina Fey rules, but I’m assuming you want one. So here it is:

She doesn’t dress like she’s meeting Michelle Obama for lunch all the time. Her characters hang out at home without shoes and pants and underwear,  like God intended.

Characters in her shows actually laugh in conversation, like friends. Not like the Anniston-Cox-Schwimmer-LeBlanc-Perry-Kudrow  Friends who didn’t seem to have anyone else to hang out with.

Not every male/female relationship is dipped in sexual tension,  just good old fashioned conversation and then everyone goes home.  This leaves the audience to wonder if there will be a wedding  on the season finale and if not, what the hell else is supposed to happen in a season finale? Is someone going to die?

Her rendition of Marcia Clark is so right on it actually makes me feel bad for Marcia Clark, having her inner world and Christopher Darden obsession exposed so hilariously. Fun fact: Christoper Darden actually married a woman named Marcia Carter. It’s hard not to take that personally.

She gave the world Titus Andromedon, for which she should win a Nobel Peace Prize because no one brings people together like a little Titus Andromedon.









She played a female woman, of the feminine persuasion, with a vagina and everything, who wasn’t obsessed with gaining weight. In deference to every TV show in the world where forks with salad hover near and around a mouth it never enters she validated the donut-eating, gut-embracing, cheese curl-worshiping diva in us all.m220776062