This Year's Prom Theme: "Love In A Truck Stop Bathroom"

I'm in another wedding this summer (always the drunken bridesmaid falling out of chairs, never the bride) and this weekend the bridal party ventured out in search of the perfect bridesmaid dress. The bride-to-be is incredibly easy-going (I think her fiance is slipping her 'ludes during he planning process) and was open to all colors and styles. All she wanted was something elegant, simple and classic--and seeing as it's prom season, we figured we might have some luck finding a dress that fit her extremely basic criteria.

Apparently, we are all out-of-touch. Turns out that the latest craze in prom fashion is "low-rent eighties prostitute." Walking through the department store was like touring Kit De Luca's dressing room on the set of Pretty Woman. Compared to these dresses, my old gowns look like I went to prom at a polygamist colony.

Take this little number, for example:

Yes, for the small sum of $135, you can look like a whore-flavored cupcake. Of course this one's pretty demure, compared to some others.

Like this one. Not a lot of dress, but deep pockets. Perfect for carrying everything this little lady will need for prom: a liter of Goldschlager, an 8-ball of coke and a home pregnancy test.

And what the hell is this? A prom dress or a punch line? Those white circles must represent the empty places where her sense of style and dignity should be.

And I don't even know what's going on here. It's like a dress with a bad perm. Am I supposed to believe that girls are paying upwards of $200 bucks to look like they're wearing Carrot Top's severed head?

Okay, it's been a decade since the last time I was shopping for prom dresses. But I could still wear my dresses today (well, not physically wear them, but they'd still look fashionable). My mom and I would drive to a mall four hours away to find the right gown--one that was super-stylish and one that nobody else would have.

Now it seems the object is to find whatever dress will scream "I'll do half of the offensive line in the janitor's closet" the loudest.

Ding ding ding! I think we have a winner.

Whoever Came Up With The Term "Late Twenties" Can Get Bent

Awww, would you look at that. Face lit up with excitement. Eyes filled with hope. Hand...making offensive gestures to the camera?

Yep, that's me as a toddler. As you can tell from this photograph, my demeanor hasn't changed much. You can also tell my mom somehow knew I was going to be freakishly tall, and bought jeans that needed to be rolled up 72 times. I could probably still wear those today, but apparently my mom didn't know I was also going to develop a large butt and a muffin top.

My birthday is rapidly approaching, and this year I'm transitioning from "mid-twenties" to "late twenties". Which, in my humble opinion, sucks major ass. I bet you older readers are groaning right now, but you know you complained about turning 27. Sure, you didn't blog about it, but you probably scrawled some angry symbols on the side of a cave or something, yes?

As I inch closer and closer to my "late twenties", I've noticed small changes. My mother is sending me directions to speed-dating events in my area. Gee, eight first dates in one night? That sounds awesome. They should sweeten the deal with a free mammogram or something else painful and embarrassing.

People are also starting to apologize for carding me. "Sorry, ma'am" they say. "No problem, whipper-snapper" I say as I gingerly shank them with a broken beer bottle and casually step over their quivering, hemorrhaging body.

And a twenty-one year old actually hit on me because he prefers "older women". Awesome. He thinks I'm the Blanche Devereaux of the Lakewood bar scene. I might've gone home with him but my Jazzy scooter didn't fit in the trunk of his Ford Probe.

Everyone says it's just another year--but why does it have to come with a whole new label? If I had my way, there would only be two ages: legal and not legal. That would be the only birthday present I need.

That and a bunch of cash, I mean.

You Deserve Another Doodie Post

After getting three comments, two of which coming from someone who by law must love me and coddle me and do what I say lest I call child services again (although they always hang up when I tell them I'm in my mid-twenties), I should really be posting something doodieriffic. Like maybe how I found a used piece of toilet paper (or a really thin napkin from someone who ate a lot of peanut butter) in the garage that I pay over 100 clams a month to park in. That's right, I shell out the big bucks to park in what can only be described as the bottom of a giant, cement port-a-let.

But I'm feeling generous and will instead use this little soapbox for a higher purpose: mercilessly poking fun at people who don't know me behind the reassuring curtain of anonymity that is the internet.

Dear guy who sat in front of us at yesterday's Tribe game,

I thought you were cute from behind. When you turned around, I knew I was wrong for two reasons: one, because I figured out you were a Boston fan, and two, because your face looked like an orangutan's ass crack. I might have picked a cuter animal's bottom-parts to compare your face to, but you were turning around to tell me that "Boston doesn't suck." So now I hate your face.

Would I scream "Boston Sucks" over and over at the top of my lungs if Boston didn't actually suck? Not bloody likely. I also wouldn't scream "Manny, you UGLY!" and "You're going to die alone, Ortiz!" if those weren't also 100% factual.

But let me clarify, ugly face. I understand that Boston bought--err, won themselves a World Series. And as far as a collective baseball aptitude goes, the Red Sox are up there. See, when I said suck, I meant "fellate." Perhaps if I had been yelling "Boston Fellates" we could've avoided all this ass-to-face comparison. But as they say, monkey-rump-face-man, hindsight is 20/20.

Then, as you'll remember, someone told you to go back to Boston. You yelled "I'm not from Boston, you idiot." That's when I figured out that you were a probably Boston fan from Cleveland. This was also about the time I started picturing myself bludgeoning you to death with one of Ortiz's severed manboobs. Not long after, you started inviting Tribe fans to come down a few rows and say stuff to your face. I think we were all as close as we ever wanted to be to your gorilla-pooper face, thank you.

On a separate note, I feel it's important to point out that you were the only man in the stadium wearing woman's leather Isotoner gloves. You must have adorable, tiny, little hands.

Well, that's about it. I've got to get back to plotting assorted acts of wickedness against you and Joe Borowski. He's not nearly as monkey-ass-faced, but he pitches like an Olsen twin.

Regards,
Stephanie

Spoken Like A True Asshat

Okay, I realize that I should probably post more often. But you all could participate a little, too--I mean, I hardly get any comments anymore. And when I do, it's spam from tonguebutts like "DVD e CD", who responded to my last post about criminal assmatter dissemination with a comment like this:

"Hello. This post is likeable, and your blog is very interesting, congratulations :-). I will add in my blogroll =). If possible gives a last there on my blog, it is about the DVD e CD, I hope you enjoy. The address is http://dvd-e-cd.blogspot.com. A hug."

This post is likable?? This post was about some primitive woman wiping her butt-leavings on toilet paper and leaving it on display for the rest of us to dry heave at. Oh, and if you're going to be douchey enough to assault me with multiple "smileys", choose between the classic colon-hyphen-parenthesis smiley or the modern equal sign-parenthesis smiley. Never use both, you schizophrenic dickweed. And even if I knew what the hell you were talking about, I wouldn't "gives a last there on your blog."

Finally, DVD e CD, I don't want your hug. Instead, why don't you wrap your arms around an oncoming subway train, or a menstruating badger?

How's this? I promise to post more if you guys leave more comments (note: all blogged promises void in the continental U.S.) Or, if you don't start leaving comments, I'm going to make all future posts about employee bathroom atrocities and spam (internet spam, not the meat--that would be too entertaining).

Think about it, people. Oh, and have a great weekend!

Open Letter To The Person Who Used The Ladies Room On Our Floor Before Me

Dear Madame,


It's called toilet paper. It's perforated. If you have to make doodie, tear off a few pieces and wipe. Whoever told you to wipe your buttocks with your hand then reach for the toilet paper was grossly misinformed.

Regards,
Stephanie

P.S. You belong in prison.

Speaking Of Ground Beef And Bad Ideas

As many of you know, I'm employed at an advertising agency. Sure, I've only been in the business for a couple years, and you've probably never seen any of my work. I'm not an industry expert or a respected critic. So while my opinions on advertising may not be as valuable as Bob Garfield's or Barbara Lippert's, I think I know a terrible, terrible idea when I see one.

And friends, I have seen some terrible, terrible ideas.

Imagine you are a beef marketer. Your job is to make your beef appealing to the masses. You're responsible for shoving your beef in the faces of millions of good, honest Americans.

Did you see that? In just three sentences, I've shown you the number one pitfall of beef advertising: beef is a funny word. You must be careful how you use it (the word, not actual beef--although the same rule applies). The word 'beef' can be quite pervy.

Enter "Raising the Steaks: Bringing the Understanding of Beef to a Whole New Level." Seems innocuous enough, although the pun kinda makes me want to punt a baby. Michelle Wiggley (hee hee hee) is a National Beef Ambassador (psssssshhhhhh...hee hee hee) for Raising the Steaks, and has decided to combat PETA's Veggie Testimonials campaign with a beef-tastic contest for beef-lovers everywhere, titled (drum roll please...) "More BEEF in More Places"

More Beef in More Places...hmmm. My Perv-Potential meter is already picking up some pretty strong signals. Well, Ms. Wiggley, how does one participate in the "More BEEF in More Places" contest?

"Make a 30-to-60-second video showing you and your friends enjoying “More BEEF In More Places”. Make you video as fun and interesting as possible. Let your creativity run wild."

Are you kidding me? If this isn't asking for fetishist submissions, I don't know what is! Damn, Wiggley! What were you thinking? It's like Oscar Meyer asking customers to show them where they like their wieners. Or Jimmy Dean hosting a "Hide the Sausage" competition. And why is 'BEEF' all caps? Just in case we didn't pick up on the sheer perviness of your little contest? Freak.

Okay, say they only marketed this to sweet, wholesome middle-Americans, who would never think unclean thoughts upon hearing the phrase "More BEEF In More Places." (There's got to be a few of them, anyway.) Really, Wiggley? You want to watch a bunch of thirty-second clips of people eating beef in fun and interesting places? Freakin' neato. You know what else would be neat? If Sherwin Williams asked for consumers to make short videos of paint drying. Idiots.

To top it off, the five people chosen as finalists will be rewarded with their very own "More BEEF In More Places" t-shirt. Huzzah! Wear it to the bar, and count how many times someone asks you "where you like to take the beef?"

Maybe I'm lucky, because there's not a lot of double-entendres to worry about when advertising deck stain (if you can think of some, please leave them in comments). But somehow I think I could come up with a beef-related contest that wouldn't be confused for a classified ad seeking amateur porn submissions.

Steph