Ahem.

Two things:

1.) I am a tenacious motherfucker and I now have a Sidekick. A pink Sidekick. Note to any organizations, bureaus, etc. who might attempt to stand between me and my bourgeouis toys: Don't.

2.) Foam Fucker II is back from the repair shop. Come spring, I'll be ass-raping the Chain of Lakes with the fastest speedboat south of Bemidji. The Vikings party boat is going to look like a floating Cavlary Chapel compared to my shit. VROOOOM!

Best local interest one-liner of the day: "I predict I'll be getting three to five inches tonight!"

So we went to see Brokeback at the Lagoon today, and WHY DIDN'T FUCKERS TELL ME IT WOULD BE LIKE THAT? I've been nursing an indescribable ache for hours now, and I'm not referring to anything sexual. This movie knocked me right on my ass. Seriously, I'm stunned. This was supposed to be a vaguely snarkworthy, obnoxiously precious homoerotic indie, not...whatever it was I just saw. I came to gawk at pretty cowboys, not get emotionally battered. I don't know why I'm so shaken, but it won't stop. Best movie of the year, hands down.

Jonny remains unaffected, and I told him he's lucky.

The book is in stores today. Whoot-whoot!

Infuriatingly, most of the megastores are shelving it in "Women's Studies." So look there first, if you're inclined to buy my little labor of lust. I'm on a mission to personally move every copy in the Twin Cities area to the "New Releases" table, front and center. Last night I went to the Borders in Minnetonka and totally schooled the clerks: "You guys only ordered 12 copies? You're going to sell that many in an hour!" Ah, hubris.

(straps on wax wings, soars toward sun)

My toenails are so long that I accidentally sliced an innocent bystander the other night while carelessly dancing the frug. They're very Max Schreck. I know I should trim them, but I want to see if they'll get curly like that Indian dude in the Guiness Book.

My head feels like it's full of marbles and Benadryl. I hate hangovers, especially the really mild ones that shouldn't even bother manifesting. Go visit some sloppy college bitch in Muncie and leave me alone, Hangover. I'm a fucking pro.

Last New Year's, I resolved to not make any resolutions. I decided the most prudent thing I could do was to refuse to cop to a single flaw. It was a fun year, y'all. A year of chronic masturbation, bad eating habits, sloth, avoidant behavior and public intoxication (the "Drinking Beer From a Garbage Can" incident marked the zenith of this trend). At the same time, I did manage to join a church and a gym, both Good Choices, as William Miller's mother would say. But I hadn't resolved to do those things. I just did 'em, so it doesn't count.

(Lest you find me too virtuous, I'm eating Butterfinger Minis for breakfast right now. At 11:15. And fondly massaging my thigh cellulite--it's like nature's Play-Doh and it's temptingly adjacent to my Fun Factory. Did I mention I'm naked and I haven't showered? And that I didn't take off my makeup last night, so I look like a greasy-haired coatimundi with pierced teats? ALL THIS AND BAD CREDIT, BOYS! Line up!)

So this year, I'm going to actually make some resolutions...

1. Start eating more things that grow in the ground. Hallucinogens don't count.

2. Wake up earlier and use the time to exercise or yogacize or whatever it is Enlightened Women do these days to Empower Themselves and Fight Osteoporosis.

3. Ingest more Omega 3 Fatty Acids. I don't know what those are, but I've theorized that Douchepacker is a good source. His fur is so shiny and his hindquarters look delicious.

4. Get a dog that doesn't die right away.

5. Strike up mutually beneficial friendship with CJ.

6. Buy one of them pussy sprays that'll make my hot gypsy snatch smell like purty azaleas.

7. BUY HOME STRIPPER POLE.

8. Stop killing manatees with the outboard motor on my totally bitchin' boat, Foam Fucker II.

9. Learn to unhinge my jaw like a python so your cock will go deep enough to tickle my ribs. This sex act is called "ribbing" and it's all the rage in Pattaya.

10. Equip Foam Fucker II with proper lifevests. I can't have more stupid toddlers dying on my watch. Also, restock the minibar.

Wanna know something funny? I've been trying doggedly since October to get a real cell phone, BUT I KEEP FAILING THE CREDIT CHECK.

I find this hilarious. I own a house but I can't get a friggin' Verizon calling plan! Guess I'm stuck with this pre-pay ghettofone indefinitely. I'm debt free, I make more Hamiltons than I ever have, and I can't get a cell phone. The system makes no sense. I asked my financial planner for advice, and he was like "You need to get into debt again. That'll raise your score." Eh?

I can't wait until the next time someone in L.A. says "Hey, you should get a Sidekick or a Treo to manage all your shit." Because then I can reply "I would, but I keep failing the credit check."

Diablo Cody: KA-KEEPIN' IT REAL!

Hey! Jonny and I did a guest Walshfiles this week! Thanks, Jim Walsh!

WE ARE YELLING!

I just took a very pensive shower. As my servants doused me in milk and honey, I thought about scatalogical humor and how it relates to women. It's so unfair how there are all these awesomely vulgar movies featuring the "Frat Pack" (whom I admittedly adore), but women never get in on the gross-out action. Can you imagine Reese Witherspoon soliciting a game of "just the tip" or Gwyneth Paltrow playing a scotch-soused anchorwoman who plays jazz flute and flings burritos out her car window? You might argue that those actresses don't bill themselves as comedians, but the formula doesn't even work if you insert Amy Poehler or Laura Kightlinger. Sure, you can visualize it happening--Amy Poehler could arguably play a clueless lech even more brilliantly than Vince Vaughn. But it's not likely to happen. Not this year. As far as big, shiny comedic roles for women go, we're stuck with Elle Woods and bumbling FBI agents-turned-pageant queens. Lame roles. Pretty roles.

I think Sarah Silverman (whom I dig) is the exception to the rule. Her racial schtick goes down easy because she's female and a hot piece. I don't think anyone else could get away with those bits. It's a pretty clever trick. I'd love to write a movie for her. We could ram clams in her trailer.

Remember The Sweetest Thing? That was sort of a valiant attempt to do the chicks-as-vulgarians thing on a large scale. Too bad it sucked. However, I rewatched Vanilla Sky on cable last night, and holy crap was Cameron Diaz good in that movie. She was so scary. Reptilian. She should play villains and tragic bitches more often. Someone write these fucking parts!

P.S. If Trey Parker and Matt Stone were women, they'd have been drummed out of Hollywood by now. No one would accept or bankroll scandalous shit like that if it came from the mouths of babes.

We said goodbye to Mr. George Cat yesterday morning. George (or "Gorge" as he was known due to his insatiable Meow Mix jones) was a buddy, therapist and surrogate baby rolled into one delectably soft package. To give you an idea of how incredibly charismatic and loveable this cat was, tears stood in the vet's eyes. G-Baby was really human, in a good way.

Enough already. No more dying animals. Two in three months is a bit extreme.

I hope everyone has a lovely weekend, regardless of religious significance or lack thereof. Personally, I've had my fill of the red-green aesthetic and am ready for the Hallmark circus to leave town. However, I'm looking forward to tomorrow--Christmas, in this household--which is possibly the only day of the season when Baby Jesus might actually crush the spectre of commercialism with His dear dimpled fist. Yeah, I know, I'm Linus.

And since I know many of you are extremely kind and might be compelled to extend your condolences about Georgie, I have to regrettably announce that the Hotmail link on this blog is no longer valid. My account runneth over and I have some serious cybercleaning to do thanks to overwhelming response to some of my City Pages crap. So, yeah. No email right now, but sweet vibes are appreciated. (Also, if you've emailed me and haven't heard back, I apologize profusely. I'm no Dane Cook.)

In good news, Jonny shocked me with a sparkly new wedding band to replace the cubic zirconia that I've been secretly rockin' since the Broke Era. (For a showy Italian like me, fake bling was better than no bling at all.) But now I have the real deal. I keep thrusting it under Jonny's nose and yelling "Platinum!" like I'm Will Smith or something. I still believe that the sentiment behind a ring is more important than its carat weight, but it feels nice to be iced. Thanks, Jonny! I got a Lindsay Lohan doll too, which I intend to slowly undress later on.

Off to chew my nails, get drunk, etc. Yo ho ho and a big-ass bottle of Sailor Jerry rum!

P.S. For those who are keeping track, I have only one living pet now. Guess who? Hint: it sucks.

I forgot to mention that I got to tag along on a LOCATION SCOUT this weekend! Weirdly, our esteemed director, a lifelong son of California, seemed impervious to the cold, He romped around like a merry polar bear while I shivered like a Chihuahua in the drifts. So much for hardy Midwestern genes.

Most baby writers don't get to observe stuff like this up close, so I feel exceedingly lucky.

I just bought new curtains. How 'bout that?

My former window treatment consisted of cheap lemon-colored "drapes" from IKEA. ( I put "drapes" in quotes, because drapes are supposed to be heavy, tweedy and substantial, at least in my mind's eye. These things were flimsy, like tourniquet gauze or a $2 flag. You may remember them from the infamous "Shroud of Douchepacker" photo.)

Anyway, Jonny had bitched about the drapes recently, and I concurred. So today, during a break from writing, I trolled the housewares aisle at Target and found some nice, shiny, embroidered cinnibar-and-fuschia curtains in the popular "White Folks Pretending to Be Sensual and Ethnic" style. I might as well sign up for bellydancing classes and buy an Erotic Tabla CD while I'm at it. Oh, but my living room looks so warm and exotic.

The Photobooth feature on Jonny's new iMac rules.