That’s what Jay Manuel, right, is in the process of saying to a girl on Top Model who is swingnig around while wrapped up in in a dirty net with dead fish, over a “harbor” that may or may not really be in Thailand. The jury’s still out on whether the models were magically transported (via an appropriately trippy plane with their headshots in the windows) to a foreign country or just a giant bamboo-infused set in the greater Burbank area. Anyway, I hate Jay, but appreciate his existence if only for moments like this, when he insists on fanning himself with a doozy from the box marked “ETHNIC PROPS” while verbally torturing the models.

Hmmm. Is it doozie, doozey, or doozy? It’s probably not even any of those.

It’s the details that make this joke of a show bearable and often delectable. Above, a makeup artist who (we’re to believe) impersonates Tyra in his free time came in to talk to the girls as “Ty-ra Banks (Sutan in drag).” Five seconds later, the actual Tyra (omg!) sauntered in to claim her rightful identity as “the real deal.”

I will now transcribe the conversation that followed TRD’s grand entrance. All of the following actaully happened. I’m sorry too.

The Real Deal: You know what? [dramatic pause; walks over] I am so tired of you impersonating me!

Drag Queen: [to the girls] Am I Tyra? I’m Tyra.

Danielle: [halfheartedly points at Tyra] That’s Tyra.

The Real Deal: Thank you…

Drag Queen: I’m Tyra!

The Real Deal: I am Tyra…

Drag Queen: I’m Tyra.

The Real Deal: I am Ty. Ty Ty Baby.

Drag Queen: I’m Ty.

The Real Deal: You know what? I think the only way we’re gonna settle this IS TO GO TO THAILAND!!!

Okay, here’s the part where readers who don’t care about this show but are still reading this post because I refuse to put it on a separate page…hey guys! should tune in again. Look at how excessively large the text of “thailand” is. No capitalization, no emphatic punctuation. Who was the tool in the graphics meeting saying “Let’s make it take up half the screen”? There’s no need for this. I really think the country’s name is that big simply because Tyra deigned to associate her name with it.

Now I’m going to go off on Tyra. Again. Note my wishful-thinking graphic (left). Nothing will ever come of this. She’ll remain The Real Deal, and I’ll remain the loser with a blog, who two minutes ago finished off a brand new box of Entenmann’s cookies just so they wouldn’t be around to potentially get eaten the next day. Out of sight, out of mind — a philosophy I can’t seem to apply to a bad TV show. Yeah. I think Tyra’s winning.

To spice things up, I’ll go off on her in the style of a junior-high essay contest:

—

Q: What is Tyra Banks, besides pure evil? Use a form of the word “metaphor.” (300-500 words.)

A. Tyra Banks is more than Tyra Banks. Tyra Banks is a thundercloud-like persona which has metaphorically swallowed up Hollywood, the “modeling world,” and recently an abundance of bon-bons. Having digested and converted these various realities into something more up her omnipotent alley, the cloud squirts out small Tyra-shaped pellets every seven days. Just like rain.

Tyra’s shit don’t stink, so we get access to it. The pellets are the weekly episodes, which supposedly have to do with a modeling contest and the girls involved with that. Ha! People can be so naive.

It’s actually all a mind game. The entire enterprise is about Tyra. There is no freaking way that makeup guy really dresses up in drag like Tyra Banks for fun. It just wouldn’t happen in a universe other than the one Tyra Banks concocted herself. No one cares about Tyra Banks except Tyra Banks and little girls from the hood who want to be on TV. But it’s mostly Tyra. She’s larger than life, you see. She even has her own magazine, called “Bankable.” Get it? “Banks.”

—

I sure hope I win! Also Merry Christmas.

I’m seeing Stick It! as soon as possible.

I went to Boston this weekend and apparently forgot I owned a camera about an hour in. Our takeout food must have arrived and completely clouded my brain with its deliciousness and low cost. My friends also had an on-demand karaoke channel. That threw me a little off.

I was most excited to be able to order frozen yogurt with “mix-ins” again. This trend seems to be everywhere in the city, not just the neighborhood I went to school in. I’m not talking about that shit you can find at Coldstone Creamery, an establishment which is steadily winning the war it recently waged against all the cool neighborhoods in Manhattan. No, in Boston, certain delis and pizzerias offer about a pint of frozen yogurt or ice cream infiltrated with slivers of your snacks of choice (my favorite combo as an undergrad was York peppermint patty + Oreo) for $3.50… for no specific reason.

The yogurt and mix-ins list, usually on the back page of a fold-out menu, makes me so happy. It’s something so random and unnecessarily gratuitous, but whose existence I appreciate so much. Like olive oil on the table right when you sit down, or the movie Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. This yogurt/mix-in phenomenon comprises a significant portion of my affection for Boston. I love Boston! So I must like the yogurt a whole lot.

Anyway, I did take two photos and found them both worth sharing.

My friend E. Barrett (no relation) and I hit yet another notch in the “we have to be related” game. It turns out we both keep our digital cameras not in practical, reasonably priced camera cases, but in single pieces of winter handwear. Hers is a colorful mitten that would be well-suited for a giant. Mine is a stretchy purple glove that, as I’m demonstrating in the photo, “expands and contracts with the gadget.” That sounds gross.

Because I’ve received countless taunts from various “friends” about my gloved camera, I had previously assumed that the stashing of expensive electronics in handwear was so delightfully nuts that only I could think of it. I was incredibly psyched to be wrong. Look at us. We’re so proud. We actually look like we’re imploring you to find us quirky and cute. “Hey, guys, check us out! You can’t make shit like this up!”

Another reason we might be related: E.’s mom sends her a lot of ridiculous stuff in the mail. E. and M. were kind enough to pose with two such items: a gigantic calendar and a tiny red computer button that says “PANIC.” These roommates have actually had discussions about how the other Mrs. Barrett only sends her daughter objects that fall into the categories of “oversized” or “miniature.” I find this amazing.

Something else is amazing. Look at the three letters in between my two friends. Indeed.

A commercial for Veet came on during last night’s episode of The O.C. I was barely watching, but then at the end of it I caught this image infiltrating my screen. (right). A woman was actually shown shaving her legs in a zigzag. Zig zag. Zig-zag. Is that one word? Maybe I should Wikipedia it. Yeah right.

Oh, the commercial. When the woman did this, I was under the initial impression that the commercial was for a razor. Most of them are. Why would it be the cream? No. So I perked up, all interested in what kind of new, fun, pillow-edged razor I should buy so I can start shaving my legs in the pattern of long and winding roads. It suddenly seemed like I and everyone else should have wanted to do this all along — shave our legs in whatever design suited our fancy right at that moment. Heart! Turkey sub! Doggie bone! I felt uncreative for having never thought to plow a shape into my leg hair.

As soon as I found out the ad was for a funky depilatory cream and not a razor, I was really let down. There wasn’t a new, cool razor that could make zigzags. It was literally a person slathering cream all over herself and then wiping it off with a somewhat sharp, pink mini-spatula. That’s gross.

Wow. I never realized how anti-depilatory I was. It’s not even that I’m pro-razor. I hate razors. Nobody likes shaving. People dread it. But… why is the idea of depilatory cream so much worse than carefully dragging what is commonly considered a weapon over my surface area?

If you think about it, shaving is scary!

I’m gonna wake up in the morning and be so disappointed in this post.

Last night (Easter), I was at my part-time job (I’m really religious.) Every Sunday, the company orders in 30 or so pies from Bravo Pizza. Some of us are cute and call it “diarrhezza,” because OMG, guess what happens when you eat it?

Anyway, the food on the table is never enough, likely because the powers that be keep hiring more and more people who also need to eat to stay alive and no one ever bothered to alter the weekly order. It kind of sucks, especially when I claw through the masses for my trademark slice of soggy, weathered, rubbery-veggie ‘za and the only things left on the table are rings of grease.

Not so on Easter Sunday, sayeth the Lord and the Bravo delivery guy, who together unloaded close to 20 trays of various shitty Italian food that we then arranged into a massive buffet. There was eggplant, chicken marsala, ziti — all low-quality, mind you, but at least it was different — and a “mixed salad,” which was basically an entire tray of iceberg lettuce.

I’m mildly obsessed with iceberg lettuce. I like the sound it makes in my mouth — it’s as if I’m accomplishing a great deal just by crunching down on it. If I buy it in “head” form, I’ll cut it in half, wash it, sprinkle salt all over the cross-section, and just go to town. It feels like my face just decided to take a dip into the ocean, independently of the rest of my body. Maybe this paragraph should end.

Here’s the point: Around 1 a.m., when it was clear no one else would be coming back for seconds (in my case: fifths) of the iceberg lettuce salad, I decided to take matters into my own apartment by stealing all of the remaining salad mix. I couldn’t find a plastic bag, so I settled for the paper bag the plastic silverware had come in. That is disgusting. I knew this at the time, but try to guess whether it stopped me. Spoiler alert: Don’t look down!

I’d give anything to see security camera footage of me pouring the salad into the paper bag. Actually, first I used the plastic scooper, then I lifted up the tray and attempted the pour (harder than you’d think!), and finally I just started grabbing the excess leaves with my hand. Add to this my glamazonian frame and complete inability to be stealth at anything, and it was a pretty funny scene. “Funny” meaning “I should be fired.”

But whatever. I got to make an extra-huge salad (left) when I got home, with better tomatoes (vine-ripened, from Gristedes), croutons (Pepperidge Farm Onion & Garlic), and the creamy vidalia onion dressing I’m still really into. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as a phase when you’re me. I once tried to terminate what I thought could have been a phase (dipping Fritos in grape jelly), but couldn’t make it work… which itself might have been my only phase ever.

This verdant treat, in addition to the 40,000 chocolates sent by Dee, made Sunday a very Happy Easter indeed. Bonus points for the shredded carrots and withered cabbage, two things I enjoy looking at in salads but never bother to buy. Why do the colors of these items matter more to me than their tastes? I’m like a little kid.

This might be the greatest thing I’ve ever composed. And it doesn’t even involve writing. I am foraying into different mediums. I’m a MEDIUM HOPPER! The project involves the “Dance Friday” segment on the CBS Morning News in NYC. If you’re as ridiculous as me, it should keep you entertained for at least a few hours. Or maybe 3:57. This is an educated guess.

PLEASE be patient while it loads. I promise it’s worth it!

Apologies in advance for horrible digital-camera image quality.

You’re welcome.

The new Forever 21 had been silently annoying me with its brightly lit vibes and outpoor of clones for a few weeks. Along with Whole Foods, the new Trader Joe’s and its accompanying line to get into heaven, Strawberries, and the people who crowd around Nuts 4 Nuts without ever ordering anything (MOVE), Forever 21 seemed to me to be the pinnacle of Union Square obnoxiousness. I wanted nothing to do with it and resented everything about it, especially its name. (I still resent the name. More on that later.)

But then a friend gave me some store credit and so I decided to go. I mean, I wanted to get a not-too-expensive dress for my friend’s wedding and so I decided to go. I mean… a teenager dragged me off the street and into the store so I decided to go…

Fine. I just decided to go to Forever 21. Rebecca had told me the clothes were cheap and “basic enough, if you can get past the bullshit.” I liked the sound of that! So I went. Shoot me.

Rebecca was right. 90% of the clothes make no sense, but since the store is a million square feet, I ended up dropping $40 on shit I arguably didn’t need but am now glad I have. Despite the shrieking/hissing combination platter I uttered when I thought a mannequin lounging lazily on a table (right… I wonder what she’s thinking?) was an actual person, my trip to Forever 21 was a successful mission. Except for one perhaps obvious problem.

FOREVER 21 MAKES YOU FEEL OLD.

I went into this store taking its name pretty literally. “Oh, that’s cute, I’ll feel 21 again if I shop here,” I thought. “Nostalgia! Yes!” No.

The majority of people in Forever 21 (at least when I was there) are under 21. Case in point: these two, chilling out in their Uggs at the register. And these aren’t even very representative of the breed. They were just the two I thought I could get away with shooting. I’m a horrible photographer. I have no guts whasoever. I see cooler/prettier/thinner/ whatever subjects to photograph and I run away from them in fear. I’ve always done this. It’s sick.

All of the under-21s in the store were so tiny and perky and smushable! I seriously thought I could stomp all over them and clobber them to death, and not because of my towering height. I’m used to feeling more elevated than people. This was different. I imagined the sheer force of my 25-and-higher hagitude casting a wicked spell on the kids. They’d lie there, wriggling like tiny cockraoches under the steady stream of my Mature Woman disinfectant spray. The nozzle would be set to the shower-like setting instead of the jet dagger, so I could get to more of them at once.

Still, I didn’t necessarily want to kill the teens. It was more the type of situation where I felt guilty for existing in such a ridiculous space with creatures like them in the first place. This was their natural habitat, not mine. I didn’t belong! Who was I kidding, thinking the store’s name was all-inclusive? The teens were laughing at me on the inside! Is this how parents feel, all the time? Gross.

For some reason, I hadn’t considered the teen overload as a possibility. Except for ubiquitous NYU undergrads, I don’t see too many youngsters around my ‘hood. Now I know why: they’re all in this store. Maybe they live there.

Speaking of which, it would be really fun to hide in this store until after closing, then get stoned and roam around making fun of things (left) like entire racks of jade fur shrugs. The store is enormous!

Now Forever 21 has two reasons to want to ban me: that comment and their apparently not so strict anti-photography rule, which a disinterested salesgirl outlined to me near the register. She was like, “There’s no pictures.” I said, “Okay,” the long version of which was, “First of all, you’re wrong because I just took 32 shots elsewhere. But okay. You didn’t say no photos, so I’m going to dart around you in 30 seconds and photograph the inexplicable atrocity hanging from the ceiling.”

Which was a mobile of babies.

I don’t get it either. They could be going for a number of themes.

–Uncalled-for Kitsch. (You’re going to stare at different-sized fetuses floating in a puke-green ether, and you’re going to enjoy it. Love, Management.) ANNOYING.

–Youth. (Shop here and you’ll feel younger.) WRONG.

–Infancy. (Your presence in our store has reduced you to the level of a newborn. You lose.) DING DING DING.

There’s one more feature of the store that fits both the “Get stoned and shop here” and “You’re old” themes: The Forever 21 Wall of Words. Some of the words are misspelled, and paired next to the “correct” version of itself. Click here for the bigger image.

The Wall of Words further downgrades the clientele. If they’re not infants, then they must be quasi-literate grade-schoolers who more often than not take things “for granite.” The words and phrases appear in the escalator area, so that customers can squeeze in a quick vocab lesson (containing imaginary words) on the way up to formalwear, most of which is polka-dotted. I must have stared at this wall in shock for maybe three entire minutes before thinking to take a pic. Yes! Journalism!

So I’ve gotten Forever 21 out of my system. And onto my website! Awesome. As a parting gift, witness a throwaway from the blooper reel, wherein Annie ducks behind racks of clothing while wearing a jade fur shrug not because she doesn’t want to get caught taking photos, but because she doesn’t want to be seen wearing a jade fur shrug! I think the big “21″ tag on the celebrity/hooker sunglasses are the perfect touch. You wish, Annie Barrett!

And yet…

I’ll probably go back.

On last night’s ABC Nightly News, fat people were shown eating fast food, while a voiceover screamed threateningly that Something else in your diet may be responsible for obesity!

That outburst is wrong for a lot of reasons, including
1) it implies that everyone watching is already obese
2) it references “something else” as the “other” to a subject that was never established
3) it’s true

No matter what your diet is, there will always be “something else” that may be responsible for obesity — yours or anyone else’s. You don’t even have to be eating it at the time. But it definitely couldn’t hurt.

The really crappy part of this promo, for me, was that I was eating my way through a giant box of Kirschbaum’s tea cookies (translation: “cookies with frosting”) when I heard it. I was actually so focused on the cookies that I wasn’t even watching the screen. I started laughing just from hearing the words, and little crumbs (of the cold hard truth) scattered all around me in my bed. It was sexy. This was at 8 in the morning. I’d been up all night, and now a commercial on ABC was telling me that something else in my diet — give or take the box of cookies perched on my right knee — may be responsible for my obesity.

Appreciate it!

I’ve been meaning to get some things off my chest.

–I think I should become a more healthy eater, so I’m turning vegan. No more candy! And thank god no more cheese. Cheese is just nasty, especially when it’s smothered over nachos.

–I wish people would just say what they mean.

–Sometimes, when no one else is around, I find myself thinking that hipsters are cute. They’re so small, and skinny, and colorful. They’re like Colorforms. I loved those things. We intellectual snobsters just have trouble admitting to ourselves that hipsters are the most creative people in this city.

–Why does everyone keep hating on Ryan Seacrest? I think he’s kind of cool. Just a normal guy, trying to get by in a Hollywood that doesn’t give him nearly the attention he deserves. We should stop making fun of him, because who are we? We’re not better than him.

–You people who download music illegally need to stop doing that, because it’s wrong.

–People who watch The Biggest Loser are despicable human beings. It is morally corrupt, and not an amazing amount of fun, to watch obese people swim across Olympic-sized swimming pools while towing their goal weight in gold. This is not even a humorous concept. I am visualizing this activity in my mind, right now, and not even cracking a smile. It’s just wrong. As a sidenote, Caroline Rhea looks super-cute in a plaid, pastel poncho next to multiple bushels of baguettes.

–Uptown Manhattan is awesome. I should hang out there more. So many fun bars, restaurants, and the people! Ah, the people. It’s a rockin’ part of the city.

–McDonald’s has mozzarella sticks now, and I for one think that’s gross. I’ve definitely never ordered them in the two-story branch on W. 44th and 8th Avenue.

–iPods are overrated. I’m not obsessed with mine, and it’s sick if you are with yours. Get a life.

Click here to solve the puzzle.