Lohan gets Scolded!!

Oh the gods are smiling on us this week!!! Did you see where Lindsay Lohan got her ass handed to her by the head of Morgan Creek Productions? Nothing makes my day like the misfortunes of those more fortunate. And y'all know I have always wanted to stab Lindsay in the eye, but I'm satisfied to have this old guy do it for me.

Basically he told her to get herself together or get out her checkbook, cause her Karaoke outings are costing him a bundle. Here, y'all can read the letter for yourself, when you're finished listening to me of course.

Can you imagine? I mean her "job" is to hang out on a set with a bunch of folks catering to her every whim and occasionally stand in front of a camera with perfect hair and make-up and recite a few phrases someone else has written. She barely has to think for Christ's sake! And yet she can't even manage to show up cause she's so busy getting coked up at a bar until the wee hours. Of course she suffered "heat exhaustion"- poor thing- but how is it that the entire rest of the cast and crew is doing just fine? I don't know where you come from, but down South if you feel sick and dehydrated in the morning it's called a hangover.

We'll have to follow this story honey, cause I just can't wait to see how she gets herself outta this one. I just hope we're one step closer to the day when she's too much trouble to hire and her only air time is on Celebrity Fit Club. If there is any justice in the world, VH1 will be taping her as with the wide angle lens!

10 commandments of Cosmetics

So recently I have noticed quite a few folks committing the most egregious make-up mistakes, and well, I simply cannot allow any more time to pass without addressing a few of the most serious issues, hence...


The Ten Commandments of Cosmetics


I. Thou shalt have no cosmetics before foundation. Truly the cornerstone of the make-up application process, for without a solid foundation, all other make-up just falls off your face. Many folks think they can just brush on some powder and head on their way, of course these are the same blotchy-faced fools you encounter at the deli and desperately want to give them your determatolagist's number. I know you'’re a "“natural beauty" and all, but a thin layer of foundation never hurt anybody.


II. Thou shalt keep thy beauty in Vain. I mean look, unless you're Joan Rivers, you've got one face for about 80 years so you can'’t take it foregranted. Who cares that your boyfriend thinks spa treatments are a waste of money, what the hell does he know anyway, one look in the 10x mirror and he'll be exfoliating before you can say '“blackhead.' I personally have never passed a mirror in which I didn'’t glance, or any reflective surface for that matter. Checking the accuracy of one'’s make-up application is not about vanity, it'’s about responsibility.

III. Remember to keep the appointment day. What do you think keeps celebrity skin radiant and flawless? Well other than an airbrush. Regularly scheduled facials of course! I mean how else to you combat the signs of cocaine addiction and sleep deprivation. Even those of us who live beyond the bright lights of Hollywood need regular facial peels. Missing an appointment could result in the wrath of the receptionist, so best to arrive early and tip generously.


IV. Honor thy moisturizer and thy eye cream. There is nothing worse than trying to smear foundation on a flaky face, crusty nose and peeling chin. No child, don'’t you ever, EVER wash your face without applying a generous layer of lotion. Some folks find eye cream unnecessary, but I consider it a right of passage for every woman over 25. There is no such thing as a "fine line," honey, if I can see a line it is certainly not fine with me!


V. Thou shalt not wear blue eye shadow. Ever. Under any circumstances. And I know there will be some summer trend about pastel lids, but just stick with the neutrals please. I don'’t mind a little sizzle in the celebrity shadow category, but regular folks just can't be trusted to make good choices when it comes to colored shadow, and it'’s a slippery slope from Hipster 2006 to Disco 1976. Like its cousin, Frosted Lipstick, blue eye shadow is a make-up faux pas women have been struggling to overcome for decades, yet every season brings a trendy challenge which should be left to the professionals and never attempted at home!


VI. Thou shalt not draw on thy eyebrows. If you cannot grow them yourself you need to consult a specialist, but crayon is not a suitable substitute. Now a little filling in is fine, but here again you give folks an inch and the next thing you know they'’re frozen in a permanent state of surprise. This practice is most common in the Southern states as well as certain parts of Long Island but it is never acceptable and should result in the immediate growing of bangs!


VII. Thou shalt not wear false eyelashes. Unless you are going to a costume party as a drag queen, fake hair should never come in contact with your body, and that includes those little ones surrounding your eyeballs! No matter how short and stubbly they may be, a lash curler and a few coats of heavy-duty mascara will fix you up just fine. Fake lashes in real life betray a subconscious desire to headline in Vegas and only help you out from a distance of at least 10 feet.


VIII. Thou shalt not wear glitter on one’s face. In fact, all body parts should remain glitter-free as a matter of practice. I realize a few years ago girls thought it would be cute to add a little sparkle to their club gear, but a 30-year-old who looks like she just got slapped in the face with a kindergarten art project has passed sexy and landed in stupid. Make-up should enhance one's natural beauty, not affect a supernatural incandescence.


IX. Thou shalt not covet thy girlfriend's eyeliner. Well alright, you can covet it, but for God's sake don't use it. Ya'll just don't know how many germs are floating around in your eyelids. Now if you are in a truly desperate situation (and I mean you have just seen your Ex walk into the bar, you'’ve left your make-up bag at work and your emergency kit is too big for your tiny new designer handbag) you should only use the eye make-up of your best girlfriend, cause chances are she got her eye goop from you the last time she borrowed your liner in an act of desperation.


X. Thou shalt not leave home without your face on. I'm not saying you need the full treatment or anything, but a little cover-up and lip gloss will go a long way, and I mean you never know who you'’re gonna see. Okay maybe not to the gym, and I guess you can have a pass on sick days, but I really cannot think of a single reason to go out into the world with the intent to encounter other folks with an unbalanced complexion. And that's not superficiality, it's just good breeding.

Weekend Plans

I could not be happier that today is Friday and I am leaving the city to visit some very dear friends of mine for a weekend of sunning and gorging!!! I am just too pale for words, which is totally unacceptable for a beach baby like myself. We'll just lay around in the pool, getting out only for feedings every 2-3 hours.

"Why Queenie," you say, "aren't you getting married in a few months? Shouldn't you be dieting like every other bride in America?"

Well darlins', the reason I have bought a BIG ASS wedding dress, is for my BIG ASS of course! Once I am strapped into that thing, you won't be able to tell the size of anything below my waist. I just don't understand these women walking down the aisle in some thin sheath of fabric that clings to every curve. First of all, you're supposed to enjoy the day, not spend it sucking in your stomach for 8 hours worth of pictures. Secondly, and most important, there are very few opportunities in ones adult life to wear a big ol' princess dress (except of course if you are a member of an actual royal family, though today even they opt for big hats over big dresses). Anyway, other than your prom night and your wedding day, dressing like Ballroom Barbie is frowned upon for most formal events, so you'd better take advantage of your God-given right to a train. It's the one time that big thing dragging behind you won't just be your own ass!

My friend P, she told me she weighed more than she ever has on her wedding day and you couldn't even tell! Imagine that ladies, an entire day spent not even caring about the size of your thighs, it's like they're actually invisible! My fat arms are an altogether different story, but I have resigned myself to the fact that some things are beyond even my control. Besides, I have been practicing SPAP (strategic photo arm placement), and I feel confident I can hide the majority of arm excess and the rest, well, that's what an airbrush is for!

Wandering Y's

Now have you heard this sad news of Christie Brinkley's husband having an affair with some 19-year-old Hamptons hussie? I know affairs happen everyday, but the alarming part about this one is, if you're gonna cheat on Christie Brinkley, the SUPERMODEL, what the hell are the rest of us supposed to do? I mean, she's the original Uptown Girl, and at 50-something she's still gorgeous, she's doing commercials...in Hi-Def!!

And look at him, he's not exactly George Clooney, now is he? How is it that rich guys think that money makes them attractive? No honey, it makes you useful. We women simply accept the fact that as a species, men are just not as attractive as we are, nor do they posses the proper tools to become so, and we love you anyway. Fat, bald, hairy, chinless we can handle. Spineless and tasteless, we simply won't tolerate.

Either she's bad in the sack or it just proves that men are total morons led around by the random misfirings of their central nervous system, located in their lower halves. Really, 19, it's just so cliche. What a jackass. Honey the grass isn't greener over there it's just located in a different place (let's face it, women over 50 don't do the Brazilian wax, and they shouldn't have to!). What can they possibly talk about, whether or not she should wait in the car while he goes into the liquor store? How tough Algebra is at the community college? Puh-leez.

But seriously, what's the average woman to do if the supermodel can't even keep the Y-chromosome's eye from wandering. Even Sweetpotato's eyes may roam at some point, but only once cause it's hard for eyes to roam after they've been STABBED! I personally don't worry a great deal about my man tiring of me cause I figure I've got enough personalities to keep him guessing for the next 25 years or so, and by that point he'll be too damn tired to bother with anyone else. You know, thinking about it, I don't really care if he has a look around (as long as it's only with his EYES), cause they harder he looks the easier to see how good he's got it!

Confessions

Oooh child, last night I went to the Madonna Confessions concert at Madison Square Garden and let me tell you it was FABULOUS!! I mean first of all, you never see so many drag queens that far uptown these days. When the camera panned the audience it was hard to tell if the real Madge was on the stage or standing in the front row. Madonna has a quite a collection of folks following her career, from the gays (obviously), to the Jersey hi-haired trash, to the six-year-old sitting in front of me. Now really, how you gonna bring your child to see a woman writhe about the stage and flip off the audience, and then let her fall asleep in her $100 seat! Now that's some good parenting. One thing though, if you were already pushing 40 when you saw the Lucky Star tour, you might start thinking about sending your kids to the concert instead.

Anyway, it was a spectacle as always, only you know now Madge is all socially conscious so we have the big screen showing the starving folks in Africa. I tell you though, by the end of the song I was ready to run right out and adopt me an orphan. And I thought the cross my mother carries around was big, but it's nothing compared to the one Madonna rode onto the stage, and wearing a crown of thorns no less. And before you get all right-wing on me, she wasn't singing "Like a Prayer," and no crosses were burned on stage. In fact, I wasn't real sure why the cross was necessary, but you gotta figure at this point they just sit around at the start of every tour going, "okay, now gotta use the cross so what song says persecution this year?" You gotta hand it to this woman, she has reincarnated herself so many times at this point it's a wonder she recognizes her own reflection. I mean we went from punk rocker, to domenatrix, to cowgirl, to children's book writer, to Disco dive, to S&M equestrian and somewhere in the she was like a virgin (though very briefly I would think).

And now of course she's found religion or the Kabalah or whatever it is, but let me tell you if she's what clean Kabalah living looks like, then tie a red string on wrist cause MY GIRL LOOKS GOOD! That bitch is 48-years-old and she walked out on that stage in nothing but a leotard and tights and not a damn thing jiggled...that wasn't supposed to anyway. She has got me by nearly 20 years and she lifted her leg up over her head like she was just raising her hand. And by the way, her leg is about the size of my upper arm, but with muscle tone of course.

You know the best part of the whole thing was the end. She said she was done and she was done. She may be the only act in the world that can sell out Madison Square Garden where cheapest seat is $100 and not even give an encore. Uh uh, she got to be downstairs getting her oxygen facial so y'all just get on home. My one major disappointment is that she did not sing the song I was banned from as a child because "it was not a good lesson," thank you mother but I learned it just fine...."cause everybody's li-ving in a material world and I am a Material Girl!"

Um, excuse me....

Can I speak to someone in charge please? Can whoever has there finger on the HEAT button please take it off!?! Look here, I am from the South and in the South we are used to sweltering summers and 100% humidity, but we are almost always sitting on a beach or in an AIR CONDITIONED automobile! It is considerably easier to combat hair frizz and mascara runs sitting in your Honda than when descending stairs into an underground sauna amid throngs of people covered in sweat and polyester. No wonder New York stinks in the summer.

You can't walk two block in this God-forsaken city without ruining every ounce of attention you paid your wardrobe that morning. In fact, everybody just wear cotton cause at least you can wash the sweat off easily. And ladies, y'all can just put your straightening irons down for the next few months. There ain't nothing can be done about your Afro until fall. I suggest everyone invest in some rubber bands, and I hereby deem ponytails the look of the season.

With all the modern technology in this city, why we can't get any freaking circulation is beyond me. Give me the mayor's number. I'm gonna call the mayor, the governor, Tyrone if I have to, but somebody's got to turn this heat off!! Queenan when she's hot is even worse than Queenan when she's hungry, and if you don't know what that's like just ask the last person who tried to finish up the office cookies if their hand has quite healed. Oh no, it is not a pretty sight here in ol' Manhattan. Praise the Lord I am alone in my office today cause y'all know I am wearing the least amount clothing I can legally get away with, and that's not meant to be a turn on. One look at the state of my disarray and you'd be runnin' for the hills. Thank God for the Internet, cause if I had to get myself together and face folks in this heat, I'd be out on my ass in minutes (thank God it'd be a comfortable landing;-)

Supermarket Sweep

I have determined why men don't like to go shopping, they simply don't know how to do it. Yet another defect of the mutant chromosome, Y's just can't seem to focus when presented with a store full of stuff, much of which they haven't seen before. I mean the beer is always near the door, right beside the chips and soda, so why would anyone venture into the wasteland of actual groceries that fill the middle of a supermarket? In our ridiculous attempt to domesticate them, we women will often try to force them into a shopping trip, which seems a good idea at the time, but quickly dissolves into a regrettable excursion by the time you park the car. It starts when you're trying to select a nice tomato from the bin of mushy mess, when you feel the spray of the vegetable hose down your back and turn to see your grown man dart behind a display of fresh corn, water trailing behind him.

So then you head for the aisles where you're pelted with bags of hot dog buns, as your 30-something sweetheart has been replaced by his 3rd-grade self. I mean to tell you, it is absolutely ridiculous what overcomes the male brain inside a supermarket. They bounce from one bright, shiny thing to the next, throwing them all in your cart without regard to cost, taste or use. Just because they now make peanut butter Oreos does not mean you have to buy them, and no, I don't think Lucky Charms are part of a balanced breakfast. You are a GROWN ASS MAN, you don't get to eat dehydrated marshmallows!!


And I know it's a biological issue. I remember as a child, the only time we ever had cookies in our house was when Mom sent Dad to the store for milk. It's like a magnetic force-field just draws men to extra stuff, always junk, and they return home triumphantly as the kids squeal with delight and they are the hero...for about twenty seconds until Mom sees the bag. I'm telling you, the Y's simply lack the focus to complete a shopping mission without diverting from the path. I once ran out of papertowels about 10 minutes before dinner was ready, so I sent Sweetpotato to the drug store, not 20 feet from our building. That fool came back half an hour later with 3 bags of Christmas decorations...in OCTOBER!

They just can't be trusted ladies, and while they are very handy for carrying the bags, it's just not worth the extra energy of trying to convince them that ice cream sandwiches don't count as a meal or that the two of you need a 20lb jar of dill pickles. If you must take them with you, be sure to keep a very close eye on them and never send them off to pick up something you forgot, lest you find boxes of mini powdered doughnuts hidden beneath the green vegetables. And while you might think they are behaving so abhorably so as not to be invited along again, don't give them too much credit honey, they are simply not smart enough for that. Praise to Lord for the Super Wal-Mart, though, cause now you can just send them to the auto parts department for 45 minutes while you get the groceries and meet them back in time to carry everything to the car. This is the only way to escape with only the groceries you need...of course you may find a new tire pump in the trunk, but as long as the extra toys go in his garage and not your kitchen, score a point for women!

Summer Heat

I don’t care what evolutionary scientists have to say, I just do not believe that humans have progressed that far from our animal ancestors. I swear to you, standing upright is basically all we have over our canine friends. Yes, yes, men are dogs, this has been established since the beginning of recorded time with their whining and scratching, but honey women are too and I can prove it. You know that girlfriend who’s in heat? You know you have one, we all do, and it has nothing to do with the fact that it’s 95 degrees outside. She’s that girl (we’ll call her Missy) who seems to actually be able to turn men’s heads away from the television with an invisible magnetic force, or maybe it’s with her visible magnetic breasts, but it hardly matters. You walk into the bar in your flirtiest sundress with your cute summer bob and you might as well be invisible because every man in the room has his sights (and everything else) set on your pal. The next thing you know, you’re alone at the bar, buying your own drink, while the hounds are sniffing around your friend’s ass and making efforts to mark their territory by being the first to buy her a drink. She’s lucky they don’t pee on her leg, bless her heart.

Now don’t believe her wide-eyed expression when she finally remembers your presence and returns to find you so incredibly bored that you’ve actually been watching Sports Center, the scrolling scoreboard lulling you into a daydream where you “accidentally” shove her in front of a city bus and inherit all her fabulous clothes. It’s like she has some special scent that only men can smell, and, what’s worse, she knows it. For though she protests, albeit rather weakly, that these men are such a nuisance and she really came here to hang out with you, she cannot help but bat those big puppy eyes at the Great Dane beside her. Naturally, the hounds will want to follow her back to the Animal Shelter she’s created in her bedroom, leaving you to finish a plate of nachos while concocting another homicidal fantasy- great just what you need, an extra side of envy with your plate of deep-fried misery.

And you know you shouldn’t blame Missy, it’s biological, it’s beyond her control, it’s... ridiculous is what it is!! . The temperature rises above 70 degrees in this town and everyone takes their freaking clothes off. Men pant around like bulldogs, drooling all over the place at a couple of bare shoulders. I swear I don’t understand it. It’s like the humid air flips a switch in the male brain shifting their canine instincts into overdrive, while girls like Missy, with their short skirts and halter tops, seem to glide through the air as if existing in a moisture-less vacuum. I, on the other hand, arrive soaking wet with frizzing hair and armpit stains, looking like a marathon contestant after a 3-block walk from the train – not exactly the spaghetti-strapped vision I had hoped to be. So there she is exposing obscene amounts of flesh, while I’m in the bathroom drying my flesh off. It wouldn’t matter though, I could be standing naked in Pamela Anderson’s body and it wouldn’t make a difference cause it’s Missy they’re after, so either get out of the way or charge admission. The best you can hope for when you’re out with one of these Missy-types is a free drink off the guy trying to get in her pants, and as I have neither money nor shame, I’ll happily stand inside her force-field until the taps run dry.

Don’t bother being jealous of poor Missy; she will eventually tire of the mutts scratching at her door, and don’t bother feeling sorry for yourself because you don’t have a pack of hounds to yourself. Just accept that we are all animals deep down and that bitch is in heat!!!

Kitchen Wars

So the night before last I decide it was high time Sweetpotato and I had a home-cooked meal, and lacking any other home to go to, I finally broke down and opened up a cookbook. Now I know you're thinking, "But Queenie, do you mean to tell us a good Southern girl like you doesn't know how to cook?" Yes, that's exactly what I mean to tell you. Recall that I bake, which is way better than cooking. When you bake something, you put a few things in a bowl, stir them up and leave them in the oven for an hour while you go about watching your shows or plucking your eyebrows or whatever the hell you wanna do. With cooking, you gotta stand over that hot stove constantly flippin' and stirrin' and waitin' and you know I just can't be bothered. Plus, I have yet to taste anything coming out of a crockpot that tastes nearly as good as anything coming out of an oven (not enough lard in the crockpot you know).

Anyway, like I was saying, I broke the spine of a cookbook I've had for a while and produced the most delicious seared pork chop. Sweetpotato was so impressed he offered to cook for me the next night, which I thought was so nice until I returned home, expecting his famous tuna casserole, only to find that bastard had shown me up!! He has been threatening me with his cooking abilities since I met him, and after 2 years and about 17 tuna casseroles I had of course assumed they were idle promises that would never come to fruition. But you know once I tested out the waters in our kitchen that fool had to jump right on in and start splashing all over me.

He started out with mozzarella caprese, yeah, yeah, anybody can cut up cheese. Then there was the salad, it comes in pre-washed bags at the supermarket so again, not impressed. And just as I'm smugly waiting for what I'm sure will be a simple meat and potato kind of entree, in he burst with a platter of wasabi encrusted scallops over roasted corn and tomato relish with potato latkes! WHAT?!?! I mean to tell you I jumped right up and scoured the kitchen for take-out bags only to find the fresh ingredients scattered about the counter. The man made a peach coulis for Christ's sake...what an ass. Here I am patting myself on the back for a stupid piece a pork, and he's pureeing fruit. Did y'all know a blender could be used for something other than frozen cocktails? Go figure!

Well let me tell you, that man has cooked his own goose and scallops and everything else, cause now that this culinary expertise is out in the open, I'll be damned if I'm going back in that kitchen. 'Bout the only thing I'm gonna slave over is a hot phone, cause if my efforts are gonna be squashed I'll just sit my happy ass on the couch and wait for the doorbell to ring.

And don't you dare tell him, but it was de-lish-i-ous, and I can certainly get used to the idea of being cooked for every night. Now if only I could train the dog to do the dishes I'd be all set.

My Little Italy World Cup

Unless you have been living under a rock, you should have seen some pictures like this of the celebrating going on in Italy after they beat the French in the World Cup. Here I was thinking we were outta season for Sweetpotato's sporting obsession and here this soccer stuff comes and blindsides me for an entire month! My God, I can't hardly find the little ball with those folks running around on the screen and I spend most of my time wondering what they must be able to eat after sprinting up and down a football field for and hour and a half!

Anyway, like I said, Sweetpotato has been glued to this series for going on a month so I figured the least I could do was accompany him to the viewing of the final game... mainly because he suggested watching at a restaurant in Little Italy. Now you have not seen crazy fans until you've seen Italian folk cheering their homeland. They were screaming and crying and painting their faces and jumping all over the place in front of the television, which was just fine by me cause I was quite occupied with my pasta and wasn't about to let Sweetpotato tip it over during some emotional outburst over a penalty kick. And speaking of emotional, y'all know my honey is an Irish potato so y'all can imagine my surprise when all of a sudden he's screaming "whattadafucka" like a native guido. It was really quite disturbing but of course with sauce still left on my plate I just couldn't be bothered with him.

After the game the streets were packed like I've never seen. You'd a thought UNC beat Duke, if no one in North Carolina showered. Now look here, I do not believe there is any instance when a man should wear a tank top, but especially when you do not wear deodorant you MUST wear sleeves! I tell you it stunk so badly on Mulberry Street I might have fainted dead away was I not preoccupied making sure my Italian Ice didn't melt all over my dress.

But praise the Lord ladies, the World Cup happens only every 4 years, so I have a respite for a bit...or so I thought. Just yesterday I happened to see an email in Sweetpotato's inbox, subject: Fantasy Football Draft. NOOOOOOOOO!!!

North vs. South - nuptial style

Folks are always asking me differences between the South (land of my birth) and the North (land of my residency), and well, while they do talk differently, and move at varied paces, I must say that the greatest difference has got to be how each side throws a wedding. I mean to tell you, nuptials in the North are like an excuse to throw money away. Seriously I do not need a heart-shaped bottle stopper for attending your wedding. What I need is a good drunk and piece of cake, just like my Daddy always said.

Instead, Yankees feel compelled to throw these formal soirees and spend months agonizing over the seating chart. Down South, we just invite the whole family and they can stand wherever they like cause we’re not trying to get in the middle of Aunt Betty’s longstanding feud with Aunt Suzy over who should have taken Bubba to the junior prom. If folks don’t like each other, they can just go to other side of the room or duke it out in the parking lot, but seating charts just do not exist.

Yankee receptions are just about the most wasteful events you’ve ever seen. Sweetpotato and I recently attended one that had,and I am not kiddin', a Leaning Tower of Cheesa, made entirely of carved Parmesan. That was dwarfed beside some multi-tiered architectural structure made of prosciutto – meat that, if ever consumed in the South is referred to as bacon. Now we might have the side of a pig laid out in the back yard in a slow-cooker, but we would not put the head in the middle of a buffet line with a cigar hanging from it’s snout and Ray-Bans over it’s eyes. First of all, we cannot afford Ray-Bans, and if we could they would certainly NOT be decorating a pig’s head.

Of course this feast was served BEFORE we sat down to a four-course meal finished off with the waiters performing a choreographed number with flaming dessert trays, and the bride and groom entering in the frenzy of a laser light show. Now there was a dessert buffet, which I entirely support, though such things are problematic if you only have two hands. Thankfully, I had Sweetpotato to carry my auxiliary plate;-) And for all that food, I couldn’t spot a lick of barbeque, coleslaw, not a single pork-n-bean to save my life. Exactly what kind of “wedding food” doesn’t include a pig-in-a-blanket? And though I was well fed, I just can’t for the life of me figure out how this bride and groom are any more married than the folks cutting the cake at the Elks Lodge? You can get just as drunk on a keg of Busch Light and a box o’ wine, an idea my family has been operating under for 40 years.

And let’s not forget the bridesmaids, I mean these Yankee girls just don’t know what they’re doing, picking out these sleek, black, figure-flattering numbers. Now a Southern bride knows how to make sure she looks better than anyone else in the wedding party, which is why she carefully selects her bridesmaids, making sure that no matter how much she weighs, her attendants are at least 75 lbs. heavier than she. The groomsmen, on the other hand, should weigh no more than 75 lbs. to further emphasize just how much weight the girls have gained since high school (of course it’s a thyroid condition and has nothing to do with their twice-daily Bojangles biscuit runs).

And why would you want them in elegant, understated gowns, when you can have them wear magenta taffeta with gigantic satin bows on their asses? Being a bride is not about having your friends around to share in your joy, it’s about revenge! It’s about making sure Tammy looks as fat and floppy as she made you look at her wedding (that tasteless affair where they ran out of champagne punch!). Why on earth these Yankee girls feel it necessary for their friends to look pretty is just beyond me.

And the final divisive issue between Northern and Southern weddings…the getaway car. Apparently the new thing up here is to exit elegantly in a classic Roles Royce, but I just don’t know how you can consider yourselves newlyweds unless you’re driving a shaving-cream covered pick-up trunk with beer cans clanging from the tailpipe! And I’m sure the Yanks think they’re have a great ol’ time at their stuffy sit-down affairs, but until you’ve shagged barefoot to beach music holding your Bud Light in one hand and your 2-year-old cousin in the other, you really haven’t celebrated in style. God Bless the Mason-Dixon!!

RSVP dummy!

Another Etiquette Lesson from Dear Queenan:

When invited to a wedding, party, or other social gathering requesting an RSVP, you must actually RESPOND!! How the hell do you expect someone to order the correct amount of cupcakes if they don't know who's coming? And of course you, slacker, will not be the one left dessert-less will you? Oh no. You'll stride right on up to the front of the line like you belong there and snatch the last one out from underneath some poor old relative who called the very instant they received their invite!

I realize that in this day of computer technology it has become rather bizarre feeling to pick up a telephone, but you are grown folks, I promise you can handle it. If you don't wanna risk speaking to your friend's mom or wife or other scary adult figure, just call during an inconvenient time and hope you get the machine.

And you know, it's never the women you don't hear from. Hell, we've picked out the gift, our wardrobe, and mapped a route within 10 minutes of opening the envelope. It's those damn Y-chromosomes you never hear from. I mean to tell you, it is just about ridiculous the lengths I've had to go to get Sweetpotato's idiot friends to RSVP. They know they're coming, they've been talking about drinking free booze for two weeks and yet their response remains blank. But you know they'll be there - giftless - first in line for the bar. And this is just for casual neighborhood events, weddings are even worse. They've booked their hotel, their plane ride, and half a dozen rounds of golf in a city 1,000 miles away and yet they can't mail one little envelope. I mean how much easier can we make it fellas, it's pre-stamped for Christ's sake!

Don't be too discouraged ladies, they do improve with marriage I've observed, of course it's actually less that they've improved and more that they have someone to do it for them, but hey, at least you know how many burgers to throw on the grill!

Happy 5th!

Well Happy July 5th everyone...that horrible day when we must return to work after a random day off spent celebrating the American way - consuming as many hot dogs and Bud Lights as possible in an 8 hour period and then attempting to light firecrackers while intoxicated. Now I don't know about you, but my absolute favorite things about Independence Day are all the fireworks displays around the country, which, thanks to modern technology, can be viewed from the comfort of my couch, without the bother of pests (insect or Redneck).

Now I know some of y'all were probably out watching them live, but if you missed the Macy's Fireworks on NBC, that is really a shame. You know Macy's, they'll throw their name on just about anything that will stand still, but I do appreciate them footin the bill for Americans everywhere. The fireworks were nice and all, but the real display of glittering wonder was Liza Minelli. You know they done got that girl outta her penthouse to sing "New York, New York" for the 5 millionth time on record, and she forgot to take her meds. I thought she was gonna fall right off the stage, gyrating all around in heels. I mean, she's no spring chicken, don't let her eye job fool you. A couple things you should note when getting ready for a nationally televised event: 1)TV gets the audience closer than the theater, so stage make up is not necessary. Put down your blush brush down and step away from the cosmetics. 2) As TV gets the audience closer than the theater, we can tell when you're lip-synching so please move your mouth in consistent time to the recording and try to hold the microphone somewhere near your face at all times. And with all the money she must have, do you think she could own one top that isn't black, sparkly, and off one shoulder? At least now she's taken to decorating her bra straps so we know her shirt is falling off on purpose!

But you know, I guess Liza really is the best person to entertain on our nation's birthday. I mean she is the embodiment of every great American celebrity family, a long line of folks that are drunk, divorced, crazy and still cashing in!