What happens in Vegas... usually ends up humiliating you if it's broadcast on national television.

So, on this week’s fabulously trashy episode of Rock of Love, the final four went to Vegas where Heather brilliantly manipulated them into turning on Daisy. There was screaming and crying and throwing of drinks. Heather rules! Brett even had to call in Big John to calm things down. Speaking of which, I don’t know why these girls don’t go after Big John. He seems like a much better catch.

Also, this just in: Daisy appears to be working her way through former members of Poison. She has admitted to "befriending" C.C. DeVille in the past. Befriending? I can spot a euphemism at 20 paces! If I knew the names of any other members of Poison, you can be sure I'd be implying all sorts of profligate and shocking behavior with them.

In the end, Brett booted the sweet but terribly boring Jessica, and I can’t help but wonder if the show’s producers told him to do that, just like I imagine they forced him to keep Lacey for so long in season one. Sure, Daisy is a vile, manipulative liar, but she has to make it to the finale because she makes for good trashy TV. Jessica is the TV equivalent of Sudafed, which puts me to sleep even if the box says “non-drowsy” because it’s never, ever really non-drowsy.

And speaking of Daisy, I remarked to Amanda how much I love it that when Daisy cries (which is All. The. Time.), she can't touch her face because there's so much plastic, collagen, and spackle on it, it's in danger of melting into a pile of sparkly goo. So she just puts her hands up around her hairline as if she desperately wants to wipe her eyes but she can’t because she’s got to constantly remind herself that she can’t touch her face, so she’s forced to let her hands dangle up in the air like a monkey. She's such a terrifying disaster. I love it!

In sadder news, the marvelous Heather took her leave in this episode, ending my dreams of her staying on till the end. Bon voyage, fabulous tranny queen. I hope to see you in season three.

Next week: the obligatory parents episode, where we get to see who or what spawned Daisy. I can’t hope for something as spectacular as last year, when Heather went into great detail listing the ways in which Lacey resembled a prostitute right in front of Lacey’s horrible, horrible father! But I am hoping for Destiney to just haul off and smack a few liters of collagen out of Daisy’s face. She’s the most expendable of the final three, so she might as well go out in style.

Oh, that is not right.

Is anyone else deeply disturbed by that Career Builders commercial where the copy shop guy’s doppelganger walks in, reaches out, and strokes his double’s face before slinging him over a shoulder and carrying him away, ostensibly to a better career?

It is disturbing. Deeply disturbing.

Is that one of the horsemen?

So, the Session ordained a new deacon today in church. Our new deacon is a very nice, Godly man. But here's the thing: he's younger than me. This has never happened before. The deacons, the elders, they were always people my dad's age or older. I only got used to the idea of Brian being a deacon. It just makes me realize that one day the Pastor will be younger than me. And the President. And the lead anchor on 60 Minutes. What!

I suppose I should have seen this coming when Josh got married and had a child, but still, it's unsettling. Not because I'm all worried about being old, but because it won't be long till people my age and younger are, like, running things. And we're not ready. I'm not ready, so how can people younger than me be ready? This world is never going to survive my generation. Enjoy it now, folks, because it's all about to come tumbling down.

"Edible"? Are you sure about that?

Have you ever been eating honey and thought to yourself, “You know, what’s really missing from this is a big old crunchy hornet”? If so, have I got the website for you!

Edible.com

I discovered this website a couple days ago, and ever since I keep going back to it to gape in horror at the offerings. Aside from giant hornet honey, you can also feast on Mopani worms (salted and ready to eat!), giant toasted leafcutter ants (a perfect party snack alternative to nuts or olives!), and chocolate covered scorpions (detoxified, of course). The website assures you that the scorpion is similar in texture to a Kit Kat, to which I say, “Why not just get a Kit Kat?”

I love how the reindeer pate is promoted as a “farm raised relative of Rudolph,” and that purchasing and consuming curried crocodile meat actually helps save the endangered Wild Siamese crocodiles.

Hungry for more? Check out the description of Weasel Coffee.

Ack!

Step into my mint cellar.

Are you like me? Do you enjoy the breath-freshening powers of Altoids, but are too wimpy to actually ingest them? Do you think the tin and the old-timey logo and the paper wrapping inside the tin and the use of the phrase “curiously strong” are all just delightful but the thought of actually putting one in your mouth makes you a little nervous because you anticipate having to spit it out again almost immediately? Do you enjoy the fact that they’re made in Great Britain and have been for about as long as our nation has been in existence, but sucking on one would make you want to throw yourself into Boston Harbor with some teabags in your pockets?

I love Altoids. I love the tin and the fact that when you open the tin there’s a little historical tale printed inside and the fact that the tale uses the word “confectioner.” The only thing I don’t like about Altoids is their taste. I understand this is a significant hurdle to overcome when dealing with an edible product. But now I’ve got a solution: age them. Age them like fine wine. Take your adorable Altoid tins, put them on a shelf, and leave them there for a few years. When you revisit them, their flavor will have dissipated down to a tolerable level and you can be free to enjoy them.

I discovered this when I opened my desk drawer and found a tin of cinnamon Altoids that had been forgotten in there for a few years. And by “forgotten” I mean “tossed in the drawer because I couldn’t stand the torture unleashed upon my tongue when one of those foul discs was placed into my mouth.” For some reason, I decided to try one of the rediscovered mints. Perhaps it was the beautiful tin that drew me in, or the siren song of the pretty pink pieces, untouched by years of neglect and protected inside their tin casing. Whatever the reason, I tried one, and found to my utter delight that after all this time they had only now become edible! Eureka!

I realize there’s a sizeable downside to this plan: you have to purchase mints now in anticipation of enjoying them in 2 – 3 years. But think how cute the tins will look lined up on a kitchen shelf. And why are you in such a terrible rush anyway?

Swing states!

This morning I heard a news report about the presidential candidates campaigning in this area. And can I just say, I love living in a swing state. Candidates court you. On election night, they talk about your state a lot, because they’re eager to find out which way your coveted electoral votes will go. They refer to your state as one of the Big Three, and candidates spend heaps of time and money trying to win your affections. It all gives me that overstuffed sense of importance that I enjoy so much.

Plus, it’s always easy to find someone who will debate you and someone who will agree with you, both of which are necessary for a happy, balanced life.

Sure, California has lots of electoral votes, but since they always go Democrat, who even cares about them? They’re boring. Swing states are where it’s at.

The Fabulous Return of the Fantastic Tranny Sparkler

Amanda came home for Easter to surprise her family, so of course we made plans to get together and watch the latest trashy episode of Rock of Love. Our plan to feast on Scott’s By Dam tacos was thwarted by Scott’s being closed for Easter, but we enjoyed hot sausage sandwiches and Polish pizza from Pizza Deli instead.

In this gem of an episode, Bret invited the remaining ladies’ ex-boyfriends/ex-husbands on the show to dig up the real dirt on the girls. I heard about this premise a couple of weeks ago and was praying that Kristy Joe lasted until this week. I’m dying to meet the man who wasn’t certain if they were going through with the divorce, despite the fact that she took out a restraining order against him and the fact that she, you know, went on a reality TV show, the object of which is to fall in love with an aging former rock star. Alas, it was not to be and KJ went home last week, but there was still plenty of fun to be had, most of which came from the long-awaited return of the hideously fabulous Heather!

Oh guys, I can’t believe how much I missed Heather. I couldn’t stand her or her tranny** hair during season 1, but now she’s like a skanky breath of fresh air. With huge tranny hair. It just shows how much this show has gone downhill since the glory days of season 1. These season 2 girls can’t hack it. They can’t hold a candle to Heather. She walks on screen and suddenly all the season 2 girls seem dull and gray. They are ashes and Heather is a big, bright, booze-guzzling sparkler! I adore her!

**This is not tranny in the Christian Siriano sense; i.e. “hot tranny mess.” This is tranny in the sense of actual tranny. To paraphrase the philosopher Steven Tyler, Lady sometimes looks like a dude.

Heather wasted no time digging up all the dirt she could get on these girls. And like utter fools, they told her everything. Everything! Did these half-wits not watch season 1? Amanda and I nearly choked on our Polish pizza when Daisy revealed she still lives with her boyfriend. In a one-bedroom apartment! Then, hilariously, she tried to cry, but the Botox wouldn’t let her move her face, and the collagen made her trembling lips look like two of those water noodles that we float on in Aunt Linda’s pool. It was fantastic.

Also, Bret took the exes to Dave and Buster’s. Skee-ball! Tickets! That, coupled with his Steelers love, makes me think he and I could maybe be friends. Then I remember how much eyeliner he wears, and that thought gets blown out of the Monongahela.

In the end, dumb bimbo Megan got the boot, and it was pretty hilarious. She just stood there like a petulant child, shaking her head, while everyone wondered how many times and ways Bret was going to have to explain to her to get out of the house. I seriously thought he was going to have to have Heather drag Megan out by her hair. Now that would have been classic.

Then Bret announced the best news of all: the group would be leaving, post-haste, for Vegas and THEY’RE TAKING HEATHER WITH THEM! Oh, joy! Rapture! Please let her stay forever!

Next week: Heather, like a fabulous, manipulative cruise director, manages to have all the girls turn on Daisy. There will be screaming. There will be crying. There will be drinks thrown. There may even be some face slapping. I. Cannot. Wait.

I love this horrible trashy show oh help me I love it so much someone bring me some vodka!

Beware the Ides of March, indeed.

March 15th has always made me think about the assassination of Gaius Julius Caesar, who was done in on the Roman Senate floor on that date in 44 B.C. No more. Now, that date will forever be emblazoned in my brain as the day I got food poisoning. And even though old Gaius was brutally stabbed by a group of his closest colleagues with the final death blow being delivered by a man he looked upon as a son, I still don’t think he suffered more than I did, at the hands of a tainted Red Robin gourmet cheeseburger minus the pickle relish. At least his pain was over in a matter of minutes, whereas I spent two days hunched over the toilet performing a spot-on Linda Blair impersonation. All this in addition to enduring the worst car ride since that girl accepted a lift from Ted Kennedy. My dear friend chauffeured me home from Harrisburg for two and a half hours as I lay in the back seat with my head in a plastic bag. And even though he really loves his car, he assured me that it was totally cool for me to barf in it. That is friendship.

I suspect that, in addition to feeling like Linda Blair in her most famous role, I may have also looked like her. As I stumbled to the ladies’ room in the Turnpike’s Midway rest stop, crowds parted before me like the Red Sea, children clung to their mothers in fear, and it’s possible that grown men may have wept. When I reached the ladies’ room mirror, I noticed that my lips were the same color as my skin which was the same color as the white American cheese that had graced my poisoned burger. It was not a pleasant sight.

Food poisoning. Avoid it if at all possible.

Oh, Eliot.

Dude. Dude.

I guess, "Oh, by the way, I'm the governor." just isn't the pick-up line it used to be.

Just shut up and unload the cart.

So I went to Wal-Mart today, which is always a chore. I hate that store so much, that when I walk through the door I start to feel all jittery and weird and angry at everyone around me, sort of the way I imagine David Berkowitz felt the first time his dog talked to him. It's a place that makes people look at each other with expressions of mounting malice, all "get out of my way, get OUT of my way right NOW, I need the TOOTHPASTE!" It's a place where there is much darkness and wailing and gnashing of teeth, is what I'm saying. So I've been taking my iPod with me and drowning everything out with Billy Joel and Mel Carter and The Frames, and I've been making a concerted effort to politely allow people in front of me and set an example of what behavior in a civilized society should be. I'm quite proud of myself, to be honest.

So today I was approaching the registers with a cart so over-laden I looked like I was shopping to stock up an early-Cold-War era bomb shelter, despite the fact that I had gone in there looking only for waffles and Brita filters, because goodness knows you can't get out of Wal-Mart without spending the equivalent of the gross domestic product of Equatorial Guinea, when I was cut off by a man with a cart even more over-laden than mine. I had spotted a register with only one person in line, an amazing find in this valley of darkness, and I headed right for it, only to be cut off by this man apparently doing an impression of a New Jersey driver on the Turnpike. I remembered that we're living in a civilized society and I listened to Billy reminding me that "it's all about soul" and I filed in behind him with a patient smile. I was quite proud of myself, to be honest.

Then he turned around and looked at the woman who had filed in behind me, also with an over-laden cart, and indicated that she was his wife. They seemed nice and the fact that they had two carts piled high made me imagine that they had 18 children or possibly lived in a commune and had been given the task of shopping for the members that week. I then (I was really proud of myself this time) offered to let the woman go in front of me with her husband, and he smiled and said, "No, no, we have two carts. You go first." Can you imagine? A font of civilized behavior springing up in the middle of aisle 7 in a Wal-Mart? I graciously accepted his offer and quickly loaded my purchases onto the conveyor belt, trying to be quick so as to incommode these nice people as little as possible. I smiled to myself and made a mental note to thank them again just before I left. That's when it all began to unravel.

The man in front of us, who had been the only one in the line, was purchasing some camel throw blankets and he was insisting they were on sale, despite the fact that they weren't ringing up that way. I might have known the momentum of the line would come to a screeching halt as soon as I entered it. I am a curse to lines. I get it from my father.

The cashier put her light on. No one came. The cashier called the blanket department. No one answered. We stood there. Other lines moved. Ours did not. I felt bad that I was holding these people up with my line curse. The cashier left to go to the blanket department herself. The woman behind me sighed audibly. We stood some more. The man with the camel throws tried to get my opinion on which his mother would prefer: People or The National Enquirer. I gave him a look that was meant to convey that I don't read trashy magazines and that I saw through his "mother" ruse and knew he was buying them for himself. He put them back and bought an US Weekly. I remembered that I was setting an example for civility and smiled at the man with the US Weekly in apology for judging him for reading tabloids.

The woman behind me decided to move to the line next to ours. The cashier finally returned, not having found anyone from the blanket department. She finished the man's order and just as I was reminding myself to thank the people behind me once my merch was rung up, I heard the following exchange:

Woman: I'll go in this line and you stay in that one and one of us will move faster.
Man: Just stay in this line. If this one moves and you get in that one, we'll be split up.
Woman: Oh, Bob, JUST SHUT UP, WILL YOU!
Man: JUST STOP BEING A [BLEEP] JERK!
Woman: YES THAT'S RIGHT BOB. I'm the JERK!
Man: Why do you have to be SO DIFFICULT ALL THE TIME?
Woman: Just SHUT UP and unload the CART!

(The caps are meant to indicate screaming at a volume easily heard in the Electronics Department.)

The cashier just kept her head down and furiously concentrated on ringing up items. An awkward silence fell over the crowd around us. And of course I'm thinking, "Oh holy crap, please don't let them be armed and please don't let this woman go off on me because her husband let me in front of him and please don't let her find out about my line curse." They were standing 8 inches away and I was too afraid to turn around and look at them. A parting smile and a thank you were now out of the question. I paid for my stuff and ran. It may have been my imagination, but I could swear I heard the sound of a bag of frozen peas being thrown at someone's head as I made my hasty exit.

And this only proves something which I have always suspected. Wal-Mart makes people despise each other. Friends, strangers, husbands and wives. It matters not. Walk through those sliding doors and you're gonna want to kill each other. And everyone else around you.

They don't have a gun department, do they?