1) It’s nowhere near chilly yet
B) I have a sweating problem!

So of course I’m going to wear my festive summer sleeveless “blouses” as long as I can, even if it becomes November. 60-70-degree temps are MY TIME TO SHINE in my summer tops, because it’s just chilly enough not to sweat buckets at a time while wearing them. People keep gaping at me on the street, horrified that I’m not following an unspoken rule that as soon as October hits, you’re supposed to dress in as many strategically tiered layers as possible. They’re like whoa, that chick can’t let go of summer. Dudes, it’s 75 degrees out. I have awesome fall clothes too! I just don’t want you to see my pit stains yet. We have the entire winter for that party! AND YOU’RE ALL INVITED.

I call bullshit on premature autumnal layering!

Oooh — In conjunction with this lame-ass post, my arms are flyin’ high in that “user photo” at the top right, as if to say, “Check out the totally dry underarm regions of my shirt!”

Lately I’ve been “taking care of some paperwork,” i.e. sorting through 100s of generally worthless digital photos I’ve taken in 2007. A lot are from the subway. Most are outdated. But the above ad for Borough of Manhattan Community College (BMCC), which has bugged me for at least six months now, is still up there in many subway cars. So I’d like to point out how COMPLETELY FAKE (I’m pretty sure) it is.

Right? No way were those four peeps in the same original shot. MAYBE two of them knew each other. The rest is total Photoshop, and by the way thanks Photoshop for making me wonder if this particular school regularly rewards its graduates/fake friends by flinging them into a blurrily distorted pit of flames. (I know metaphorically that’s what all colleges do, but this ad is quite a literal interp of “Welcome to the real world, bitches!”) Too literal, I say. Throw a tree in there or something.

The girl on the left’s in an entirely different LAYER. Who the F was she laughing at in her original photograph? That dude got gypped.

Until about 2005 I used to write that word as “jipped.” I like to think it’s because I’m so inherently not racist against gypsies, but really it’s because I just didn’t know any better. I tend to float along in my own realm, pausing only to point out all the pretty head scarves and giant gumdrops in the ether (they’re there!), so I’ve ended up missing the boat on so many words/phrases that people with merely average IQs all know. “Youth in Asia,” anyone? Ugh. It’s not even funny. I should compose an official list.

At least I know Photoshop terms like “layer.”

Previously, on Yahoo!…

Chesh sent me this screengrab because, he said, “I couldn’t believe something so perfectly suited for you was on my screen!” Awww. It really is unrealistically perfect. I especially enjoy how the very question posed by the Top Story — “Is this for real?” — is negated by the fourth link below it, presumably a link to the same exact story as the big tout. I know words like “tout.”

But then inexplicably, the story had vanished from Yahoo! It appears someone didn’t do his/her reporting to find out that according to Wikipedia, the Luther Burger, named that because it was something Luther Vandross liked to eat, originated in Decateur, GA and has been around for years.

What I find even more ridiculous than Yahoo! taking the story down is that it was even a story in the first place. Don’t get me wrong — it’s definitely my idea of breaking news — but the fact that it was featured so prominently on the site, if only for a few minutes, is truly puzzling. It’s as if someone who really wanted to get fired from Yahoo! went and messed around in the backend for his/her own enjoyment. Annie Barrett’s separated-at-birth twin, are you having a laugh?

We couldn’t let the issue go…

Remember said puncture? Ahhhhh, the puncture.

WTF, Yahoo!?

DR correspondent Michael Slezak (google alert!) took the liberty of printing out this gem from his AOL inbox:

He left it sitting on my chair — conveniently, right where my ass goes. Very clever. I could have just digital-imaged it straight from a computer, but decided to photograph it directly instead for the sake of authenticity — in the form of the two slight folds below “Flush” and above “up.” Totally didn’t need to point those out for you. It’s just that I have this extraordinary work ethic and sometimes run out of ways to channel it!

I appreciate the artwork and color scheme of this ad. I do wish it didn’t make me feel like such a heifer. Because, you see, the wording “this meal” is overwhelmingly inaccurate. This grub constituted probably seven of my meals last week, or any week for that matter. So I resent the implication, Colonex. My digestive tract is way more busted than you can even fathom. But nice try.

(For their next ad, Colonex may wish to consider this concoction that Dee found in a magazine three years ago.)

Even when presented in such incredible environs.

I really thought I could handle this. I wanted to be like Mary-Louise Parker in Weeds and walk around the office with the straw lazily hanging out the corner of my mouth while exuding a “What the F are you looking at” gaze. I’ll have to do it without the beverage. I shall overcome.

I I I I I I I.

I’ve been gazing at this Special K ad, across the street from my office, all winter. I’ve had it. Get this through your numbskulls, snowmen: You look so much better fat! You’re not SNOWMEN if you’re not fat. I pick Snowman #2 as the one who looks Just Right. The emaciated tools on the far right, thankfully out of focus, shouldn’t even exist in someone’s mind, let alone ON THE SIDE OF A BUILDING.

Phooey!

Happy spring.

“1 of UR lines has exceeded the current txt msg allowance. call 2day @ 8003209807 2 increase UR msg bundle 2 help U save. Rply Q 2 opt out”

Fck U!

We do not TOLERATE people who abbreviate words in texts. Spell it out. If you think that would make things too long and tiresome for you, consider simply making the text message shorter. We could all use the break from your usual bullshit anyway.

Luv U

AB

Dee bought these awesome Cadbury Buttons while we were on vacation at Christmas. Everybody loves buttons, and I am always quick to go with the crowd, so I knew these would be a hit with me. Just look at this kickass wrapper with an enormous cartoon button on it. Gaze adoringly at the bubble-like notches. Awwww!

But look:

NO NOTCHES.

These are not buttons! These are coins. But since they’re not worth anything, they’re actually most like the small, silver, coin-like discs of the same size that my sister and I used to “collect” while roaming around our dad’s unfinished construction projects. I don’t know what these things were or what they fell out of, but every time we went with Bill to “check the jobs,” there would be a fresh smattering of worthless silver coins in every room. Maybe the workers left them there to toy with us. I believe Meg and I would compete to see who could find more “money,” until we got sick of it and started tearing up large swatches of cotton candy-like pink insulation instead. Yes, the chemically poisonous kind. Ah, childhood.

Back to candy. Once you wipe the tears away from the false-advertising setup, the Cadbury Buttons are seriously amazing. The slight curvature on the top lends to some terrific mouth-melting, and January 23rd is by no means too soon to begin raving about the distinct chocolatey/oddly fruity (at the end) taste only America’s favorite vaguely British Eastertime import can provide.

But still. I call bullshit!

I’ve had it with the commercials for the “Timeshares Only” hotline!

First of all, great pic. This woman simply would not work with me. She is falling asleep because the couple in the hot tub, WHOM SHE IS WATCHING ON HER COMPUTER, YEAH RIGHT, haven’t done anything besides sit there. Fakest. Office. Ever.

Who do they think they are, McDonald’s? “Over $2 Billion sold!” You don’t sell money. You sell burgers, if you’re cool, and possibly timeshares.

Who is watching an infomercial for Timeshares Only — “the most trusted name in timeshares!” — and thinking, “You know what? Yes!” and placing a call? No one! I refuse to believe this company really exists beyond my TV.

Not to mention: You have no idea how annoying the word “timeshares” can be after this bitch says it 20 times in one minute. Sometimes there’s an upward lilt on the second syllable. Most often, she whacks you upside the head on the “TIME” part. Tiiiiiiimeshares!

Next time I’m going to have to reach through her fake computer screen, where I’ll be fake-sipping a lethal tequila sunrise atop a fake raft in a fake infinity pool, and pour it down her gullet. Of course, that’d be admitting she and her fake office really exist, which I’m not sure I’m ready to do at this juncture. I should head south to my new timeshare and ruminate on this.

I was so sick of reading about how gross it was that Britney Spears doesn’t wear underwear that I decided to sort of stick up for her.

I’m going to interview the winner of Top Model next week! Yay! What should I ask?!?! I’d almost rather interview the loser so my first question could be “Will you conspire with me to murder Tyra?”

I wanted to cry.

And it wasn’t even mine.

If your breakfast sandwich goes splat and you can’t bear to touch it again, the least you can do is kick it onto the tracks. Then other commuters don’t have to look at it and get even hungrier. Plus, rats just love bacon.egg.and.cheese.

Despite there being 20,000 other places for me to stand and wait for the train, I ended up leaning against the column nearest the breakfast sandwich (BS). Each minute was sadder and sadder. Out of anything to show up in my life at that moment, why did it have to be a destroyed BS? I mourned the wasted food, the pain the BS must have suffered from the shock, and the fact that I wasn’t currently eating it. I could even smell the bacon. That bacon looks crunchy.

I even played a challenging mind game wherein I counted out how long I could look away from the BS until my eyes darted back again. (19 seconds.) That was fun, especially the self-loathing periods right after I caved.

Wait, is that shredded lettuce? What kind of BS is this? I call bullshit.

Note to bakers: Any dessert product more than an inch thick and consisting largely of yellow cake… is not a cookie. It can’t be, because it has already committed itself to being cake. No take-backs! You can’t be a cookie once you are a cake. I’m sorry.

I understand that it’s fun for people to write, sell, order, or just say out loud the name “black and white cookie,” because the dessert is a longstanding New York City/Seinfeld fetish object and, in theory, delicious. Like any other hack, I started ordering them in every deli I entered as soon as I moved here three years ago. They never tasted as good as Jerry made them sound, but I thought if I got different ones from better places, the problem would work itself out. I never found a perfect one — in fact, since I started eating them again a few weeks ago, I’ve been mostly shocked and disappointed.

My main problem is the thickness. The B&W C is different at most delis/bakeries, so you never know how thick yours will come out. You usually have to order it having only seen it lying face-up behind glass. That thing could be anything! ANYTHING! Usually it’s a black and white cake. Once I got a black and white cake and a spider. (This did not deter me from returning, because I really liked, and still like, that place’s bagel sandwiches.)

In college, my friend Kate used to lower her voice whenever she ordered the Boston Beef panini sandwich, one of the finer offerings at our esteemed “Hillside Cafe” dining hall. She confided in me (which turned out to be a not-so-hot idea, as I’m in the process of outing her) that she’d always start the order off in her usual boisterous, upbeat voice and then self-consciously taper off when she got to the part about the meat: “I’LL HAVE A boston beef.” This delighted me to no end, and I’d constantly ask her to repeat it for me. Sometimes she’d even type it out like that over IM, which wasn’t as awesome but still pretty funny. What a good friend.

Likewise, in the delis, I’ve taken to saying “I’LL HAVE A BLACK AND WHITE cookie,” not really wanting to say the word “cookie” but knowing that the person will be confused or think I’m a smartass if I call it anything else. I’d love to, but I’d probably not have the energy to request “that thing that everyone calls a cookie but is totally a cake… I mean, do you know what I mean? Don’t you ever just want to scream at customers that it’s actually cake? DON’T YOU?” I never say this — because I’m guessing they really don’t.

I just think if they’re going to sell black and white cake, they should call it that. And they should also make a real black and white cookie that’s half an inch thick or less and chewy instead of crumbly and flaky. Cookies are chewy. I don’t know if you guys got the memo.

Right? If they sold both, everyone would be satisfied, and people like me who are thrilled by the black and white dessert’s general existence would be in heaven. We’d get to choose! Because maybe you’re in the mood for cake. I don’t know, and I don’t judge. You can have your cake, and I can eat my cookie, too.

Just so you don’t think this post is unfounded and completely pointless (too late for that), here is pictorial evidence of a different and deeper B&W C than the one at the top. This one had to be at least three inches thick. Its physical properties were approaching the spherical. I kept thinking that if I wanted a black and white cake shaped like a mini-basketball, I would have asked for that. I was so annoyed by the cake’s depth that I ended up just eating the part I wanted (the icing) and not much else. This wouldn’t have happened if it had truly been a cookie. Think about it!

This dessert should know that I only criticize it because I love it so much and think it has so much potential, but…

I Call Bullshit on the black and white cookie!

P.S. I’ve already read the scads of Web pages about the history of the B&W C. I’m well aware that the cookie-as-cake phenomenon is common knowledge and that its original form is beloved by many just as it is. I’m simply suggesting that history be rewritten and improved upon according to my whimsy. It’s no big deal.

I don’t usually enjoy or even bother to examine subway ads, but this one was pretty well-done. Allow me to translate as it’s a touch blurry: “Everyone has to grow up. It is a fact of life. Don’t be scared of it. Just make sure your apartment grows up with you.”

Even though the design made me chuckle, I call bullshit on both ideas: That people’s friends look down at them because their apartments are too cluttered, and that people should care even if their friends do think that. It’s New York. No one’s surprised to walk inside a studio and see piles of crap (left), mine especially. Yes, visitor, my extra-large-for-some-reason futon does happen to puncture your thigh as you step through the door. So what? It likes you. There’s a place for you to sit and a toilet. Get over it. I don’t need to hear that it’s small, or that you “really like the exposed brick.” People usually tell me both things — the latter purely out of pity. It’s oddly reassuring.

Note to Manhattan Mini Storage: No one in Manhattan whose apartment looks “scary” has too much stuff. They just don’t have any space to put their normal amounts of stuff because evil powers much like yourselves charge them inordinate amounts of money to occupy indoor space in Manhattan. I ride the subway because sometimes it’s fun to roam around such a huge space with more than one partition. I do it to forget the low-lit troll cave I just minutes ago escaped. A reminder that I live in a freaky dungeon is simply uncalled for.

I really need to move to Brooklyn.

I could never do a pull-up in elementary school. This meant I could never get the Presidential Fitness Award, because in order to get that, you had to do at least one pull-up (if you were a girl. Boys had to do more than one. Boys are way impressive).

Girls who couldn’t do a pull-up had to settle for the flexed-arm hang, which involved a gym teacher hoisting you up over a metal bar as if you were doing your own pull-up, simulating the experience for you to remind you of how unsatisfactory you are on your own. Then you just hung there with your arms “flexed” until they felt like they were about to fall off, at which point you let go and plummeted towards doom. To make things worse, the gym teacher would be counting out loud from all the way down on the ground, so that you knew exactly at which point you had earned the stupid, lesser, no-good National Fitness Award and could finally let go. My arms always started shaking well before this point, but I refused to quit. I’d end up earning the second-rate, Dan Quayle version of the esteemed George H. W. Bush honor. “She’s kind of a fighter, that Annie Barrett,” the gym teacher would say when we all left to change. I’m sure he said that. He had to.

So many things about the flexed-arm hang were uncomforable, the most obvious one being that another person had to lift you above the bar — all of you — because you couldn’t lift all of yourself by yourself. That’s gross. I dreaded the lift, not just because of the shame game, but because why should a gym teacher get to grasp a little kid like that? Looking back, I’m surrpsied no one ever yelled “bad touch!” during the lifts. I should have, just to see the looks on people’s faces. But I wasn’t that edgy yet. It would have been out of character for the Young AB to make any sort of outburst.

The shame I felt during the lift itself was astronomical. (What a lame word, astronomical. Do I mean to suggest the shame was from outer space? No.) The gym teacher had to undeservedly bear the brunt of my excessive existence — the random long limbs I couldn’t muster up the strength to deal with by myself. And my weight wasn’t even excessive. I was skinny! I realize today that this was never fair. I was too tall. There’s no way an 11-year-old girl who was my height could have lifted herself up without some serious weight training or ‘roid use on the side. (And you know how I feel about the ‘roids. I feel weird even accepting an immunity or protein booster from the smoothie place. Seeing as my diet consists mainly of pad thai and cookies, I should probably get over this for the sake of “health”.)

But that’s not what I told myself back then. The entire time I hung up there over the bar, flailing, I imagined a voice informing me what a disgusting slob with no upper body strength I was. I’d also be wondering why I bothered to break a sweat during the mile run.

This should not have happened! I’m telling you, gym class in Illinois public schools was evil. I’m sure everyone in every state had to take gym, but Illinois people have to take it for an HOUR each day,all throughout high schoo l. I could probably write an entire book based on traumatic gym-class episodes from the Land of Lincoln. Okay, great! Nobody steal my idea.

So when I’m trying to fall asleep, I often lament about the blue Presidential Fitness patch, or what I call “the one that got away.” I think of those little feisty girls who could do pull-ups, and I hate them all over again. When we got to high school, I’d kick their asses in all areas, including obvious ones such as sports but also others like intelligence, metabolism, stealth while ditching class to drive to Applebee’s, and general coolness. But in fifth grade, they were still the stars. They could lift their wiry bodies above a metal bar. It was awesome.

To better convey how I feel about forcing little girls to attempt pull-ups, here’s a homemade animated graphic (Huh? Annie can do that? YES.) of Madonna flipping the bird to the camera during a special-edition cut of her video for “Sorry.” Apparently the kiddies at home would have been too tormented by Madonna’s obscene, shriveled-up middle finger, so they cut the gesture out for the official release. A good move, if only because she knew the original cut would leak and keep people talking about her. Madonna is really funny. I often realize I’m simply glad she exists.

I’ll just get this out of the way.

I DON’T GET THIS AD!!!

And now for the season premiere of “Dream On!” It’s Annie Barrett’s new series that covers the insipid little world of obnoxious Internet ads, starring diminishingreturns dot net and featuring Annie’s stuffed Heffalump. (He’ll only make occasional guest appearances.) First up: an ad that truly boggles the mind. Really gets those noggin juices going.

Who clicks on these? People who are reminded by the phrase “$100 FREE!” that for $100 free they could buy some perfectly fine illegal marijuana rather easily? And pretty much avoid your crappy ad box and everything it’s associated with?! DREAM ON, anonymous company. And my answer to your question is “No.” Pot smoking is for total burnouts and Winter Olympians.

The greatest thing I did today was discover a new salad dressing (not for salad, but so I have something in which to dip my Corner Bakery croutons) called Braswell’s Creamy Vidalia Onion Dressing. It… is… incredible.

The best part about that paragraph is that what I just said is exactly why people started to hate typical bloggers. (Why did I just say “started to”? They still hate us.) These people’s defense to “Why do you hate bloggers?” would be something non-witty, like “Oh yeah, like I’d really want to hear about someone’s mundane daily details. I don’t care if you ate canned soup straight from the big silver pot.” (I also did that today! I am such a cute and quirky blogger, you guys. Check me out!)

But I have neither excuse nor apology for throwing in some random tidbit about salad dressing, because I don’t need one. When I really think about it — like really pound the idea of the dressing and maybe even some of the residue left over from the dressing itself that just encrusted itself to my mouth — it’s really cool that this great find makes me supremely happy. [In the voice of Valerie Cherish:] “Well? I’m going with it!”

I adore the word “noggin.”

My neighbors are making amateur porn again. More on that later.

So. Later!

It kind of annoys me when people I know say, “Oh, maybe I’ll go out for one drink.” The main reason I don’t like this is because they’re acting like they’re doing me (or whomever) a favor by going that extra mile to have that drink with us. Hey, great. Glad to have you. Idiot.

The other reason is the obvious one: People who say they’ll have one drink are lying. Seriously, why even bother? It’s so unnecessary.

I’m well aware that it’s not a huge deal that the people are lying (they know they are); therefore I don’t see it as a very big deal that it bothers me so much and that I’m bothering to complain about it. As a general note, I wouldn’t have to rag on people at all if they weren’t such morons all the time.

It would just be so much easier to not say anything. Either say “Sure, I’ll go to the bar with you.” or just shut the fuck up and either come or not. Thanks.

Whew! That was scary and mean. You know what that means: It’s definitely time to check out what’s on Channel 803!

Yay! Who doesn’t love Homo Zapping? Show of hands.

These “orange slices” were part of my massive sugar spread during Kandy for Kerry on Halloween.

Look! They were categorized as “produce” by Gristedes. This was one of the year’s Top Halloween Moments. Other THMs included seeing a couple dressed as iPods at the parade, convincing myself that an extra-large Jello Shot Surprise constituted solid food, and the subsequent extra-large pizza enjoyed at 3 a.m… way, way too late.

Yes, I do have more pics of Halloween but I’m waiting for other people’s shots (ahem! J&N) before I post mine. Sorry. If anyone cares, I was Tangled Up In Blue. It was easy, and actually I too look easy in that photo. Gross. But my costume was nowhere near as easy as How Could You Even Ask That? - James’ sudden brainchild upon realizing he would sweat to death in his Hulk suit. (It’s what he would say if you asked him what he was. Genius.)

More on that later. It’s 5. I feel like I’m 5, rebelling against Dee and Bill and staying up as late as I can. 18 years later, I’m still really good at it! I rule!