New favorite fruit alert: BLACKBERRIES.

Look into it!

The Chmerkovisionary awards my horrible freestyle rap about sequins and fringe A PERFECT 10. Of course he does!

[DWTS Talk, week 3]

Not an Onion headline today, but should be.
[‘DWTS Talk’ on EW.com]

It was a gift. It’s supposed to be a cursor, of the computer/mouse variety. Funny! But originally I thought it was, like, a comment on my self-centeredness. Like this person assumed I’d want to walk around with an arrow directing people to focus more of their attention than usual to my Self. (Which is kind of the point of walking around ANYWAY.) The fact that I “went there” right away only proves what an asshole I am. Hooray! A sampling from my coworkers’ reactions:

“I’m not feelin’ it.”

“Hahahaha! I think it totally suits you.”

“That looks like some crap trinket a publicist sent us.”

So?

If I believed in New Year’s Resolutions, mine would be to somehow look that awesome (see above) all year. That’s a relic from August ‘07. My friends — The Team — and I were in Michigan for New Buffalo’s illustrious Ship ‘n’ Shore Festival (holla!). A somewhat drunken but TOTALLY CHILL dance party to a playlist I’d created called “It Couldn’t Be Lamer: Dance Hits from the Mid-to-Late ’90s” ensued. We’d already eaten our weight in cheeseburgers, but dancing is tough, and being the motherly provider I am, I decided to root around in the laundry room fridge for something — anything — to replenish our calorie count. By some miraculous intervention a.k.a. “Dee Barrett being awesome,” there happened to be a spare cherry pie just sitting in there on a dish towel. Heavens!

Anyway, I could never do it on this blog because my name’s all the F over it and I would never want people to think I’m even slightly self-absorbed (ha!), but I kind of want someone to do a “Looking Great in ‘08″ series. It’d just be a pic of that person every day and then she’d scathingly critique her own appearance because half the time she’d be unshowered in a college hoodie. It’s only January 2nd and therefore still doable. She’d just have to fake a photo and say it happened yesterday. Maybe I should start an anonymous blog and just go for it. Hmm. Look for this anonymous blog around May when PopWatch mysteriously links to it. You think I’m kidding.

Could I look anymore obnoxious? (Probably!)

Watch the video.

Mandi Bierly and I covered a preview performance of The Little Mermaid on Broadway. It was my first Broadway show. How sad is that! Here’s our PopWatch post.

To mentally prepare for this spectacle, I went around the office all day singing “Under the Sea”. It’s pretty alarming that I could never imitate any sort of accent (like during my six years of French classes — I gave up trying after 7th grade) and yet I can perfectly mimic a vaguely Jamaican-sounding animated crab from 1989. Supersmart!

I know everyone thinks these shoes are heinous, and I guess they kind of are… to look at. Still. I think wearing them would be totally comfy. If I lived in a region where no one was fashionable and all I had to do all day was walk around the town/beach/forest/desert/my car, etc. I would be wearing Crocs 24/7. I’d have all the colors of Crocs, and I’d probably post pictures of me in Crocs on my blog. That car would have to be really big, too, so I’d also post pics of that.

People would be like “Hey, did you read Croc Girl’s blog today?” and their friends would say “Of course. What a fool! Killer blog though.”

I’m not going to do it or anything. This is just to state that I really want to. Whatever. Bite me!

It did not stop me.

At least I’m updating!

I have to go drown myself.

Another week, another complete mindf—. I’m sure no one who reads this blog watches this show, but I write about it for work, so go ahead and humor me a moment because this week, the backgrounds were unusually top-notch… which on this show translates to “more incredibly bad than usual.” Check it:

I really appreciated this one. Billy Ray Cyrus’ inflated noggin got to bobble alongside three beautiful, seafoam, tiered, lit candlesticks. He is the picture of fake serenity. I want to step right into the placidi-scape behind him and hang out there for a few minutes to calm down and maybe eat a Frango… before I creep up behind him, re-enter reality with the torches, and ever so delicately light his hair on fire.

Karina Smirnoff is in some sort of holding cell, which is both a metaphor for her life and conveniently splashed with neon hues reminiscent of the Saved by the Bell opening titles. Ah, the glory days of Mario Lopez. Which should never enter the public realm as a viable sentence. TOO LATE.

More candles for Joey Fatone. I believe they want us to think he is gay, which they should because at least then I’d find him 3% endearing compared to his current score of 0.

Kym Johnson: rapping at us from the future while wearing a jacket from the present made to look like it’s from the past. I’m hearing a horrible rendition of “Light Years” in my head, which does make sense as Kym is Australian. GET OFF OF KYLIE MINOGUE’S SPACESHIP.

There is also the slight chance Kym was doing her interview from the United terminal at Chicago’s O’Hare airport.

Bo-ring. But it’s Maks, and he’s wearing a sweater that is somehow simultaneously earth-toned and Easter Bunny-esque. I see no problem here. It should be noted that I am intentionally ignoring the atrocious bauble in his left ear. That is my prerogative.

For the record, Maks has also never seen a problem when it comes to himself. Please click here.

Oh, cute, Laila Ali did the interview from her grandma’s house.

Dare I say she looks a tiny bit cooler doing the interview from my eerie-ass apartment?

Oh, cute, Ian Ziering did his interview from Laila Ali’s grandma’s house.

Is that piano real? I know the dance studio is. And the dance studio is reflected in the piano. But the flowers just would not be there under any circumstances. Whose job was it to set that up? You’re fired.

Wait, did Ian maybe give Cheryl those for her birthday? Don’t care to check.

Julianne only gets two. It was not her birthday.

FAKE.

Don’t stay tuned!

Help!

DR is obviously under construction. I’m in the process of switching over to Wordpress so I don’t have to keep doing every single thing on the site manually, like a total idiot.

It will look somewhat normal soon.

Take a look at this. If you’re not into “reading” (which would be ironic), I’ll summarize: according to CNN, pregnant women across the nation decided to delay the births of their assumedly non-evil spawn because the date was 6/6/06. This is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard in my life.

Here’s a sample for those too lazy to click:

A Chicago, Illinois, obstetrician, Dr. Scott Pierce, performed a C-section on Monday on a woman who didn’t want her son to be teased about his birthday and called names like Damien. Damien is the lead character in the movie “The Omen,” about a sinister boy who turns out to be the Antichrist.

That entire paragraph was inane, but let’s focus on this: kids never remember or even know their friends’ birthdays. It’s like a rule. I still don’t know a bunch of mine — which probably just means I’m a bad friend, but hear me out. Who cares when someone’s birthday is?

Not to mention, school’s out by June anyway, so the bullies who could potentially tease your afflicted progeny about his birthday probably enjoy his general company little enough to steer clear of him during the entire summer vacation. Think about it.

And besides, by the time your Devil baby’s birthday is “recognized” by his friends, he’ll probably be an able-minded teenager (assuming those exist — I certainly never qualified) and not care anymore. For shits and giggles, let’s call him “Damien.”

Damien is a sinister boy living in the year 2022. He’s sinister because pop culture continued its trend of flushing itself down the toilet ever since his birth and he can’t stand it anymore. His classmates’ boobs are already fake, he still has to pretend he’s into rap, and Jessica Simpson CONTINUES to infest the national radar with her complete and utter foolitude, only instead of slightly impersonating a duck, like she enjoyed toying with in 2006 with her big fat lips and wig-like ‘do, she is now an actual human-size duck — and the most profitable attraction the San Diego Zoo has seen in decades. People love it with that quacker!

Now I’m terrified, and it has nothing to do with the numbers.

“When I tell people my birthday, the ones who are really brave give me the look and say, `That’s scary!’ ” said [newly over-the-hill Jill] Haub, a practicing Christian. “And I say, ‘Actually, I have an extra 6 — born on 6-6-66 — so that’s four sixes. I’m good, not evil.’”

Wrong, Jill. You are evil for making such a moronic statement. I’ll see you in hell, where you are unquestionably headed due to your unfortunate birthday.

Just kidding, of course. I think having a 6-6-6 birthday would be cool! Our massive wheat-colored sectioinal sofa arrived this morning, and for the last two weeks we’ve been nothing but psyched about its delivery date. “Yes! Evil couch!” or something more creative was likely uttered. I don’t remember because I was eating. Yes. For the entire two weeks.

Oh look: Ladytron has a message for babies born yesterday:

This is happening
For your pleasure
At your leisure
Use your evil
When you want.

[Click for rad video.]

Just realized elementary school never gets out by 6/6. Oops. Or does it?

A little old lady tried to buy my necklace while she helped me out at the bridal registry counter (holla, Heffa!) at Williams-Sonoma today. I don’t get that. If I bought it for myself, why would I sell it to you? Is this, like, a common practice?

As soon as I told her I’d bought it in Brooklyn, she looked crestfallen. No, no, it’s a cool store! There are two incredibly convenient locations! I tried to explain. But she wasn’t havin’ it.

“Oh, I’ll never go to Brooklyn,” she said.

And that was that. If our conversation was taking place within Nintendo, the screen would have flashed GAME OVER at this point. This was a perfectly normal, able-bodied citizen of Manhattan, flat-out refusing to travel less than five miles to Brooklyn.

She then started trying to find sneaky ways for me to get the necklace to her via a route that did not involve her setting foot in Brooklyn. Maybe she could write down her address, and I could send it to her, and she could send me money (because she didn’t have any cash…. yeah right). Maybe I could buy her one, then bring it back to the store and she’d pay me extra. Like a tip. Like I’m the food delivery guy. And finally she asked the biggie:

“Well, why can’t I have that one, that you’re wearing?”

There were many reasons, which I didn’t really feel like going through. Not that she wouldn’t have been willing to listen. She was clearly bored by her job and had a crush on me. (Some of her pickup lines included “I just love your style!” and “You’re my kind of girl.”)

So I could have whipped out a notepad and outlined specific bullet points of why I couldn’t/didn’t want to take off my necklace and give it to her. Instead, I just stared at her and made a noise that probably resembled “Hehhhhehh.” Imagine the noise Pat, the SNL character, made when he/she was nervous. Mine was in a lower tone. I probably sounded like a trucker.

Now I sort of want to go buy it for her and drop it off next week. It’d be so unlike me. I’d feel like a great humanitarian and she’d be thrilled and tell everyone she knows about the total angel who bought her a necklace.

Seriously, who would refuse to go to Brooklyn? I’m already obsessed with it. Reason 1: The movie theaters are always empty! Check it out (left). Just one of the highlights of my new and improved Brooklyn Life: Leno and I were treated to a private screening of the new L-Lo vehicle Just My Luck.

This movie was horrible on all levels, the most significant of which was the unfortunate presence of Samaire Armstrong (Anna from The O.C.) as one of L-Lo’s nondescript best friends. I gather that she was supposed to be “the quirky one,” which mostly meant a guitar, a lot of fake fur, and hot pink highlights. I don’t understand how this girl keeps getting to act while refusing to enunciate a single word in her life. Wouldn’t someone say something? We’re dying here.

Yes! I enjoy often Phish. Shoot me. I also enjoy tropical fish, courtesy of Dee Barrett’s shiny spandex aerobics pants from the ’80s. Dee, seriously… WTF? (Editor’s note: The same could be asked of Annie, who has carried these pants around with her “for special occasions” since she found them in her bathroom closet at age 17.) Editor, shut up. In any case, that pic’ll have to replace the other futon pic during National Tropical Fish Spandex Month. Or, “May.”

I’m glad The Apprentice has resorted to sexual-favors-in-the-cabs gimmicks in order to draw in viewers (left). Just kidding — silly British Sean and mini Daisy Duck Allie are only cracking up at something their project manager said, because project managers are always a barrel of laughs. I think this one was asking them what color paint they should use on the pipes on a ceiling. Ha ha ha! I’d definitely need to bury my face into the guy next to me’s lap if I heard something so outrageous.

I propose a new, and this time meaningful, task for The Apprentice: Which team can bake the bigger brownie?

Last night I watched the most amazing show in the world: The Secret Life of… Brownies on the Food Network (right). I can’t even focus on that photo for longer than a second without losing my breath. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I could live without the possibly styrofoam Michigan State-related atrocity in the middle, but oh my god, look at the lush landscape of plain brown to its right. I just want to shrink down, do a cool track-start dive, and go swimming in there for a while. I don’t think anything could make me more happy.

So it’s settled. Before I die, this is what I want to do. If you love me, make it happen.

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.

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.

It’s occurred to me that LOL (laughing out loud — get it?) is usually a misnomer. People rarely make any actual noise before they type “LOL.” So they’re lying. And since most users don’t use caps anyway, they end up just typing an even more lazy-looking “lol” and waiting for the other person to respond, as if their last IM was a worthy enough contribution to the flow. Hey, buddy: It wasn’t.

So I’ve adopted a new acronym, called AL. It stands for “audibly laughing.” Use this when you really want someone to believe that noise is coming out. Be selective about using it, but be honest. If your body is spontaenously emitting random and awkward sounds resembling some version of glee, the person on the other end deserves to know.

Quick review:

LOL = “That was funny, but I wouldn’t go so far as to suggest I’m completely losing it over here. Great try though. I am loving your effort.”

AL = “I am audibly laughing. You’re hilarious, a genius, and really attractive.”

Happy Ash Wednesday.

(AL!)

I can’t ever make too much fun of American Apparel’s blatantly nasty and gape-provoking ad campaigns because I sort of like their clothes. I mean, not this particular outfit to my right (I wouldn’t put a green Loop Terry Bra with orange Hooters Shorts, despite putting ugly camo with neon pink for my “About Annie” photo) but I do really like their stretchy headbands and t-shirts. That’s right — you wouldn’t know it from any of their ads, but in addition to articles of clothing that boast direct interaction with crotches and breasts, American Apparel also sells shirts. Take it from me — I have one!

Like, I get it. American Apparel really wants to hammer it home how great of a relationshp they have with the Mexican women they employ in a “non-sweatshop” setting in “vertically integrated” Los Angeles. Apparently the capitalist vs. poor laborer relationship within the company is thriving to the point where the employees randomly feel like abandoning duty on the Ringer Tube Top assembly line and jumping in front of the camera in their undies for some impromptu modeling.

That’s awesome for them, really. But seriously? This ad? Is not hot. Click to enlarge it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you that the enlargement is HUGE and calls direct attention to AA’s really clever placement of the letter “C.” Awww, that’s adorable. Because the poor little 13-year-old lying spread-eagle on a dirty futon in AA’s brothel/warehouse is really just a big C-word beeyotch. That’s really funny, not to mention sensitve and appropriate!!! Great job, American Apparel. DR gives you a big WAY TO GO in todos los colores.

Let’s not forgot DR’s other hard-hitting assessment of Miguel’s ad last summer. Or maybe we should.

My mom called me frantically Monday night to let me know that the cast of Dancing with the Stars was on Larry King Live. She thought it’d be good for me to keep up on any and all TV-related evidence of these cretins further invading American homes so I remain well-informed to write my very important column on Thursdays. I reluctantly pressed “record” on my DVR while promising to watch it later.

I made it through about five minutes of this complete dreck a few hours ago and my brain has yet to fully regenerate (Hence: why I’m writing about this! See? It’s all connected.) I don’t know if it was Lisa Rinna in general, or George Hamilton’s eerie ability to resemble a dark-skinned black man, or the fact that I truly see no other explanation for Stacy Kiebler’s blank, programmed reactions to everything than that she is an honest-to-god experimental robot conceived by the same people behind the movie “Simone”… but the combination of these characters with Larry King, who clearly hates all of them even more than he hates his usual guests, was just too much. So that’s that. Thanks, Dee!

Just received word from my friend on IM that “ha….this japanese figure skater totally dropped the ball” so I am really excited to watch that in the morning. Yessssss. I love it when they fall. I’m a horrible person. But you already knew that.