DC Damsel

Note: Some scenarios have been changed to protect the identity of individuals involved. Other scenarios have been completely fabricated to make me sound like more fun than I really am.

The Twelve-Step Program originally created in 1955 in the form of Alcoholics Anonymous has helped countless individuals around the globe recover from any number of addictive behaviors, ranging from alcohol abuse to sex addiction. Personally, I have yet to reach the level of alcoholism (I’m still functioning on a fairly high level), overeating (I ordered my extra large Thai chicken salad with the dressing on the side and a Diet Coke this evening), or sexual promiscuity (I only fuck on Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays), that requires a twelve-step program. But I feel the basic principals that these programs preach can be applied to anyone’s life in a fairly constructive if not completely hilarious and embarrassing fashion. So without further adieu and in the spirit of all things recovery related I give you the original twelve steps juxtaposed with my own personally amended affirmations.

Original: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol — that our lives had become unmanageable.
Damsel’s Adaptation: I admitted I was powerless over most distilled grain-based beverages — my nightlife becoming sloppy (I kept leaving my brassieres in strange mens’apartments) and my hangovers becoming harder to manage at work the next day (I kept leaving my ass print on the copy machine). Because of this I’ve made the conscious decision to stick mainly to berry flavored wine coolers and New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs.

Original: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Damsel’s Adaptation: Began to understand when the bartender yelled last call it really was for my own good and that all the decent fun was to be had at the after-parties anyway.

Original: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Damsel’s Adaptation: Made a decision to turn my will and wallet over to the care of the snooty floor clerks at Neiman Marcus as only I could understand their bitchy guidance and monthly commission goals.

Original: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Damsel’s Adaptation: Made a searching and fear-filled moral inventory of myself and decided it was far more fun and comforting to live in denial with a cocktail in hand and a plump dick at the ready.

Original: Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Damsel’s Adaptation: Admitted to God (while she was on a smoke break), myself (while watching Pit Boss and eating pad Thai), and another person (the non-English speaking girl at the Exxon station who I buy my cigarettes from) that while I understand the exact nature of my wrongs, I choose to ignore them in hopes I either win the lottery or marry-up.

Original: Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
Damsel’s Adaptation: Is entirely ready to have a guy who looks even remotely like George Clooney remove all my clothes and fuck my defects (moral or otherwise) away.

Original: Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
Damsel’s Adaptation: Humbly asking the guy at the Starbucks to remove the whipped topping I specifically asked him not to put on my Mocha Light Frappuccino (damn dude, I come in here every day at half past two and you still don’t recognize my shit?)

Original: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
Damsel’s Adaptation: Fuck, this may take a while. Are footnotes acceptable?

Original: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
Damsel’s Adaptation: So sorry mom. Please forgive me pop.  I know not what I do, I know not how to stop. Apologies to my teacher. Mea culpas to my boss. It could have been my hormones. But most likely was the sauce. Relieve me of my troubles. Release from my sin. But if my tab is open. Get me to thy gin.

Original: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
Damsel’s Adaptation: So, what you’re saying is, I shouldn’t have told the toddler standing next to me and screaming on the Metro today, that if he didn’t cease and desist immediately I would have to burn his teddy bear until he shat asbestos? Huh, my bad.

Original: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
Damsel’s Adaptation: The closest I ever got to reaching that higher plane was letting a guy with an oral fixation go down on me while I drank dirty martinis, ate a Five Guys burger, and listened to Zeppelin’s Fourth Album. Does that count?

Original: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
Damsel’s Adaptation: The only thing I’ve ever tried to carry to alcoholics was another round.

Nobody’s fault but mine
It’s nobody’s fault but mine
Try to save my soul tonight
Oh, it’s nobody’s fault but mine
Devil he told me to roll roll roll roll
How to roll the log tonight
Nobody’s fault but mine
Brother he showed me the ding dong ding dong
How to kick that gong to life
Oh, it’s nobody’s fault but mine
M-M-Monkey on my back back back back
Gonna change my ways tonight
Nobody’s fault but mine N-N-N-Nobody’s fault.

Devil he told me to roll

Brother he showed me the gong

Got a monkey on my back

I will get down rollin’ tonight

-Led Zeppelin

Remember the Friends episode when Monica and Rachel and Phoebe decided to cleanse themselves of all the asshole men they’d dated by burning mementos from failed relationships in the middle of the living room?

I actually considered doing that recently.

I had my mementos all picked out.

A Notre Dame t-shirt from the “I love you but I can’t be with you” radio producer. Fuck the Fighting Irish.

A Hagerstown minor league foul ball from the media pundit who couldn’t love anyone nearly as much as he loved himself. He lives in Alaska now but some days he still feels to close for comfort.

The North by Northwest DVD the conservative blogger gave me on the day he decided he had to break up with me so he could take care of his mentally unstable exgirlfriend. I got Cary Grant and a box of chocolates and she got an engagement ring.

A single navy blue dress sock belonging to the gorgeous IT guy (an anomaly I know) who got me drunk at Russia House, fucked me on my couch and left my apartment before the spermicide could dry. I hope he got  bad case of frost bite and walks with a gimp now.

The Tiffany silver hoops I received one Christmas from the boy who would become my best friend and later meet a girl who wouldn’t allow him to talk to me anymore. I wonder if he ever gets uncomfortable having his balls tucked up behind him like that?

I’m inclined to pile that stuff up along with a few dozen other keepsakes I’ve held onto from my shit show of relationships over the years, bust out my Zippo, and build myself one mother of a brokenhearted bonfire.

I’d like to dance around like a possessed banshee in full Stevie Nicks regalia and chant Alanis Morrisette songs as I watched the refuse burn in effigy to all the fucktards I so stupidly allowed into my heart, my head, and my hooch.

The picture of him standing in the waves of Calibogue Sound.

Burn.

The tucked away love note he wrote me that I hid in my dog-eared copy of the Sun Also Rises.

Burn.

The pretty blue pebble I collected during our hike in Great Falls.

Burn.

The Springsteen mix CD he gave me on our third date.

Burn.

The lacy thong he slipped off me that time in the elevator.

Burn.

The ribbon from the yellow roses he sent me for Valentine’s Day.

Burn.

The acoustic guitar he used to teach me the chords to Stairway to Heaven.

Burn.

The copy of Atlas Shrugged he gave me as a goodbye gift when I left Wisconsin.

Burn.

The boxer shorts he let me wear whenever I slept over.

Burn.

The diamond ring he used to propose to me on Christmas Day.

Sold.

Why burn it when you can hock it now to buy Prada later?

I’m a bitter, angst filled, resentful, semi-psycho, 30-something pyromaniac with trust issues and a bad case of man cooties.

But I’m no fool.

If I were a boy…

I’d play golf badly while wearing stupid pants.

I’d puff long and hard on cigars and act like it wasn’t the least bit phallic.

I’d sip single malt and go all in before the flop on the floor of the Venetian when just a week earlier I was nursing a Mike’s Hard Lemonade while pondering a pair of Queens in a four-man game in my buddy’s two car garage.

I’d claim to love jazz  and secretly hide Ted Nugent’s Penetrator album behind my Amazon-compiled Mingus collection when chicks came over.

I’d have long, drawn-out conversations with an especially perky pair of graduate school tits at foreign policy mixers. Netanya who?

I’d sniff yesterday’s boxer shorts instead of opting to do today’s laundry.

I’d stash Victoria’s Secret catalogs and two-year-old Maxim magazines under the bathroom sink for inspiration.

I’d learn how to play that one really sweet song by Death Cab for Cutie on an acoustic six string in hopes of some third base action on the second date.

I’d read Sun Tzu’s Art of War and quit my day job to become a day trader in my parents basement.

I’d spend five minutes throwing around dumbbells at the gym and then head to the GNC for a giant tub of protein powder I can keep in full display on my kitchen counter.

I’d feign interest in venturing to the farmer’s market for fresh scones and the world’s best apricot jam the next morning in hopes she’s spend the night and  make a whistle out of my morning wood.

I’d claim an old knee injury from my high school football days (as the fourth string cornerback/towel boy) so I wouldn’t have to finish the grade three hike at Yosemite.

I’d slap girls on the ass in the middle of an intimate moment and ask them if they liked it.

Well, do ya bitch?

If I were a boy…

All girls like to primp and preen just like their moms.

And on this particular Mother’s Day, as I sat getting my bi-weekly mani/pedi, I watched as a little girl, no older than five, had her nails painted.

She chose bright purple for her fingers.

And neon orange for her tiny toes.

As she squirmed under the nail dryers and waited for her mom to finish with her own well-earned pampering, I leaned over and said, “your nails are very pretty sweetheart.”

She proudly grinned and said, “thank you.”

Then, with a look of half-guilt and exasperated dismay, she leaned in and whispered, “I smudged them again.”

“That’s ok,” I replied. “It happens to all of us.”

As her mother called for her, she got up and walked across the room, hands outstretched, apologizing with her head down.

“I smudged them again Mom.” “I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok baby, I’ll fix them when we get home.”

The little girl, relieved and grateful, said her thank yous (to every woman who worked at the day spa), took her mom’s hand, and left.

As I sat there, I couldn’t help but think of my own mother and all the smudges in my life she has managed to repair.

From the random skinned-knees of my youthful tomboy mishaps.

To the obligatory growing pains of adolescence.

From the soothing words in my early adulthood when I was confronted with a mental illness I thought I’d never resurface from.

To the calming affirmations when I was going through my divorce.

My mother has been there, along the way, fixing the smudges of my imperfect life.

And the smudges have been plentiful.

And messy.

And deep.

Sometimes she was able to single-handedly remove the glop and help me start over.

And other times she simply knew to smooth out the edges.

But perhaps it was the times she examined the disorder.

Realized it was far too fucked up to fix.

And taught me that sometimes I just needed to live with the ugly chaos.

I hope someday I can smooth some of her smudges.

I would paint her the perfect pedicure.

I would give her a base coat of stability and assuredness.

I would coat her nails with the smoothest satin.

And bless her finger tips with an easy white

I’d top it all off with a glistening sheen.

And even dig for her keys in the bottom of her pocket book.

When Eve Ensler debuted her Vagina Monologues off-Broadway in 1996, America had seen nothing like it. Now after years of  controversy and notoriety, the monologues have taken on a life of their own, engaging communities far and wide and enlivening causes ranging from trans-gender rights to combating violence against women in the free world and ending genital mutilation in the third world. But while actresses and musicians, poets, and Pulitzer Prize-nominated playwrights have had the chance to tell the world what their vaginas would say if they could talk, I feel the average girl has all but been left out of the equation.

My vagina has never had a hit record.

Or done stand-up at Carnegie Hall.

She’s never been reviewed by Michiko Kakutani.

And she’s never worn Badgley Mischka couture.

But she has a few things she’d like to get off her chest.

And it’s high-time she be allowed to speak.

So without further adieu, I give you the top five things she would say if my average vag could talk.

10 and 2! 10 and 2!: In my own experience, few men know how to put what where the first time around. A lead foot can be just as damning a detour on the road to romance as a sudden slam on the brakes. Think learner’s permit and gently coax Novice Ned to flip his signal and merge his way to the middle lane. Once he gets a feel for the road, the highway to heaven ain’t far behind.

If only I could put a name to a face: It’s the question we all dread from newly anointed significant others. What’s your number? Most of us fall somewhere in between the Holy Mother and the Material Girl, but both carry their own burdens. Prurient or prudish? It’s a double-edged sword, and trying to navigate the antiquated waters of a sexually stigmatized society can leave us lackluster about whistling Dixie with anyone’s wood. So next time you’re hot and heavy with the dude du jour and he asks how many men you’ve slept with, simply say, “I’m not altogether certain, but I’m sure Madonna would approve.”

Caution – Objects may be closer than they appear: What does a vagina look like when you’re staring it straight in the eye? Is there light at the end of the tunnel? Do voices beckon you from the beyond like the TV in Poltergeist? If you look hard enough, can you see the rings of Saturn? What is it boys are so desperate to get at in there? Is there a pot of gold at the end of my rainbow? You bet your lucky charms there is.

What do you want from me, smoke rings?: What girl worth her salt in the sack doesn’t know and practice her Kegel exercises from time to time? Hell I’m doing them right at this very moment while writing this blog post, drinking a cocktail, and listening to George Michael on my iPod (I’m a multitasker). But aside from clench, release, clench, repeat, what is it exactly I should be training my vagina to do? Juggle? Men have a definite advantage when it comes to performing tricks in the sack. Other than suggesting interesting positions and offering up other orifices, a girl is rather limited in her ability to diversify. And unless there’s a vocational school for vaginas I don’t know about, the menu will have to stay at prix fixe.

But we had Mexican last night!: Variety is the spice of life and unless you’re married or in a committed relationship, sampling a little of everything that’s out there is where it’s at. Why limit yourself to one coast when it’s possible to go globe hopping via your vagina? Put a muffler on and check out the North Pole. Who knows what Kris Kringle has to offer when Mrs. Claus is away on a spa weekend? Never seen the Great Wall of China? Well now’s your chance to experience the Orient without the annoying jet lag. Always dreamed of a gondola ride through the canals of Venice? Need I say more?

It seems every time I turn on the news an anchor is espousing a horror story about how some suburban soccer mom with a car full of honor roll students couldn’t get her Sienna minivan to stop on the way to band practice.  Or how some crunchy granola Prius owner almost crashed into an organic fruit stand at the local farmers market.

Few can dispute that the Japanese auto giant has imploded to a degree that even New York politicians and Tiger Woods can’t comprehend.  One thinks Akio Toyoda may need to consider a new line of work. Perhaps he could change his name to “Roy the Toy” and take a crack at the model car market.  Regardless, his recent misfortune has inspired me to determine what, if I had my druthers, I would recall like a Toyota. So in the spirit of motorized near death experiences (and no I’m not talking about that time I slipped in the shower while using my vibrator), I give you my first five.

1. Drunk Texts: They’re the 21st century’s version of the drunk dial and they get boys and girls of all ages into trouble every Saturday night. I know of what I speak, because I too have been a drunk texter, still am to some degree, and I’ve found out (the hard way) that little good can come from bearing all in the form of inebriation and emoticons. The problem with texting is it creates a record, providing fodder for water cooler gossip and mean girls alike. And for the senders, having the concrete evidence of your own stupidity staring at you from your flip phone while in the midst of a massive hangover doesn’t have the same “hair of the dog” effect as a spicy Bloody Mary and a greasy egg sandwich.

2. The Mucus Monster: You may have made his acquaintance. He tends to visit at the most inconvenient of times, like in the spring when the weather is beautiful and the sun is shining and the last place you want to be is balled up in a fetal position on your couch next to a tube of Aquaphor and a have drunken glass of Theraflu. He’s like a bad house guest who overstays his welcome, and he’s with me right now, wreaking his havoc from within. He started as an itch in the back of my throat and like a 16-year-old boy on prom night, he’s entered other orifices of my body without my full consent. I’ve asked him to kindly take his leave, I’ve even recruited my friends Sergeant Sudafed and Corporal Cold-EEZE to muscle him out. I thought I may have reached my own personal Gettysburg at around fourteen hundred hours when, for a brief second, I could breathe through my left nostril, but to no avail. I can only take comfort in knowing that every time I blow my nose, another of his soldiers succumbs to the whim of my weapons arsenal, a wet tissue and as much air reinforcement as I can muster.

3. Brendan Frasier Movies: Does anyone else think Furry Vengeance sounds more like a bad porno flick than a fun family matinee? And what pray tell, do you think possesses the former School Ties heartthrob to star in the dumbest movies Hollywood produces?  The same year he played the Torah touchdown king and hid his Star of David from Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, he also starred in Encino Man. I guess at that point, he could have gone either way. One just wishes the dynamic duo who brought janitor-turned-genius Will Hunting to life could have thrown a little goodwill George of the Jungle’s way and given him a role as something other than a Dudley, a Dickie, or a Darkly. By all accounts, Fraser is a well-educated, fairly accomplished stage actor, yet somehow, the cute, honorary Canadian has spent an inordinate amount of screen time alongside well-preserved corpses and Pauly Shore (it’s even money on which he should be more ashamed of).  And though he starred alongside such Hollywood royalty as Dame Helen Mirren and Sir Ian McKellen, Fraser chose instead to  join the ranks of cartoon aristocracy in both Looney Tunes: Back in Action (at least Michael Jordan got to slam dunk in Space Jam) and as Sergent Stone in G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. We can only hope the man who once starred in a movie called Monkeybone has enough sense to rescue his career before it really hits rock bottom and he starts co-starring in movies with Eddie Murphy.

4. Mini Skirts and Uggs: My mother owns Uggs. She wears them while she uses the snow blower on their corner lot in Wisconsin in February. And I firmly assert that unless you’re partaking in snow removal or some sort of competitive dog sledding, these fugly sheepskin boots have no place in civilized society. But I am continuously perplexed by the huge number of  girls I see wearing Uggs with micro minis so short it looks like their va jay jays are sporting mufflers. The initiator of this abhorrent trend should be taken out back behind the Orange Julius and shot (or at least sentenced to a life working at the Dairy Queen, wearing blue eyeliner and neon scrunchies).

5. The McVeigh Tapes: Rachel Maddow may be the best looking dude on cable news, but I’m awfully disappointed in her recent choice to narrate the latest MSNBC documentary monstrosity. Whether “The McVeigh Tapes” can top the cable network’s “Lockup” series, where lucky viewers get an inside peek at the penal system’s prettiest yardbirds, time can only tell. God knows listening to the worst domestic terrorist in our lifetimes blather on about how he didn’t give a shit about the 168 innocent people he packed full of spiked ammonium nitrate will most certainly contribute to the healing of the nation fifteen years after the fact. I’m sure the same altruistic brainiacs who came up with “Undercover: Sex Slaves in America,” can only hope that Timothy McVeigh could titillate their audience towards a ratings extravaganza like ten-year-old hookers can.

In a world where ordering a cup of coffee at Starbucks makes the theory of relativity look like something Einstein came up with while on a bender, it’s no surprise that in the year of 2010, the best part of waking up may no longer be Folgers in your cup.

That said, one could hardly imagine, that Indonesian weasel poop would become all the rage with the world’s upper crust.

In a New York Times article published just in time for me to enjoy over a cup of Keurig Green Mountain roast, while watching Meet the Press, during my Sunday morning malaise, the Gray Lady reports that in remote regions of Southeast Asia, the civet a nocturnal, furry, long-tailed catlike animal, produces the world’s latest version of java supremacy.

It seems these not-so-cuddly creatures root around in the coffee-fertile lands for the tastiest and ripest coffee cherries, swallow them down, ferment the fuck out of them in their tiny tummies and then, in what could only be compared to as finding a diamond in the rough, they excrete the indigestible innards of the fruit into clustered clumps, just waiting for some enterprising villager to whip out the pooper scooper and doggy bag his way to fame and fortune, or at a minimum, $227 a pound.

It’s no wonder that the same people that chase fish eggs and bloated duck livers with fermented grape juice would consider diarrhea demitasse a delicacy. I’m the first to admit, as a full-fledged non-foodie, that ground crocus blossoms and piggie proffered fungi don’t do much to pepper my palette. But while sophisticated foodstuffs may be lost on this Midwestern girl next door, surely even the elitist of the elite must realize that rooting through nature’s litter box to brew a cup of joe is pretty fucking ridiculous.

Please realize, it’s not that I’m averse to tasting the fine and the exotic.

I’m an avid watcher of  Top Chef.

I can pork my way through a prix fixe with the best of DC’s debutantes.

I even have a recurring sexual fantasy involving Anthony Bourdain and a perfectly cooked blow fish.

But even I have limits and cat dropping coffee may be it.

Last night, for example, while sucking down St Germain cocktails and gabbing with a girlfriend, I decided, against my better judgment, to try a goose egg with a side of frisse and some duck cracklings.

The frisse was lovely. And although I inhaled the cracklings like they were straight out of a pipe, the ginormous egg that peered at me from the plate looked like a chicken abortion on performance enhancing steroids.

Keeping in mind that an omelet is just an omelet, I dove in.

As I ate away at the white surroundings, making my way to the sun-shaped middle, I started to think my fear of reaching the proverbial yoke summit was ill-conceived and amateurish.

I thought wrong.

As I bit into the liquid yellow center, I only had one thought.

Cheeseburger ASAP.

It was the only thing that could possibly wash away the gamey undertones with the side of ick that was congealing in my epiglottis.

As my friend relished her fried duck livers and asparagus, I took another gulp of my cocktail and apologized for the half eaten fowl fetus on my plate.

Like a trooper (and a grown-up) she grabbed some bread and soaked that joy juice up with panache and a smile.

Thankfully, my gal pal isn’t the judgmental type and if she is, she hides it well.

So after some girl banter and one more drink, we paid the bill and hit the mean streets of Adams Morgan.

I kissed my friend goodbye, caught a cab, half-attempted to understand what the Ethiopian driver was saying as he spoke into his blue tooth, and enjoyed the ride home with the window down.

But as we neared the corner with the Exxon station, I yelled “stop!”

“I mean, sorry, could we just stop here for a second? I need to run in and get something.”

The cabbie probably assumed I was grabbing some last minute prophylactics or some emergency Tampax.

When I reached the counter, I acted like the pack of Marlboros was the reason I was really there and the can of Beefaroni was just an afterthought.

As soon as I got home and changed into my sweats, turned the tube on, and poured myself a frozen snifter of Absolut, I opened that pop-top can, poured those red-tinted, gluten loaded noodles into a bowl and microwaved my belly to bliss.

Some may need marmot made mocha to get their culinary rocks off.

I just need some quality time with a top-notch chef and his meaty goodness.

She’s the queen of the tea party rabble-rousers and does more for lipstick than a pitbull could ever hope to. And while my opinion on death panel Palin will forever remain a secret known only to my closest confidants and a handful of neighbors who hear me scream every time she Fargo farts her way into the day’s water cooler circles, the former half-term Alaska Governor has disappointed me to a degree this week I never thought possible.

When I first heard about a  couple of resourceful Cal State students dumpster diving their way into the nightly news cycle and getting their grubby little hands on Miss Sarah’s contract clauses, I had such high hopes. My giddy anticipation was quickly dashed however when the contents of the contract were soon disclosed.

Skirted tables?

Unopened water bottles?

A Lear Jet?

Pre-screened questions? (Like we didn’t already know that after the Katie Couric debacle)

Bendable straws?

Seriously?

Bendable fucking straws?

That’s the best the north pole princess could come up with?

Whatever happened to getting real and going rogue?

If your going rate for speaking shrilly into a microphone for a bunch of backwater fucktards is $100,000 a pop, at least have the moose knuckles to ask for some sweet ass swag.

So inspired was I by the lack of the Governor’s creativity, I decided to create my own list of demands.

I henceforth require the following provisions each time I am invited to speak to a collegiate audience, one or more tea baggers, or any of the Fox and Friends:

1. A pair of Christian Louboutin ruby slippers.

2. A dirty pair of Bruce Springsteen’s jockey shorts to snuggle with while listening to the 3 disc, 30th Anniversary edition of Born to Run.

3. A dozen chilled bottles of Grey Goose with perfectly sliced lemons, thick enough to squeeze, but thin enough not to splatter into my baby blues.

4. A Boston Terrier puppy (damn people, even I have a soft side)

5. A vat full of giant dicks and some alone time.

I did something on Sunday night that I haven’t done since I was a co-ed in my dorm room at the University of Wisconsin, I popped some kettle corn and watched the Academy Awards from top to bottom.

For what it’s worth, here are my top five ordinary observations of the 82nd Annual Academy Awards:

1. Seacrest vs Swimsuit: The biggest debate surrounding the almighty Oscars this year may have been the David vs Goliath battle between the Titanic techno talents of James Cameron and his IED-loving ex-wife Kathryn Bigelow, but for me the most striking showdown of the night was between red carpet wranglers Ryan Seacrest (for E! Entertainment Television)  and Kathy Ireland, one of the three B-list stars ABC chose to have anchor their 30 minute pre-ceremony coverage. Seacrest is hands down the hardest working man under 5′8  in Hollywood. And say what you want about the little guy, but the dude charmed the pants off of Tom Ford and the Jake Gyllenhaal alike (god knows no one can blame him for wanting a taste of that bilateral  action). By day he fills the shoes of Casey Kasem, hosting the nationally syndicated American Top 40, by night he handles Simon Cowell’s scowls, takes the reins for the aging master of midnight Dick Clark or fills the live loafers of talk legend Larry King.  Then there’s the lovely Sports Illustrated cover model Kathy Ireland. Certainly no one can diminish the raw inspiration of a woman who looks better wet and naked than Flipper could have ever hoped to.  But watching the wide-eyed former buxom beauty turned MILF interview Zac Efron (at 32, I’m still not sure who the fuck that kid is) was about as awkward as peeking in on the pope at bath time. I salute the 46-year-old for boldly branching out into the A-list academy but me thinks Kathleen Marie should stick to hocking affordable wares at Kmart and loving Jesus while wearing a yellow two-piece and leave the true star-gazing to Seacrest incorporated.

2. Boring Barbara: I made an executive decision to opt for pre-ceremony dress assessment rather than the standard Oscar night Barbara Walters special. I mean if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen em all. Same hairstyle, same speech impediment, same celebrity wah fest on a fancy couch somewhere in southern California. But I gotta hand it to the old broad, (she’s 81 and that technically qualifies as old in anyone’s book), she’s an ace in the hole when it comes to marketing numero uno and she announced on Sunday she’s hanging up her star stalking socks and living out her golden years devoting her time to her uber-popular daytime show The View. And while I find interviews with Sandra Bullock and Patrick Swayze (god bless his dirty dancing soul) pretty bloody boring, the lady knows how to coax a cry out of even the most stalwart of studly stars. Nobody tweaks a tear quite like Baba Wawa and for that, I will always salute the (Caucasian) queen of daytime.

3. Botox Don’t Make You Brighter: As I embark on the ripe old age of 33, I can’t help but notice the fine lines, or “flines” as I prefer to call them, that have begun to develop on my once fleshier forehead and between my true blue peepers. And while I may have, on occasion, manually tried to smooth my face in front of the mirror, and briefly flirted with the idea of forking over some dough for an anti-aging serum at my local Clinique counter, I’ve decided for now, I’m happy to carry the “flines” on whatever flight of fancy they’ve decided to take me on (not as keen on the cellulite that’s chosen to hitch a ride on my hips, but that’s a different story altogether).  But I can’t say the same for too many Hollywood hotties. And I couldn’t help but wonder if the botox beauties toasting Oscar on Sunday night were aesthetically preferable to the women who have chosen to wage the wrinkle war sans artificial weaponry. I mean no one can dispute that Demi Moore is worth an indecent proposal, but the girl has become so orange and taut she’s practically a kumquat. And Melanie Griffin looks like she couldn’t wink or whistle even if all her nine lives depended on it. Meryl Streep on the other hand has publicly sworn off the knife and from my high-definition, 20-inch vantage point, looked capable, confident, and downright foxy in her winter-white suit. I mean the pressure must be enormous for women whose every curve and crevice are dissected via TV and Twitter, but there’s got to be a point where the desire to avoid looking like an extraterrestrial trumps the fixation on fighting every flaw.

4. Sexagenarian Steve and Aging Alec: I have to admit Hugh Jackman was pretty impressive as last year’s Academy Awards host. He sang, he danced, he filled out a pair of tuxedo pants with full Wolverine panache (lord knows I’d scratch behind his ears even if the moon was waning), but it was the comic stylings of Martin and Baldwin that made me choose to DVR the hottest night in polygamist drama since Joseph Smith hosted his first swingers party. And while the comedy duo had their high and low points, they looked and sounded pretty damn good for two dudes my parents’ age. If they can send a text message in under an hour and grasp the concept of the World Wide Web without auditing a course on the space-time continuum, I may just petition them to adopt me. They were able to improvise enough around the notoriously bad Oscar script writing to produce some genuine laugh lines. And they’re a hell of a lot more fuckable than Ben Stiller gone blue man. I did kinda dig that tail though.

5. Precious Imperfection: She’s unlikely to be starring opposite Clooney or Cruise anytime soon, or wearing the Armani Prive that was too small for the mannequin, but Gabourey Sidibe has something those other leading ladies don’t, a Bedford Stuy spirit and the balls to flaunt it all over a stage normally reserved for caviar bulimics and celluloid dreams.  She wore a dark blue, diamond encrusted Marchesa, that I wouldn’t be confident enough to wear in a size 8. But the girl rocked it and shimmied her full-figured ass in front of room full of self-obsessed perfection and 42 million viewers to boot. For three-and-a-half-hours, multiple cameras shot multiple angles of the young woman and never once did they catch her looking sheepish or lacking a smile. And while speed queen turned miss congeniality Sandy Bullock clutched a golden goody for pretending to play a chick in touch and in charge, Gabby Sidibe graciously applauded, while sitting in a seat reserved for a lady wearing her big girl panties, already pretty god damn familiar with the realities of the big bad world.

In honor of his, fifth, yes count em, fifth heart attack, I’ve decided to salute former vice president and 2010 CPAC hero, Dick Cheney, by proclaiming to the world (or at least the half dozen folks who read this blog) my top five reasons I’d fuck Dick Cheney:

1. Halliburton Hunk: Despite his many years of political service , bettering the lives of the wealthy and privileged (among whom I hope to be someday) it’s probably his dedication to the oil giant Halliburton that really wets my whistle, lubes my locomotive, and frankly, pumps my jack. Despite my middle management status at a left-leaning DC think tank, my carbon footprint leaves a lot to be desired. I keep my windows open in the middle of winter when the heat is so hot, my bullet-like nipples can’t help but relax. In summer I deliver an even worse fate to those damn polar bears when I CFC the fuck out of my studio apartment. And every time I frequent one of those trendy asshole bars on U Street with a green roof and no receptacle for my cigarette butts the guilt in my gullet grows at an exponential rate. A few months ago DC declared its rivers and woods plastic free and started charging 5 cents for every plastic or paper bag. So every time I buy a liter of Grey Goose or a 20 pack of flushable applicators I either get to parade them down Connecticut Avenue in all my alcoholic, medium flow glory, or get charged for a little synthetic sack of modesty. I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry one of those canvas totes from some place like Whole Foods or Trader Joes around all day like some tree hugging, rainbow loving fucktard. So do excuse this environmental adulterer if she waits for her Dickie dear to scoop her up in his vintage H1 Humvee,  it’s awfully hard to carry that 40 pack of ultra plush, five-ply chlorine bleached, Redwood-lined toilet paper all the way home to Chateau Cheney.  (Guess he’ll have to make room in the back  for the  jumbo sack of unicorn horns and dodo eggs I snagged for Sunday supper).

2. White Icing Kisses and Angiogram Dreams: After five heart attacks, and a waistline that doesn’t seem to wither with any of them, I’m going to go ahead and reason that Dick is not a man who prizes physical exercise above the more leisurely pastimes. And while I’d imagine he’s awfully handy to have around when a girl needs an answer to the Super Saturday NYT crossword  (though I can’t imagine he’d ever read that pinko commie rag), I highly doubt he’d be up for shooting lay-ups in the driveway of One Observatory Circle.  And as a woman who would much rather sip her Sunday coffee and suck down Cinnabons until her arteries exploded, I can’t help but think Ranger Rich might be just the right man for my kind of blood sport.

3. Cowboy Cheney: The Washington Post’s Bart Gellman didn’t call Richard Bruce Cheney “the angler” for nothin. Born in Lincoln, Nebraska, and raised in Casper Wyoming, Dick Cheney was raised knowing how to tend a farmstead. I’m sure I’m not the first cowgirl to be taunted by his Rockey Mountain blues turned big city woes allure. His half-cocked smile and his standpat spurs really jingle my jangle. Gotta wonder where Veep 43 falls in the saddle vs bareback debate.

4. Angry Sex: A girl has to assume that any man so supportive of torture tactics in the interrogation chamber, must be a hell of a hair puller in the bedroom. A dance with Dick between the sheets gives a whole new meaning to deep vein thrombosis. Depending on where exactly he wants to attach the electrodes I just may be game. I mean if he asks me to wear a hood, I may require jewelry, but if waterboarding is an option, diamonds are definitely in order.

5. Guns and Butter: As a man who applied for and was granted five (I sense a theme here) deferments from military service in the Vietnam War, who could have guessed Cheney would become the ultimate war monger. He oversaw Operation Desert Storm during Daddy Bush’s tenure and can arguably be considered one of the main influences leading Bushie Jr to hunt for Saddam like a cat in heat looking for a lamp post to hump. From his co-founding of the Straussian stroke-off group, the Project for the New America Century, to his frequent blind dates with Langley’s finest when he convinced them to push aside their panties and pop their WMD conspiracy cherries, Dick did more for the military industrial complex than any other lone chicken hawk could hope to accomplish with some bad intel and a rope in the desert.  I guess in the end, the derelict diva in me just can’t help but want to fuck a man with such utter assurance in the veracity of his own beliefs. God only knows what I’d do to the old man if I had him all alone in a foxhole. Oh Dick, say we can be bunker buddies and do it doggie style while we plot the invasion of Iran. I’ll let you Shiite mine if I can Shiite yours.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys
They’ll never stay home and they’re always alone
Even with someone they love” -Willie Nelson