Well, this is a silly way for Flipboard to republish someone’s Facebook post.
Amish bodice rippers! They should sell these at Sears.
I’ve read Katy’s Debate, and it’s even hotter than you imagine. See, the whole thing starts in the barn. I know, right? And Katy’s sitting to one side of the barn with all the other women from the farm or compound or whatever. And I do mean all of them. And they’re all sitting there—together—demurely watching the men debate whether to buy a new horse or several new pigs. This goes on for like a hundred fifty sweaty, sexy, beardy pages!
Then Katie’s bonnet totally falls off and she’s shunned for being 2 hot 2 handle.
American Apparel: We clothe crazy people
Elaine Stritch would so wear this. And she may be one of the few people extant who could out-Fosse that mannequin.
Juno is in Inception.
Which is fine, and all. It’s not a huge role. She weirds up the vibe of the movie a little, but it’s not like she ruins the thing. (If the thing could even be “ruined,” since I thought it was pretty “meh” anyway.) And she’s pretty when she wants to be and it’s nice for her that she’s working while she can and whatever.
But here’s the thing. I hate Juno. I hate that ersatz stripper who wrote it. I hate forced quirkiness. I hate anything twee. I’d like to crawl up inside that Michael Cera dweeb and look out his eyes. I hate hamburger phones. For a while I even hated hamburgers. But the phone probably wasn’t their fault. Anything and everything and anyone and everyone connected to that grating awful hipster train wreck makes me want to set some plaid flannel on fire and puke on the ashes. This is not hyperbole. I harbor a deep and visceral and violent hatred of Juno and everything it touched.
So as much as I want to like Juno—because I often do want to!—I refuse to support her until she issues a public apology for her role in crushing my fucking life.
I also refuse to call her by her name.
If you thought depression was caused by low serotonin levels, think again. It looks as if the brain chemistry of a depressed person is much more complex, with mounting evidence suggesting that too much serotonin in some brain regions is to blame.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that they based Kurt’s character on me without attribution, they’ve started stealing my pitches. Ryan Murphy, you just made the list.
YES.
Yes.
Taste the flavor and/or representative meteorological phenomenon best suited to your consumer profile.
Myself: Did you know that Olive Garden's parent company, Darden Restaurants, was owned by General Mills until 1995? And that the brand really, verifiably operates some kind of cooking school in Tuscany? That said, the Olive Garden "concept" was "pioneered" after five years and $28 million of market research.
Herself: Whaaaaaaat. Wait. Does this mean that those old, stooped, hankerchiefed actresses really ARE their mamas just-a in from eetaly for the family reunion?! Next you're going to tell me that those are real grandchildren being passed around at the outdoor, multi-generational dinner party!
Myself: Five years and $28 million says a white middle-class 35--45 parent can be so persuaded. Seriously, roll those numbers around in your brain: Just over $5 million per annum for five anna to come up with "shitty pasta and ethnic stereotyping."
Herself: Hey man. There are unlimited bread sticks too. But seriously, we should go into marketing. It sounds like all you have to do is get drunk and lie.
