February 2006

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Still not a Blogebrity.

I expected this snafu to be remedied within hours. I suppose they're very busy.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 28, 2006 5:23 PM

 

Tactical error!

It just occured to me that if I truly want to be a Blogebrity, I shouldn't post photos of myself, shorn and makeup-less, grimacing into the cam, my mouth a rictus of pain. In other words, the poo face is unfabulous.

Here's how I would prefer to be seen by the Blogebrity committee: hair extensions in place, face carefully painted, cocktail in hand.

I plan to remain all dolled up like this for the moving men, who are arriving in 45 minutes to drag all the furniture out of my soon-to-be-remodeled rumpus room. Jonny says a gangbang scenario is totally kosher-- in fact, encouraged. That husband of mine!

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 28, 2006 12:40 PM

 

BAWWW! Blogebrity gets the poo face!

I'm not one of those bloggers who concerns herself with the blogging "scene," if there is such a thing. I'm pretty introverted by nature (no fooling), and even kind messages from strangers tend to trip my freak-out circuitry. Attend a blog-con in a strange city? I'd rather swill piss. Too many new people.

In fact, I don't even classify myself as a blogger-- more as a writer who lazily employs an electronic medium for self-publishing purposes. I couldn't cop a real writing gig in 2001, so I hand-coded a cornball site where I could post florid, self-centered rants about my own misfortune. The idea of an online community of LMFAO!-ing kinfolk didn't occur to me. Sure, I've swapped my share of links in an attempt to inflate my own hit count (and recognize bitches wit' talent) but I've never been an Uberblogger by any stretch of the vajay-jay.

That said, I'm fairly certain I'm one of a very select few bloggers who's actually had their blog adapted into a book by a major publisher. MOVIE STUFF NOTWITHSTANDING. I'm not even going to involve Juno in this shameless audit. I'm saying, consider the book as its own entity. Consider the fact that this blog was my only springboard. Then tell me why I'm not on the Blogebrity list.

Is it because I'm ugly? Obscene? Too smart? Not smart enough? Should I have replied to those well-meaning emails from Denmark? Should I have participated in those titillating personality surveys that beseech me to inform all my friends of my Favorite Snack and Hopes for the Future?

(The answers, for those who yearn: Chex Mix and total war.)

Somehow, I must have fucked up somewhere along the way. How am I not a Blogebrity? I mean, if Blogebrity status is determined solely by numbers, then I understand. I don't get a ton of hits relative to other blogs, but I like that. I like our exclusivity, don't you? We're a special club, you and I! We like pussy. I offer up my pussy to you, with gratitude. You can always rely on me to lay it all out there, whereas other bloggers simply allude to their darker yearnings.

Damn you, Blogebrity! Will I never be good enough?

(And yes, I noticed they include an email address so wannabes can "beg us to call you cool" or some such nonsense. Rest assured that I do not beg unless Jonny is waving his dick in my face.)

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 28, 2006 9:39 AM

 

And another thing

Jonny is currently eight songs deep into a self-penned, self-produced record, and it is so good I could cry. And I'm not just saying that because it's my wifely duty-- my wifely duties are purely physical. Read more about it here.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 27, 2006 11:21 AM

 

Fashionably Stalled

Sartorially speaking, I can't seem to drag my tattooed carcass into 2006. I see what the little 19-year-old girls are wearing out, and I can't hang. You see, I like to outfit myself in things that make me look attractive. They needn't be dull-- God knows I love my fake hair and animal prints-- but they do need to flatter My Humps and be somewhat wearable.

Here are some trends I will not/cannot wear:

'80s-inspired pumps: Heartbreaking, because I have stripping-related problems with my left foot and therefore am forced to wear to manly, broad-soled kicks with sufficient cushioning. Anything with a pointy toe or even a suggestion of a heel is raus for this client. I live in cowboy boots and Converse, even when they completely ruin the line of my outfit, because normal shoes make me whimper in pain. Karma? On Saturday, I went to Nordstrom Rack and bought a pair of pink Chinese Laundry ballet flats because they reminded me of the Sam & Libby craze of 1991. However, that's as dainty as I can possibly get. Plus--and I swear this isn't just sour grapes--those trendy little pumps are U-G-L-Y and they ain't got no alibi. Mischa Barton, you look stupid.

Leggings: You're pulling my fucking chain, right? This might be a textbook case of "if you were old enough to wear it the first time around, don't try again." I was the Duchess of Leggings in the seventh grade. I wore them with tunics, bolero jackets, Beefy Tees silkscreened with Donnie Wahlberg's smiling face. I weighed about a buck-five at the time, so I was able to pull off the look with some success. Now? Not so much. Even if I could squeeze into a pair of leggings, the effect would be totally George Lucas (Industrial Cellulite and Magic.) I'm not having it.

High-waisted, tapered-leg jeans: NO, NO, NO! Boot cut jeans are a present from Jesus. They flatter everyone. They negotiate my girlish curves, rather than straining against them. And they can take a boy's ass from broke to Brokeback in seconds. Tapered jeans are a hardship, a pox upon mankind. They flatter no one. There is a photo of me at 17--lithe, lissome, you bet-- wearing a pair of tapered Gap slim-fits. In the photo, I look like a 40-year-old mother of 5 simply because those jeans were so suck-ugly. I beseech everyone, thin or fat, please don't convince jeans manufacturers that we want to wear these things again. Vote with your dollar, your lira, whatevs.

Oh yeah: Hilary Duff? Fuck you for wearing those stupid Sass and Bide jeans and convincing US Weekly that we all need to follow suit. Plus, that's $238 you could have given to Haylie.

A bunch of layered cotton tops: This look adds bulk I'd sooner avoid, plus I can scarcely be arsed to wash one shirt, let alone 5. Also, it's very hard to nip-out through that much fabric, and you guys know how much I enjoy intentionally nipping-out. Diablo the Braless Wonder: bringing uncomfortable silences to meetings and parties everywhere!

So that's that. I'm not a total stick in the mud when it comes to trends-- I'm doing the huge sunglasses thing like everyone else, and I even bought that masochistic goo that stings your lips and makes them look plump (subtly plump, not Jessica Simpson-on-Restylane plump.) But I can't be totally au courant. It just wouldn't look hot.

******

In other news, I taught Sunday School at my church yesterday! Really-- I had the second, third and fourth graders, who had some surprisingly deep questions about the existence of the Easter Bunny. I stammered about the importance of blind faith for a few minutes, and then we made arts and crafts pertaining to a treacly-but-touching book about Jesus. I love pretending to be normal, even if it's only for an hour.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 27, 2006 10:06 AM

 

A Visitor from the East

My brother is here today. He's never been to Minneapolis, despite the fact that I've lived here for over three years. I'm not bitter or anything. J/K! LMFAO!

I just took him to Psycho Suzi's, my default impress-the-guests haunt. Visitors are always instantly charmed by the tiki decor and the punk waitresses and the soapy-tasting cocktails. God knows I love those cheese curds! I may have cheated on the diet just a smidge this afternoon.

It would be rude and untoward of me to blog all afternoon with a sibling in the house, so I'll sum this up in haste: Barnabas is adorable.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 24, 2006 2:53 PM

 

Handicrafts

See, I am so domestic! Behold, a jaunty sash of variegated wool yarn, handmade by me this very afternoon. I'm going to give this to my friend Trixi because she's always knitting me cool shit, including the infamous Fruity Pebbles Shawl.

Next week: I share my recipe for homemade whipped cream-- it involves rapid Kegels. See, I'll never let things get boring around here. Honest engine.

Speaking of manual labor and pleasures of the hearth, I am back on a handjob kick. Handjobs rule. Sometimes a good handjob can be even more endearing than reverse-cowgirl pyrotechnics. Plus, handjobs can be sweetly impersonal in dating situations. A handjob whispers, "I like you." It's a loose, light, no pressure type of mack. You don't have to worry that Handjob Girl (or Handjob Guy) is planning to drag you back to Skokie to meet her folks. It's a handjob. Likewise, if you're in an established relationship, a handjob says "I still like you" or "I'm sorry the Ambien doesn't work anymore-- let me help." Dang it, handjobs are NICE! And I'm trying to be nice lately!

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 21, 2006 5:50 PM

 

Sock Monkey

Today's activity: doctoring an old pirate sock to make a gay-looking muscle shirt for Barnabas.

At least it fits him. When I put a standard-sized Chihuahua sweater on him, he waddles for a few disoriented moments, then tips over in defeat. Microscopic puppies call for drastic DIY measures! I think he likes the stripes-- he keeps wagging his tail and prancing.

I swear, I do have work to do.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 15, 2006 1:52 PM

 

Another pussy born on Valentine's Day

Mr. Corey Anderson, the rock star. Many happy returns! And by that I mean "return my kiwi-strawberry lube already, I need it."

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 14, 2006 3:05 PM

 

Happy V-Day, You Pussy Holes

It's a special day. A day for true soulmates to share foie gras and champagne before embarking on the Anal Train to Cum Junction. Toot toot!

I have never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day (or holidays in general, with the exception of Saint Patrick's Pope-Sanctioned Guinness Binge, which I quite enjoy). I'd wager that 60% of Americans yearly have a disappointing (or downright shitty) Valentine's Day, and I can't bring myself to get behind a holiday that casts a dysthymic pall over the majority of the population. Imagine if Christmas was so exclusionary. Oh wait, it is. See what I mean? Holidays: lame. Treating regular days like holidays: awesome. It's the pirate way.

That said, I'm a lucky girl because I have an extremely romantic husband who enjoys holidays. He already got me a faux-croc dog tote so I can haul Barnabas to all my pressing engagements. Actually "haul" inaccurately implies physical effort-- Barnabas is apparently composed of helium and goosedown and could be carried with ease by a frail toddler. Right now B is napping on my lap, completely unaware of how sickeningly cute his dog ass is. His head lolls to one side. He smells like puppy shampoo and undistilled innocence. The World's Cutest Penis stares heavenward, a monument to canine perfection.

OK, here's my deal: Romance happens accidentally. We all know this. It happens when you don't expect it to or don't want it to or have given up hope. Valentine's Day is akin to fucking a guy who keeps asking "Are you going to come?" I mean, just let it happen, Elijah. God.

I hope everyone has a good one, regardless! I love you, honey.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Mike Saul!

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 14, 2006 9:52 AM

 

Barnabas Eats My Life

This is Barnabas. (Not the shifty-eyed human with the quasi-ethnic hairdo--that's me. I'm referring to the subatomic particle in the jaunty blue sweater. The forced perspective of the shot makes him appear to weigh more than a pound; don't be fooled.) As you can see, Barnabas looks like something Spielberg might have commissioned from Jim Henson's Creature Shop in 1983, all felt and clockwork and remote-controlled ears. Breeding has lent him his freakish beauty. He's the Jodie Kidd of canines.

In the space of two days, my life has become Barnabas. I spent Saturday and Sunday night sleeping on the living room couch so Barnabas (crated beside me) could whimper like a porn star without waking Daddy. I now get up at 6:00--6:00!--so Barnabas can eliminate. I spend every idle moment assessing his body language to see if he might be planning to drop a deuce somewhere that isn't the Sacred Piddle Pad. We romp. We play. We gnaw Diablo's toes, TV remote, and hair. We refuse to eat anything other than the expensive hippie slop from the "Natural Choices" aisle at Petco. And, most importantly, we whine whenever Diablo leaves our line of sight.

Right now, I'm typing with Barnabas on my lap. He's licking my elbow contentedly. This is an Approved Barnabas Activity because I'm touching him. Verboten activities include any and all times in which I'm not touching him. Bonus points for looking at him and touching him at the same time. Triple-dipple bonus points for looking at him, touching him, and cooing "Barnabas!" in a voice I typically associate with dumbfounded, lovesick new parents.

Barnabas' dislikes include: not being touched, Daddy's relentless tambourine playing (hey, you can't record a Byrds-influenced country record without a tambo), Douchepacker's accusing stare, the blue sweater.

B's likes include: being held, napping on my tits, Grey's Anatomy, his favorite toy Amorphous Blob, scampering, toddling, huge comical yawns.

I am really tired, but it's a smug kind of tired. I love this little buttmunch. Also, he has the cutest weiner I've ever seen.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 13, 2006 8:12 AM

 

Pirates Out Carousing

Last night the pirates went to the Russian bar and downed enough rye vodka to subdue a wily coelecanth. Aye, the serpent does thrash!

The aftermath: It's noon, I'm still naked and I can't figure out how to go about starting my morning, exactly. This may sound like a luxurious problem, but I do occasionally miss the imposed structure of an eight-hour day. Luckily, today is not a Writing Day. Today is a Preparing Day. Preparing for what? Well, I'm bringing something special and life-altering home. Guess:

a.) Maddox Jolie
b.) The proverbial bacon
c.) A spectacular-looking but easily cured STD
d.) An eight-week old Chihuahua puppy to warm my frigid bosom.

(Spoilers can be found on Jonny's MySpace blog)

I swear, I'm not one of those idiot pet-collecters who parties at Teddy's with an Indonesian raccoon hissing on her shoulder, or maintains a revolving-door policy with accessory pets. I'm a responsible animal phreak who happened to lose two beloved pets in the space of three months, and I am merely trying to restore my menagerie to its former glory. Rest assured that Ernie (the n00b) has comfortably assimilated himself into the household-- I made sure of that before I went Chihuahua-questing. It feels weird to have two new pets in such a short span of time, but it also felt weird to lose George and Agnes so suddenly. I hope 2006 is a good year for the four-legged denizens of Rancho Robbinsdale, because late 2005 SUCKED in that regard.

Also, I know having a purebred animal is rather un-P.C. in these parts. But it was important to me to choose a dog with certain characteristics. Chihauhuas can travel comfortably, are notoriously adaptable, relish attention and don't require or desire huge amounts of exercise. It would have been unfair of me to adopt a big high-energy dog and neglect it due to my lifestyle. It also would have been unfair of me to take in a skittish rescue animal and expect it to adapt to insanity.

All that said:

YAY! PUPPY! Nauseating photos forthcoming.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 10, 2006 12:11 PM

 

"Sorry doesn't put the Triscuit crackers in my stomach."

I'm wearing pigtails and a big, chunky kindergarten-y looking bead necklace today. Every time I look in the mirror, something strikes me as oddly familiar. It just dawned on me: In this getup, I bear an uncanny resemblance to "Miss Lippy" from Billy Madison.

(Sadly, there are no photos of Miss Lippy on the ENTIRE INTERNET. But I know you've seen this movie.)

"Don't tell me my business, devil woman!"

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 9, 2006 4:43 PM

 

Famous Couples a Go Go

I haven't "hogtied pop culture and wrestled it into submission" (TM City Pages) in quite some time, so here's my unbiased assessment of today's Hot Celebrity Couples:

Lance Armstrong and Sheryl Crow: Technically, they're an un-couple as of this weekend. I'm betting his children spooked her away. Can you imagine being the stepmom to precious blonde Miracle Twins conceived using frozen spunk from Daddy's doomed scrotum? It would totally suck. Sheryl was probably like "Girls, could you pick up your Legos? I almost tripped just now." And the Miracle Twins were all "We don't have to pick up anything. We're Daddy's life-affirming spunkdumplings and you're just a Grammy-winning adult contemporary artist." You'd run too. Good luck, Sheryl.

Paris and Stavros Niarchos (or "Nikos Stavros" as Jonny insists on calling him): Paris gets branded as a slut, but I think she's actually a serial monogamist. How many big, dumb, slack-jawed Greeks can you pledge your eternal love to in one year? Stavros is arguably smarter-looking than the last Dial-a-Greek, but that's not saying a whole bunch. I'm guessing neither fella is circumcised, which means our girl relishes the peel-n'-eat process. I imagine when Paris and Stavros talk, it's kind of like watching the Two-Headed Monster on Sesame Street. "Gooba blah blah bra?" "Oba oba gooba da! T-Mobile!"

Britney and Kevin: Popozao! Now we're talkin'. This is a couple that actually excites me. Britney is so subversive: scheduling needless C-sections, tooling around town with an unrestrained tot in her lap, dousing herself with a musk called not "Content," not "Sated," but "Curious." It's like she's made it her goal to piss off the Mommy Brigade. If it's not deliberate, it's art nonetheless. And Kevin? C'mon, he's fucking awesome. I doubt they talk very much. At this point Britney probably feels like she's emerging from a fever dream and must--must--find her way out of this damp tangle of bedclothes before the bearded kraken consumes her.

Jodie Sweetin and Meth: Not a couple, per se, but it sounds like she was pretty "sweet" on Captain Crank for a while there. Having grown up in the '80s watching Full House every Friday, it's hard for me to picture Stephanie Tanner tweaking on ice. Though I'm sure Mr. Bear would make an excellent drug-smuggling device at airport checkpoints--if we learned anything from The Rescuers, it's that teddy bears are even better than rectums for hiding contraband. For all you conspiracy theorists: isn't it interesting that the Tanners' dog Comet was named after every speed freak's favorite abrasive cleanser? Also, Kimmy Gibler's secretary was named Lincoln, and Lincoln's secretary was named Kimmy.

Madonna and Guy Ritchie: I heard they were on the rocks, and I really hope it's not true. I tend to irrationally hope that celebrity couples will stay together, because if incredibly rich people can't make it work, what hope is there for us heavily-mortgaged plebes in McKorn, Kansas? Poor Lola must be so jaded. "Daddy #2 bites the dust. Next!" I hope Madonna puts on the violet leotard tonight and convinces Guy that her X-Treme Yoga Booty is worth sticking around for. She could crush cans with that thing.

Gwyneth Paltrow and Herself: This is a love affair that will never end.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 8, 2006 3:03 PM

 

Landed

I'm home again, whatever that means. In Minnesota, we're experiencing the kind of weather that coarsens exposed flesh on contact. Fuck chapped lips-- I've got chapped wrists. It's like atmospheric revenge for the buttery sunlight I absorbed all week. My serotonin levels got too uppity, I guess. Last night I deplaned, went home, shivered in bed and dreamed I was beating the shit out of a baby. (In my defense, the tot provoked me by sinking its pearly teeth into my hand. Dream experts?)

My book signing at Book Soup on Friday was a trip. I was scared witless because I had to read aloud at a podium, but the people I met were incredible. Especially ex-millennial girl, she of the rubescent hair and beautiful downcast eyes. I was blogstarstruck! Seriously, it was wonderful to meet a kindred/naked spirit. Everyone who came to the reading, familiar or strange, will forever occupy a hot and moist corner of my guarded little heart.

On Friday I also had a Playboy Radio interview with the darling Tiffany Granath, who looks about 16 in person. I felt like I was talking to my fresh-faced kid sister, but if IMDB is to be believed, she's ten years older than me. California ain't right. It just ain't.

Anyway, I'm back now and have a lot of work to do. Plus I have to detox again-- I spent the last ten days eating (yikes) smoking (fuck!) and exposing myself to radiantly beautiful people, which must cause some type of cellular damage. I need to get goggles or something.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 5, 2006 7:19 PM

 

Pirates

Today the sky was a super-saturated Dutch blue, crosshatched with mile high jetstreams. Massive, extravagant cottony X-es, which made me think of those coded kisses people scrawl in high school annuals. I never got any warm feelings from an "XOXO." If you want to touch me--if you sincerely are the bosom friend you claim to be--then do it for real. Put it down my throat, why don't you? Why must we couch our beautifully ragged emotions in empty characters?

How about this: YZYZ. That means "I'm punching you in the face." Or BQOW. That means "I'm sorry I dumped you in an email." Consider ZPOG: "I'm wishing very hard I was a pirate." Pirates are au courant right now. They're hotter than liquified suet. They're hotter than Lindsay Lohan's ripped shin, now accessorized with a chorus line of ugly sutures. They're hotter than this week's restaurant, which doesn't have a sign, or a phone number, or a menu, or a sous-chef. No one eats. You just go there and look at each other. Occasionally you flash an X or an O in American Sign Language and pray your companion doesn't mistake you for a well-heeled Crip.

I have been obsessed with pirates ever since I went to Disneyland two days ago. I think it was the last room in the attraction that did it. Have you been on Pirates of the Carribean? It is permanently twilight in there. The illusion is really staggering. The "sky" (some kind of Cinerama-esque dome?) is a deep smoky blue. In the last room, a whole village is consumed by flames of rippling gauze. The pirates are cracking up-- this shit kills 'em. Burning. Destruction, basically. Wenches with tits rigged up to their chins. Ugly songs with melodies that seem to dart and flicker, dying down then cresting again like the fire itself. Who wouldn't want to be a pirate?

Don't lie. If someone asked you to be a pirate, you'd do it. Yeah, you scorn the people who pillage. At those of us who'd thumb a guy's butt to give him an involuntary erection, then greedily jump on that monument to male response. But you'd do it. You'd probably be the worst pirate ever, and by "worst," I mean the most reprehensible, not the least capable.

The dictionary (which I am well familiar with*) defines a pirate as "one who plunders without authority." Right on both counts.

I really ought to get a Jolly Roger for FoamFucker II. Ahoy and avast! Here there be Johnsonville Brats!

*Some whore on the Internet implied that I relied on a dictionary to write my book. Let me make this clear: I AM the dictionary, motherfucker. I'm the motherfucking Thesaurus Rex and I'm here to eat your scrote.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 2, 2006 12:42 AM

 

SHOCKING SCOOP: Cypress Hill has good weed

If you ever see B-Real and you and your friend pretend to be lesbians in order to score a few hits off B-Real's DICK-SIZE JOINT and then you get super messed up on said joint, DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.

gbajgnn bgobg

It makes the side of the building look like a TV!

Bed now.

Posted by Diablo Cody at February 1, 2006 12:46 AM

 

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