March 2005

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Here's to Dovetailing Perversions!

Filed under: Imported

Scroll down to the group shot. Yeah, that one.

Where do I begin? Is there any marginalized group of sexual deviants this photo doesn't appeal to? For Star Wars geeks, we have Natalie Portman. For the plushies, we have Nat modeling an appealingly fuzzy elephant costume. And for those furry fanatics who can't get enough, we have Elmo strapping on a phallic trunk and what appears to be a white Salvador Dali mustache.

What is that in Elmo's hand? More importantly is he planning to fling the gooey mess at us?

May the Schwartz be with you!

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 31, 2005 3:02 PM

 

I Want a Famous Spleen

Filed under: Imported

Tonight on the toobage: American Idol (Mikalah-free since 3/24/05!) and the season premiere of I Want a Famous Face, the show in which MTV punks Brad Pitt wannabes by making them look like Steven Cojocaru. 

Coincidentally, this season they've got a girl who wants to be carved up to resemble Jennifer Aniston. Maybe Delusional Aniston can marry one of the faux-Pitts. They'll inhabit an ugly Aniston-Pitt mirror universe. All they need is a mangled George Clooney doppelganger to hang out with; only instead of a Tuscan villa, he'll have a Domino's delivery truck that reeks of wet dog. When they finally announce their divorce, it's sure to make the cover of Bizarre.

I sort of love Famous Face super ultrasonic much. Last season there was a girl who got a massive tit job because she wanted to look like Pam Anderson. And let us not forget the Latino transsexual who got plastic surgery to look like Jennifer Lopez. (The way he pronounced "JLo" was hysterically breathy: "I won't be happy until I look like Chaaaaay Loooooh!")

I can't imagine wanting to look like a celebrity so badly that I'd get surgery. They should do a show in which celebrities aspire to the body parts of normal people: I Want An Anonymous Liver, starring David Crosby, for instance. Or, I Want a Less-Famous Vagina, in which Paris Hilton undergoes genital reconstruction. How about I Want My Old Lips Back, featuring Meg Ryan?

And it all comes full circle with I Want An Ass Like An Anonymous Latino Transsexual, starring Jennifer Lopez.

God, why don't I work in programming?

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 29, 2005 4:51 PM

 

Open Sorors

Filed under: Imported

I have a nuclear frontal wedgie. This morning, I decided to show off my recent miniscule weight loss by wearing a pair of tight crepe trousers, but apparently I still have a FUPA despite diligent calorie-counting.

("FUPA" is an important vocabulary word. Please use it in a sentence today. For instance, if your cat has a low-hanging paunch, be sure to remark "Nice FUPA!" as he/she tucks into the Tender Vittles. Point and laugh. That hissing sound is the air escaping from your cat's grossly inflated sense of self.)

When I was in college approximately forty-eight moons ago, tight pants like these were referred to as "bar pants." All the sorority girls wore them when they hit the pathetic under-21 clubs for '80s Night or Gamma Bash or whatever the non-occasion was. My dorm roommates were both Thetas (official flower: pansy) and whenever they went out for the evening, they wore tight black "bar pants," clingy polyester tops with spaghetti straps, silver jewelry and heat-styled ponytails. This was the official uniform of the Greek vomitoriums, and it was best accessorized with a non-consensual hicky.

Now, Thetas didn't have FUPAS, but Chi Omegas did. As one of my Theta roomies once sniffed, "The girls in Chi-O have good personalities, I guess." Diss! In the Greek system, the worst thing you could possibly have was a good personality. Charm and intellect were regarded as clumsy masking devices for imperfect bodies or mousy hair. Or in the case of the Chi Omegas, fatty mounds.

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 28, 2005 10:31 AM

 

Upgraded to Porn Star

Filed under: Imported

I conducted a few interviews for an arts story this morning. The subjects were verbose, passionate, and baldly intellectual. I tried to impress them by using words like "interpellation" and "ideological state apparatus" and all that shit I learned when I was slumped in the back of Television Crit 101 at the dear old University of Iowa. (My professor thought I was mildly scoliotic, but I actually just wanted to suck a .45 and paint the wall with my brains. School days, school days, good old Paxil-drool days.) But I digress.

As our interview wrapped up, one of the subjects said, "Funny story: Last night I Googled your name because I wanted to see some of your past articles. Did you know there's a porn star with the same name as you?" She chuckled.

Uh...

She blanched when I told her. (You'd think my two-inch acrylic fingernails, the color of a fresh paint job on a Barbie Corvette, would have clued her in that Porn Diablo Cody and Ideological State Apparatus Diablo Cody are the same bitch.) Why are folks perennially surprised? Can't I be a journalist and also pose for photos with a dildo creeping out of my ass? I'll bet nobody would blink if Neal Justin did a spread for LongBoys.

I was flattered by the term "porn star," though. I've never even been in a video!

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 25, 2005 2:26 PM

 

Apply Gentle Pressure to the Maroulis

Filed under: Imported

He's finally done it. Constantine Maroulis, the marginally semi-quasi-talented clitthrob of American Idol has finally won me over. He's so dumb and dimpled in a perfect Val Kilmer way. He's so stereotypically Greek that he probably suffers from a feta-like discharge in his southern peninsula. He's like David Cassidy with a bigger sock.

Look at this face. "Actor/writer" my ass. He probably can't write his own name. Doesn't matter; his DNA signature is flawless. How do boys get their hair like that? Mine looks like this shit, which is inexcusable.

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 23, 2005 2:55 PM

 

Ikea is Swedish for "Tiny Wrench"

Filed under: Imported

I used to hate Ikea the same way one hates an unrequited crush. It was a cocktail of disorienting lust, absinthe-green envy, and utter resentment. I'd go to the Ikea in Schaumburg, Illinois about once a year and wander the floors in a dreamlike state, my eyes clouded with rage. You see, I loved Ikea. I loved the flat platform beds, the Lucite tabletops, the paprika-red Gabbo chairs that seemed like they required a much cleaner home than I could provide. The real insult was that I couldn't afford any of it. There I was, in a store known for the cheapest furniture in North America, and I couldn't even swing that shit. I'd buy a magazine rack or a spatula and leave, secretly fuming.

Well, yesterday was a magical day. I recently received a check for the portion of my book advance, and my first proclamation (well, my second proclamation after "Let's hire a prostitute for a threesome!") was "Let's go to Ikea and refurnish the house!" And so we did. We went to church, McDonalds and Ikea in that order, renting a Ryder truck along the way for hauling our spoils. Ain't that America?

Old prejudices die hard: As we strolled past immaculate bedroom models and willowy lamps, Jonny eyed the wares covetously and remarked "I hate this place."

I said, "We can actually buy stuff today, remember?"

Jonny beamed. "Oh yeah! Never mind, I love this place."

We bought curtains and an entertainment center and a buffet/highboy thing and a new dining room table with a bench(!) and an eight-foot CD tower and a can opener and oh, all kinds of stuff. We left sated. How's that for retail porn?

At home, our placid day morphed into a cursing expo. At first we patiently attempted to assemble things, muttering the occasional "fuck." Then, the scene turned ugly.

"I fucking hate Ikea! Goddamn fucking idiots!" Jonny yelped as he straddled the crooked skeleton of the half-assembled entertainment center.

"You better submit, you disobedient little bitch. You break my fucking nail and I'll break you!" I hissed at an uncooperative futon cover. "That's right. Be a good bitch. Lap it up."

It got pretty nasty. Luckily, we were drinking dirty martinis within a couple of hours and passing out in front of VH1. All's well that ends well.

 

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 21, 2005 12:24 PM

 

Britney, As We Knew Her

Filed under: Imported

I am neither impressed nor revolted by Britney Spears. The early, kiddie-burlesque stages of her career shocked most people into turgid reverence or seething annoyance, but I've always remained indifferent. Back then, haters liked arguing that she wasn't beautiful (which was actually part of her appeal) or that she couldn't sing (vocal prowess has never been a prequisite to being photographed in bustiers.) Teen Britney was just an apple-cheeked gymnast with eyes like a Precious Moments figurine and a voice that was all bubble n' squeak. Seemed ordinary enough, but people went fucking nuts for what she was selling. Remember when that psychotic millionaire reportedly offered to buy her storied virginity? (According to hometown insiders, the Sacred Hymen had been gatecrashed by a lucky boyfriend long before Britney hit the big time.) As Britney's star rose, her blonde got lighter, her belly got tighter, and people didn't stop caring, even though Britney's detractors desperately wanted them to.

It's finally happened. Britney, while still a hugely recognizable celebrity, no longer seems like a star. It's almost like we're seeing what she would have become had she never been famous. Her hair is brown and exhausted, her middle is soft, and little colonies of pimples have emerged along her jawline. Plus, she's married to a yokel. We've all seen the photos of thick-necked Brit pawing through the orange sediment at the bottom of a Cheetos Big Grab. We've seen her walking out of a gas station bathroom with bare feet and an exposed Buddha. We've all seen her engaging her new stepdaughter with an expression of forced merriment. Worst of all, we've seen that boy. The one with the pants. The one she married, sort of, while sister Jamie-Lynn stood witness in a ghastly red dress. Five years ago we all thought Britney would marry Justin Timberlake and bear him a litter of towheaded tots with beatboxing acumen. Now Justin is with Cameron Diaz, who, while not exactly an anti-Britney, seems earthy and coherent by comparison. From here, it looks like Britney lost.

Weirdly, she still looks like the iconic Britney in her videos. That's quite a testament to the power of cosmetics, lighting, and bulk European hair. Even though her latest video was shot recently, it feels like a telegram from the past. I'm still here, it seems to say. I'm still blonde. Tell everyone never to forget what I was, because I'm running on empty. 

If Britney is America's daughter, then I'm proud of her for letting go. I'm sure her "people" are appalled, which makes the decay of Britney-as-icon smell even sweeter. She seems like a nice girl, you know? Let her fuck up.

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 18, 2005 4:47 PM

 

I Smell Popcorn!

Filed under: Imported

I recently discovered that penning a screenplay is far, far easier than writing a book. Now I'm flush with ideas for potential movies. Like:

Miss Vaginiality: Maisy (Rebecca Gayheart) is a gawky FBI agent with a heart of gold. When she learns of a Mafia plot to murder bukkake queen Pearly Collabones, Maisy is forced to go undercover as a porn star. Appalled to find herself partnered with the Bureau's "loose cannon" (Martin Lawrence) Maisy nearly quits. But when she wins the AVN award for Best New Star, Bukkake Division, Maisy realizes a thing or two about life...and love. The laughs "cum" fast and furious in this summer's hottest hit!  (PG)

Mona: Set in 1987, this family dramedy tells the story of Jeremy (Shia LaBeouf), a young boy who experiences a sexual awakening while watching an episode of Who's the Boss? Determined to fly to Hollywood and meet Katharine Helmond (Doris Roberts), Jeremy organizes an all-school pajama party to raise money for the flight. But an encounter with his best friend's wisecracking grandmother (Tim Conway) teaches him that sexually aggressive old women aren't just on TV. In Mona even the best laid plans...have wrinkles! (PG-13)

Loni Darko: Tansy (Loni Anderson) has been having weird hallucinations lately. Every night, she hears the beckoning whispers of a man-sized rabbit in the yard (Burt Reynolds). To solve this mystery, Loni must call her old friend Johnny Fever (Billy Connelley), who's been constructing a time machine in his basement. Will they have to travel back in time to 1979, or is the solution right under their noses? A climactic dance-off will reveal all. Spoiler: Tansy and Johnny go to Nogales, Mexico and acquire a ten-gallon drum of discount Haldol. (R)

Fat as Fuck: A spoiled heiress (Paris Hilton) is forced by her sadistic stepmother (Tim Conway) to eat nothing but foie gras and pots de creme for breakfast, brunch, lunch, linner and dinner. As a result, she begins to resemble Louie Anderson. Her Greek shipping magnate boyfriend (Nick Carter) quickly dumps her for Lindsay Lohan (Jamie-Lynn Spears), and Paris is left sobbing into her pulverized duck liver. However, a kindly gardener (Louie Anderson) teaches her that looks aren't everything when you've got smarts...and heart! Unfortunately, Paris doesn't have either. Then she gets hit by a Ski-Doo in Aspen. The end. (XXX)

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 16, 2005 10:57 AM

 

Demi Lurves Ashton

Filed under: Imported

The New York Post has reported, perhaps erroneously, that Ashton Kutcher has successfully fertilized one of Demi Moore's sophisticated ova. I bet Demi's eggs are so mellow and well-aged that there's a portrait of Sam Adams on her uterus. Meanwhile, Ashton's sperm are wearing microscopic trucker caps that say "ROCK OUT WITH YOUR COCK OUT."

If she is actually pregnant, I commend him. I wonder if he thinks about her sex scene in About Last Night when they do it, and if so, does that count as cheating?

A couple of years ago, Jonny developed a fascination with movies that are rumored to feature actual onscreen sex. (I don't mean movies with sex scenes, I mean movies where the two romantic leads allegedly fucked for real, on camera.) One such rumor even led him to rent Original Sin*, making him possibly the only person ever to do so. Now, you'd think watching porn would be more gratifying and less futile; after all, porn shows the act of penetration, leaving no doubt as to whether the sex was real or not. But it's way more fun to imagine A-listers doffing their flesh-colored G-strings and porking each other for the sake of their craft. After all, actors kiss all the time for the sake of realism; how is intercourse different? I wonder what Stanislavski would say.

*Antonio Banderas is a plantation owner. Angelina Jolie is his enigmatic mail-order bride. They get naked and do it. Angie's nipples are like visual comfort food; we've seen them so many times, and yet they still satisfy.

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 14, 2005 4:37 PM

 

Tonsorial Musings (Best Nirvana Song EVER)

Filed under: Imported

(Warning: This is one of those blog entries that appeals to girls but bores guys. It is not actually about Nirvana. The title is just a loose pun on "Territorial Pissings." Sorry, grohlfan78.)

I suddenly have masses of hair. Gobs of it, at least comparitively. As you can see in the chronologically-inaccurate banner above (summer comes, my ass!),  I usually wear my hair trimmed very short. I like the juxtaposition of hair that says "soft butch" and makeup that says "feature dancer at Tens."  I actually look good shorn like a sheep; the most money I ever made stripping was when I had ultrashort spiky black hair, a pierced lip and a massive chip on my shoulder. Senseless, no? I thought guys preferred the Jenna Jameson aesthetic, but I never banked as a classic blonde.

I haven't had a haircut since I got married in October, and as a result, I have a shaggy head of nonsense. I wore some synthetic extensions in January and February; they were very heavy and smelled like a new Barbie. When I finally took them out, craving air on my scalp, my real hair had grown at least two more inches and looked like a shattered version of an Amelie bob. It is very strange having hair. I pull on it all day for the novelty. Now I have to decide if I want to cut it again (I have a great style in mind; think Keira Knightly in Domino*) or grow it out. I'm not sure if I like long hair on me; it just hangs there agreeably. My short hair always stood at attention, tense and excited. I think it was in competition with my nipples for Most Enthusiastic Component (Above Waist Division.)

If I do grow it out, I don't possess the patience to do it on my own. I should ask my awesome pregnant friend if it's true that prenatal vitamins that make your hair and nails grow at mutant speeds. (It would also be fun to casually bring home a jar of prenatal vitamins just to scare my husband.) Or I could figure out what it is I'm doing to the rest of my body that makes it generate hair at lightning speeds. I practically break a Venus razor in half trying to saw down the old-growth forest in my pits every morning. I'm always clean-shaven, but it requires commitment thanks to my Italian genes. I'm sure I've disgusted everyone now. Wow, it's been a while!

*I can't believe I'm referencing hairstyles from movies that haven't even come out yet.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 11, 2005 9:49 AM

 

R-S-E-P-E-C-T! By Amelia Huff, Age 10

Filed under: Imported

well American Idol was good again last night!!! It was not a suprise to me because Mikayla Gordon sang and she is so beautiful! She has big you-know-whats like my cousin (shelby, NOT flat alicia!) I cant believe Mikayla is only 16 because she has all the Matureness of a 17 or even a 18 year-old. She is also from Los Vegas which means she's very special. I think Bo Bice and her should DO IT and mail the baby to me!!! I would love it because babies are precious angles from God.

The best part of the show was when Vonzell (the black girl) sang that song "RESPECT." I dont know why she picked a song from a pizza commercial to sing on a big show like American Idol, but boy was it GOOD AND LOUD! Black ladies always seem to want respect. Their all up in your grill! And I like it! You go girl! If someone like Vonzell went to my school, I would be freinds with that person. I am not racest. Vonzell  would go around saying hey, give me respect!!!! And i'd say, yeah, give her respect! We'd be best freinds I think.

Last night I was playing the weejee board with my cousins (our moms were at Pre Natal Yoga together) and we asked which one of us was going to marry Anthony Federov. (He is one of my favorite boys on American Idol besides Bo Bice and the black guy with long hair that looks like tubes.) The Weejee Ghost said that Shelby was going to marry Anthony and that they were going to have a baby called J-e-r-m. I said Jerm sounded like a wierd name and Alicia said maybe the weejee board is broken? Then Shelby said we were both jelous because we love Anthony Federov and we want to put our toungs in the hole in his throat! GROSS!!!!!

so anyway, I still want Bo Bice to win but Mikayla should come in second. My mom says Mikayla's you-know-whats are fake, and i was like "No way does she stuff her bra Mom! I can see the tops of them and they are so real." Mom just lauhed at me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 9, 2005 12:03 PM

 

Sludge Does a Body Good!

Filed under: Imported

I do not consider the Starbucks franchise to be a pox on the complexion of America. Sure, I'd rather hang in an independent, free-trade coffeehouse owned by neo-Druids with carrot breath, but Starbucks has been my rock of Gibraltar in times of literary need. I wrote my entire book at a Starbucks during the bus strike last year, and not once was my furious typing interrupted by some reeking hippie slapping a tabla and telling me that antiperspirant will give me cancer. Starbucks isn't a hive of activity. It's a dead place that uses plush fabrics and Norah Jones to create the illusion of a hangout without encouraging anyone to actually hang. It's the perfect place to write for hour upon silent hour. I was there last night, hammering out some book edits while the cute teenaged baristas offered suggestions. "Don't forget to dedicate it to me! Keshondra. K-E-S-H..."

And if you ever doubt the power of the megafranchise, consider this exhange:

Teenaged Barista: "Is that book going to be in stores?"

Me: "Of course. That's where books typically go when they're published."

Teenaged Barista: "Yes, but is it going to be in Barnes & Noble?"

They have this new beverage called Chantico that tastes like hot steaming fuck. (Wasn't Chantico some French rooster in a fable? I don't like to think about coq au vin while I'm sipping a dessert drink.) Starbucks describes this beverage as "drinkable chocolate." It's incredibly rich; it tastes like someone filled a glass with pure sweetened cocoa powder, then added milk sparingly until a sludge-like consistency was attained. (Reminds me of that episode of The Simpsons where Bart and Milhouse freebase a Slushee. "All syrup? That has never been done!") It's repulsive, but delicious. I think normal hot chocolate may have been ruined for me permanently. It's akin to transitioning from Boone's Farm to Maker's Mark; good luck getting a proper buzz from the former ever again.

The other day, Jonny and I ordered three milks cake at a local Mexican restaurant. The menu said it contained three kinds of milk (condensed, evaporated, and standard-issue moo.) True to description, it was soaked in milk and delightful. This led me to wonder if I could outdo those crafty Mexicans and invent a four milks cake containing goat's milk. Or a five milks cake containing goats milk and human breast milk. And then, I had the ultimate epiphany: three cakes milk. A glass of milk with just a suggestion of cake suspended within. I am a genius.

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 8, 2005 10:50 AM

 

Addressing the Obvious

Filed under: Imported

My office window affords me an unobstructed view of 418. Now, 418 is not a superhighway (though I also have one of those dove-gray monsters in my sightline). 418 is the world's most uncreatively named strip club. The name isn't a secret code or in joke. It's not the birthday of someone's wife, mistress or child. No, 418 is the address. 

Imagine you've just become the owner of a strip club (a favorite fantasy of mine.) You've managed to score some prime real estate in the Warehouse District, clearance from the mayor and the Mob, a license to exhibit fully nude girls with false identification, and a state-of-the-art Pepsi fountain. All you need now is a name. So many possibilities! You could go the classy route: "Platinum Cabaret" or "Rhinestone Showlounge." Or, you could go pick something deliciously tacky: "The Cotton Pony," or "Chicks that Ooze," or "Uncle Handsy's Klam Shack." Choosing the name is half the fun, so why would you go with 418?

I've never been to 418 myself. Perhaps it's such a writhing bacchanal that the witless name doesn't matter, though I've heard otherwise. The night I sneaked into Dreamgirls and stripped (I really needed the money, OK?) the owner kept shouting things like "You girls better hustle or you'll wind up at 418!" Everyone would titter in mock horror, as if The Address were the worst place a speed addict with ruptured implants could ever end up.

Now I feel like I really need to go there. I bet the girls get handsy. Actually, I bet it's like a mirror universe; the owner's yelling, "You girls better hustle or you'll wind up at Dreamgirls!" That'll get their wrists pumping harder.

 

 

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 4, 2005 10:40 AM

 

Bad Charlie!

Filed under: Imported

Denise Richards, full-lipped (alleged) Fleiss disciple turned Hollywood wife, just filed for divorce from Charlie Sheen. I have to admit I thought these particular kids might make it work for at least four years. Still, you can�t expect a lot from a guy named Charlie; the very name conjures tinkling tack piano and the burble of gin being poured. But when he�s your Charlie, you�re willing to forgive, even when he stumbles in at daybreak, singing the last verse of �Molly Malone,� and reeking of your sister�s scented talc. You hope he�ll change for the sake of the children, but he was just thrown out of the waiters� union again, and...

 

I�m sure everyone is assuming the worst about Sheen and feeling very sympathetic for poor, knocked-up Denise. Did I mention she�s radiantly pregnant? (Stars always look radiant when they�re up the spout, except for my girlfriend Kate Hudson, who looked sallow and unwieldy. I still rubbed her feet every night, though, and I always entered her gently from behind when we made love. However, I did once yell �Do you smell bacon cooking?� during a moment of exquisite friction with my dear flaxen-haired fatty.)

 

So anyway, Denise, already the mother of a one year-old,  is pregnant again and due in June. Not many expectant mothers suddenly file for divorce, so it's safe to say that our Charlie has done a no-no. Still, there�s definitely a double standard here. If Charlie was filing for divorce, people would be appalled. There�s a popular notion that only a scum-sucking man-whore would break up with a pregnant woman (even if the split was mutual.) Remember the uproar when Kevin Federline dumped Shar Jackson for Britney? But if a pregnant woman decides to file for divorce, people respect her decision and offer their strength. That�s utter bullshit. If you find it unacceptable for an expectant father to dump an expectant mother, then the opposite should be true. I mean, Charlie is expecting a kid too. Even if he fucked up big time (and I suspect he did), it�s got to suck knowing that you�ll never have free access to a child you haven�t even met yet. People would expect a dissatisfied husband to at least wait out the pregnancy before filing for the big D., so why isn�t the same decorum expected of Denise?

 

It's like men are always expected to be financially responsible for their kids (and to feign enthusiasm for every spit bubble their infant produces), but when it comes down to it, people still consider the mother to have "ownership." Blah.

 

I know Charlie�s a bad boy and all, and Denise probably caught him snorting cocaine off the nanny�s rump or something. But I just can�t muster any hatred for a man who once shot Kelly Preston in the arm.

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 3, 2005 10:28 AM

 

Bo Bice is Nice! By Amelia Huff, Age 10

Filed under: Imported

Did you all watch American Idol last nite? I did! I watched it mostly to see Anthony Federov. He had a trakeotomy (sp?) when he was a little baby, so now he has a vajina in his neck. He is CUTE!!!!!!11111

The Monday shows with the boys are better because boys are best for girls to like. My aunt Shelly likes girls better then boys, so she had to move to Vermount, where there are lots of mountains and all the Misses Butterworths you can drink. I don't want to go to Vermount, tho. It is boring, the cable comes in bad, and all the children there are Home School, which means they are dubmer than normal kids and think god is a girl. Shellys baby son has diapers made of CLOTHES! You cant throw them away!  

NEway, American Idol was very interesting and suprising!!! I thought Anthony Federov was my favorite (i just want to stick a pen in his neckhole!) But it turns out I like a man named Bo Bice. He is tall with long hair like a girl (but not aunt shelly!) He is very nice looking. He sang a song by the allman brothers, who were a seminal southern rock band with an emphasis on harmony. I like him better than Clay Aiken (shh!) Bo's pants fit him good! He is much cuter than Constantine Margulis (sp?), who is A DIRTY GREEK says my dad.My dad does not like Greek people because my mom cheated on him with a guy who owns an Olive Garden resturant.

 

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at March 1, 2005 6:38 PM

 

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