Imported

Diablo Clinton and the P-Ranch All Stars

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You knew when I dyed my hair dark that I had to be transitioning to an "outrageous" new hair project, right? I may be unpredictable, but predictably so. Most girls buy twenty pairs of shoes a year and change their hair once or twice. I prefer to do the inverse. Making and installing extensions soothes the mind as well. Much, like, oh, I don't know, knitting?

Please ignore my pallid complexion and the plummy, poetic circles beneath my eyes. It's all about the mermaid tentacles (black swirled with platinum and a few pink stragglers for Punque Roq appeal.)

This is a more formal look, for white-tie benefits, spring cleaning, etc.

Here's a blast from the past! Best dread extensions I ever had, courtesy of Hair Police. Look at my flushed, healthy visage! That's what happens when you grind dick all day, kids. But my poor right nipple looks so smushed--my fucking manager made me buy a corset because he wasn't ready for that jelly.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 16, 2005 2:53 PM

 

One of those ubiquitous blog Q & As

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(Cribbed from the strippalicious ex-millennial girl. )

Ten Years Ago: I was a newly minted high school senior and utterly secure. I drove a silver '89 Taurus, sang in a shambolic funnypunk band called Yak Spackle, and dyed my hair jet black. I was completely infatuated with my boyfriend, a college sophomore named Matt who was away at the University of Wisconsin. I didn't miss him as much as I thought I did. The best part of being a senior was having access to the "senior lounge," a humid, stinky little room lined with reject couches. I recall the stench more than the company, though I remember everybody intermingled regardless of their caste. Seniors tend to gel like that.

 

Five Years Ago: In September of 2000, I was three months into my first job out of college, as the "creative assistant" (read: aimless secretary) at a midsized advertising agency in downtown Chicago. I had just moved into a brownstone at Lincoln and Montrose, and every day was like a hit of windowpane acid: thrilling, but with an edge. I remember feeling very proud of myself every morning as I rode the Brown Line to Belmont, then the Red Line to the Grand stop and sauntered up Michigan Avenue to My Real Job. It was overwhelming for a sheltered suburban kid who associated "downtown" with supervised field trips. It felt like life was finally happening.

 

One Year Ago: I had recently been hired as a claims adjuster (really) in the Minneapolis 'burbs, and was writing freelance for City Pages. My wedding was weeks away, and I was having a hair crisis, as usual. Jonny and I only had one car between us, so I frequently endured a two-hour bus trip to work, starting at 5:30 a.m. My book had just sold to Gotham, which seemed (and still seems) incredibly surreal.

 

Yesterday: I made Shake n' Bake pork chops for dinner, watched "So You Think You Can Dance?" with my stepdaughter while she waited for the lice shampoo to take effect (shudder!)  and then watched Beyond the Valley of the Dolls with Jonny.

 

Five Songs I Know All the Words To: The entire Beach Boys catalog and the theme songs to an exhaustive listing of '80s sitcoms. Wait, that's more like 5,000. "Streaks on the china never mattered before�"

 

Five Snacks: Dill pickles, spring rolls, Sour Patch Kids, jalapeno Cheez-Its, Hostess Donettes (chocolate or powdered, it don't matter)

 

Five Things I'd Do With $100 Million: Donate mad cash to schools and families, buy Johnny Weissmuller's abandoned mansion in Hollywood, travel to far-flung and luxurious places, finance really cool movies, build a recording studio for Jonny.

 

Five Places I'd Run Away To: Monte Rio, CA, Cody, WY, West Hollywood, New York City (never been there, but I have a feeling I'd dig it), home.

 

Five Things I'd Never Wear: I'd wear anything if my survival depended on it. That said: nude pantyhose, Bush/Cheney T-shirt, jeans with pleats, clown costume, a white bra.

 

Five Favorite TV Shows: Firefly, Mr. Show, Sex and the City, Saturday Night Live, American Idol

 

Five Greatest Joys: Talking to Jonny, eating sushi, spooning with my purrbaby George, hardcore karaoke, writing, writing, writing.

 

Five Favorite Toys: Celebrity dolls, Pez dispensers, G-spot vibrators, my frequently abused tongue barbell, the original 8-bit NES loaded with Super Mario Brothers 3.

 

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 15, 2005 4:24 PM

 

Brangelina

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Today I was buying some pork chops (they're trichinos-ensational!) at Cub and I happened to toss the latest issue of Us Weekly onto the conveyor. The headline was something about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's impending nuptials.

The clerk, a young woman, glanced at the magazine, then looked at me. "I want them to get married," she said solemnly, almost challenging me to disagree.

"So do I," I replied confidently. "So do I."

She grinned. "I thought I was the only person on Angelina's side!" she exclaimed, relieved.

I wouldn't say I'm on Angelina's side, per se, since such complicated matters of the heart rarely involve a purely innocent or purely guilty party. But I do think Brangelina is a more compatible couple than Braniston. I never understood why everyone thought Brad and Jen seemed like a good match in the first place. Superficially, they were both sunkissed and conventionally attractive, but Brad always struck me as a confident and eccentric (much like Angelina) while Jennifer, in her interviews, comes off as humble, down-to-earth, and slightly damaged. There's no way she enjoyed living in Brad's chilly architecture-geek mansion...you know Aniston needs a good La-Z-Boy to watch Beaches on. She's the kind of girl you can take to T.G.I. Friday's, while Brad and Angelina probably subsist solely on Marlboros, Ketel One and thinly-sliced Kobe beef served on hot stones. Brad doesn't strike me as a real brain trust, but he thinks he's smart and he thinks he's found his equal in that stunning weirdo. Shockingly, she seems to agree with him.

I guess I feel sort of sorry for Jennifer. She's handled this whole thing gracefully and hasn't gone all psycho-ex on anyone in the press. That said, I'm still on Team Jolie. We alleged "homewreckers" need to stick together, and she hasn't done jack to earn that distinction. (Few women do--I love the misconception that any woman who gets involved with a separated guy must be singlehandedly responsible for the dissolution of his marriage.) Either way, I can't believe anyone is actually scandalized by this. Can you imagine how they would have reacted if Brad and Jen had had children? Get a rope! Hang the whore high!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 4:30 PM

 

It is imminent!

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According to the gossip blogs, Britney's little Caeser was wrenched from her womb at Cedars-Sinai earlier today. Oh, I hope its's true!

You know, Britters got a lot of flack for being "too posh to push" and choosing a C-section over a pussy delivery. Whatever, girls should be able to birth as they please. Britney can have a C-section and an illegal Honduran wet nurse and a postpartum martini, for all I care. I admire her complete disregard of the clucking hippies. (And this is coming from someone who wants a home waterbirth when she hypothetically spawns--I'm all about choice, see?)

Come, Emmanuel! Come and be born in our hearts!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 1:28 PM

 

I could fucking cry

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I just wrote a long-ass entry, possibly one of the funniest things I've written in ages, and my browser crashed as I was about to post it. Fucking A-rod!

I can't be the only person this particular misfortune has befallen. Right?

It was about vibrating-ring condoms, otherwise known as "Downeaster Elexas." And Cheez-Its! And Shake n' Bake! And my plan to mash Brussles cookies and vodka into an easily digestible paste! It even revealed a very special, exclusive Pussy Secret about my plans for the future!

I'm gonna go cut myself. Not really. But I am gonna listen to My Chemical Romance.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 12:51 PM

 

Since I've already stooped to the Federlevel

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When is Britney going to have that baby, already? I can't be the only one hoping it looks like Big Rob.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 13, 2005 4:47 PM

 

Bad Libs, or, Fill in the blanks, homies.

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I sincerely apologize for (choose one) not answering your email/not reading your script/not blogging/not returning your calls/not answering you even when spoken to directly this weekend. I am extremely busy. Not "hard week at work" busy, not "last-minute Christmas prep" busy, not even "chasing a hypoglycemic toddler" busy. I'm busier than that. BUSIER. Believe it. I am busier than Bea Arthur at Carpet World/Kirk Cameron in a roomful of Wiccans/Britney Spears at a prenatal wine tasting.

Ever heard the phrase "Don't write a check your ass can't cash"? That's me right now. And said posterior is mega-overdrawn.

I'm reduced to making Britney Spears jokes in 2005. That must mean the well is dry.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 12, 2005 11:06 AM

 

Now, with pudding in the mix!

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Okay, so like four days ago, Jonny and I both went on the South Beach Diet, which seems to have nothing to do with South Beach and everything to do with turkey jerky. After a couple of trips to L.A., we've decided we're bloated manatees and need to whittle ourselves down to Nicole Richie/DJ AM proportions. Anyway, I am craving sugar so fucking bad that last night, I dreamed I was crouched in front of the refrigerator, eating frosting from a can.

No, really. That's actually what I dreamed about.

Call Dr. Duncan Hines, stat. I need about 400 cc's of EZ-Spread Deluxe Fudge Tunnel.

P.S. Yes, I know dieting is boring and gay. Don't worry, I'll probably wind up making lasagna this weekend and binging like Meredith Baxter Birney in that one TV movie. 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 8, 2005 10:43 AM

 

Readers weigh in on nymphet-maniacs

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I've heard from a varied spectrum of guys about my "Pussy Rant" of several days ago. Most of them--heck, all of them--opted to defend the darker sex's fondness for Hot! Teen! companionship. Here are some of the reasons I was given for why a guy would date (not just fuck) a naive teenager.

-Youngsters provide endless stimulation of the mindfuck variety. They tend to be noncommittal heartbreakers, and therefore are maddeningly desirable compared to some boring broad who's panting to settle down.

Cody counterpoint: When I was a teenager, I wanted to marry every guy who sent my Bartholin's glands into overdrive, thus soaking my size-2 Gap jeans in the sweet nectar of youth. Noncommittal? Not so much. Maybe that's why I always got dumped.

-A young girl will put up with more shit. In other words, you can act like a total dawg and she'll still make herself available.

Cody counterpoint: The same argument could be made for some ugly chicks, but I don't know any guys who subscribe to "Barely Attractive."

-Men are just getting revenge on women for preferring sexy jerks to chivalrous nice-guys.

Cody counterpoint: There's admittedly an ignorant subclass of women who blow off guys who treat them well in favor of Joe Charisma, the distant sex addict. But that has nothing to do with my question.

"You can't beat eighteen-year-old pussy."

Cody counterpoint: Yes, but...eh, you're right.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 6, 2005 5:08 PM

 

Forsooth! My comely new tunic.

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Thanks, Taco!

In other news, I attended my first Renaissance Festival yesterday. Jon and I were laughing our asses off--not at the hordes of Ye Olde Nerdes in attendance, but at the rampant anachronisms. For instance, ATM machines labeled "Coin of the Realm" and exhibits sponsored by Time Warner Cable. Would ye like a glass of honeyed mead or a 20 oz. Pepsi, m'lady? The whole thing ruled. Plus, I bought a pair of ceramic "Pan Horns." (Hippies refer to the devil as "Pan," so he sounds like a nonthreatening self-rising pizza crust instead of a dark overlord and eater of worlds. They even named a particularly gay-sounding flute after the motherfucker.) I got red Pan Horns, which give me a class-A license to be ribald.

Notice I'm a brunette again. That means I'm smart and clA$$y. The price of pussy just went up forty-nine cents, y'all. Blonde says "whore" but brunette says "business escort." Plus now I can go on Jeopardy.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 4, 2005 1:07 PM

 

Settle in for a good old fashioned Pussy Rant!

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For the past day or so, I've been ruminating on a provocative and age-old topic: Why do talented and charismatic men--I speak chiefly of rock stars here--seem to prefer the company of giggling, inarticulate teen girls to that of talented, charismatic women their own age?

OK, stop snickering at my incredulity and allow me to expound: I know there's a biological imperative for men chasing underaged pussy, and I can't blame them for desiring the physical company of slack-jawed, pert-breasted adolescents. Makes perfect sense, really. (Recently, someone told this kneeslapper in a staff meeting: "Q: What do you call a man who's attracted to 14-year-old girls? A: Heterosexual.") I know all about the obvious pleasures of firm young flesh. But I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about companionship. I'm talking about long-term relationships and in some cases, marriage. That goes beyond sex. And this is precisely where I get confused.

At the height of Led Zeppelin's fame, Jimmy Page was heavily involved with a 14-year-old groupie named Lori Maddox. (Who, incidentally, bears an uncanny resemblance to '70s-era Kitty Pryde in that shot. Yeah, I'm a geek.) Anyway, when I was 14, I was semi-alluring in that long-haired nymphet way, but you definitely wouldn't want to have engaged me in conversation. I was giggly, nervous, immature, shrill and largely uninformed about most topics. In other words, I was 14. Therefore, I can't fucking grok that Jimmy Page spent a year and a half courting this girl. Can you imagine being this mysterious, charismatic rock god and having to deal with a sullen, clingy teen on a day to day basis? "Jimmy, where's my hair dryer? Jimmy, I've got my period. I love you, Jimmeeeee!"

Why, then, did he do it? Lori Maddox was obviously a succulent young thing, and I'm sure she was clever for her age, seeing as she managed to bag both Bowies while she was still in a training bra. But there's no way she was articulate enough, or mature enough, to be an appropriate companion for a guy of Page's age and experience level. Something in her interactions with Page must have been lacking. And don't argue that the sex kept them together--rock stars are notoriously fickle about pussy, and there's no way that million-dollar squeezebox kept the God of Fuck entertained for 18 months straight. He must have been fulfilled by the actual relationship in some way to keep it going for that long, at the peak of his success.

Mick Jagger is another guy I don't get. He's like 60, and yet he routinely pursues relationships--relationships, not just sex--with young model types. This doesn't make sense. Ideally, an old goat like Mick should be married to Marianne Faithfull. Think about it: They're both witty, caustic, aging sex symbols. They're both talented. They fucked circa "As Tears Go By," which means at some point, Mick thought a women like Marianne was worthy of his spunk. What changed? I know some of you are like "But Marianne Faithfull is a decrepit old junkie now!" Yeah, well, so is Mick. And yet, I don't hear anything about Marianne Faithfull banging 20-year-old Brazilian dudes. Chances are, a youngster like that couldn't hold her interest. Mick, Rod, seriously: wouldn't it be eminently more satisfying to grow old with an interesting and well-traveled companion than with a barely-legal golddigger who's never heard of Hullabaloo? (I'm not dissing all age-disparate relationships; I know plenty of great couples with ten or twenty years between them. This is different.)

I guess if I was a rock star, I would want to be with a really cool chick. A chick who could go head-to-head with my roadies on rock trivia. A chick who would encourage me to invest my money wisely, rather than blowing it on ostentatious luxuries for herself and her friends. A chick who was mature enough to be my equal. The idea of enduring a transcontinental flight next to a 14-year-old is less than appealing, isn't it? How many adolescent mindgames can you play before you long for the relative intellect of that 30-year-old publicist you met back in Baltimore?

But that's just me. Guys who are young, dumb and full 'o cum bore me senseless. I'd rather be with a guy who's graying at the temples and gives great head than bother with some monosyllabic twink.

My theory, at last, is this: Rockers fuck these women because they're lithe and tasty and forbidden. That part is simple. But they date and marry these women because they (the women) are attractively powerless. When your entire persona hinges on the air-pressure in your ego, you can't be with a women who poses a threat to your primacy. It's much smarter to find a mute ornament--she'll impress your hoary friends without challenging you intellectually or creatively. Younger women are more deferential by nature. No 14-year-old is going to tell Jimmy Page he's not a genius. No swimsuit model is going to tell Rod Stewart that his Great American Songbook album is unlistenable. Eric Clapton doesn't have to worry that his beaming, fertile young bride will head into the studio one day and cut an album that surpasses anything he's done in years. These women are safe, because they're not equals. Also, they're capable of bearing the rocker more progeny. Don't forget that. Every wrinkled Hall of Fame coot needs a "status toddler" to prove he can still get it up.

I guess you could get all philosophical and argue that jaded rock stars are enchanted by the relative innocence and exuberance of teenage girls. The Penny Lane thing. But still, that's got to get old. Doesn't it?

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 2, 2005 9:34 AM

 

Perspective

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I would ordinarily bitch about how some ding-dong tried (semi-successfully) to steal the fountain out of our front yard last night. But man, that trifling shit pales in comparison to what's going down in the Big Easy and other areas hit by Hurricaine Katrina. My Presby-prayers (and a few Catholic ones) go out to everyone down south who's suffering right now. You know things are grim when I actually turn on CNN. The last time I watched CNN was late 2001.

I'll blog more later, but I gots to work.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 1, 2005 10:35 AM

 

I love the blogiverse.

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And may I recommend Frankie Can't Relax for those seeking a sidesplitting chronicle of single life (and justifiable hatred of TheKnot.com)? Those are her real lips, y'all. Check it out.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 30, 2005 1:19 PM

 

Overheard in the Pussy Wagon:

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Jonny: "Look at how wide that Buick is."

Me: "It's like the car version of my ass."

Jonny: "You would never have a Bush/Cheney sticker on your ass."

******************

Did anyone else sit through the VMA telecast on Sunday night? God, that was more grotesque than  Comedy Central's Roast of Pamela Anderson, and Courtney Love's heart-shaped box wasn't even on display. Explain to me how R. Kelly pacing back and forth onstage, lip-syncing haphazardly to that ridiculous "I flip back the cover...oh my God, a rubber!" song constitutes actual entertainment. Video!

Also? I am old. When I was part of the VMA's target demographic, I looked forward to that broadcast with the zeal of a wee Gentile on Christmas Eve. Remember the '97 awards, when Marilyn Manson grimaced in a latex thong, Fiona Apple railed against the music industry's "bullshit" at the podium, and Puff Daddy publicly mourned his fat homie alongside Sting? That was actually kind of cool. But Sunday's "50 Cent, feat. Four Shouting Guys" crap didn't electrify me. Eva Longoria in her weird little Valentino-esque swimsuit and Claire's Boutique phony-tail didn't even raise my dewpoint. Huh.

Bonus "Song That Sucks Dong": "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton: Attention, high school dance committees. You might want to reconsider using this ballad as the theme for your next Sadie Hawkins soiree. Know why? Because it's not actually a romantic song. It's about a marblemouthed drunk who has to be carted home by his trophy wife/nursemaid after boozing himself to the point of impotency. Seriously. Listen to it and be enlightened. Love, Diablo "I Quickly Put it on Vibrate" Cody

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 30, 2005 10:43 AM

 

Three More Songs That Lick Dong

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1. "Morning Has Broken" Cat Stevens

If Jonny wants to infuriate me, he knows all he has to do is sit down at the upright piano in our living room and bang out that oodly-noodly Bach-wannabe intro to "Morning Has Broken." Oh, how I despise this song. I don't mind the rest of Cat Stevens' oeuvre, but this one makes me want to Cut my Boddy into Peeces. The organist at the Catholic church I attended as a kid used to play a molasses-slow, (allegedly) drunken version of this at daily Mass (yes, you heard right, daily.) The woman sounded like she had fallen asleep at the pedals. Also, if pussies could sing, they would sound like Cat Stevens.

2. "Epic" Faith No More

First of all, these assholes killed an actual fish for that flopping-ichthyoid sequence at the end of the video. Secondly, I once (and by "once" I mean a very long time ago) dated this guy who really liked Faith no More. He also liked: his mullet haircut, Kentucky Fried Movie, abusing women, and giving really shitty gifts. Therefore, Faith No More sucks. Confession: Last night as I was compiling this list, Jonny tried to convince me to add "Cult of Personality" by Living Colour. Unfortunately, I sort of like that song. Same goes for "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman. Sorry Jonny. "AIIIEEEE-hi had a feeling that I belonged..." That's dope!

3. "Cat's Cradle" Harry Chapin

Wow, a song designed to make people feel like shit! Whether you're a parent or a child (and chances are, you fall into one or both of those categories) there's something in this song that's sure to inspire self-loathing. I do this really annoying thing where I make up new and absurd verses to "Cat's Cradle" to see if I can upset people. The lyrics can be about anything, and people will get equally maudlin. For instance: Someone makes a peanut butter sandwich and puts the jar of Skippy back in the frigo. I'll start singing "You put the peanut butter away...maybe you'll have some another day. But the peanut butter feels so alone as it languishes in its chilly home." Inevitably, the person will be like "I LOVE YOU PEANUT BUTTER! I'm sorry!" It works in any situation. Try it!

I'll add more once I find myself inspired/irritated anew.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 25, 2005 11:15 AM

 

My Five Least Favorite Songs

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5. "Old Time Rock and Roll" Bob Seger

From the staccato piano intro (a harbinger of suck if there ever was one) to the sucktastic fadeout, this song blows like Chloe Sevigny at Cannes 2004. Every time "Old Time Rock and Roll" comes on the radio, my mother cranks up the volume to a sensible 4 and declares, "Now this is a great tune!" Mom is wrong. Bob Seger has only ever written one good song, and this ain't it. Nor is it the one where he rhymes "Katmandu" with "that's what I'm gonna do." Really Bob? Is that really really where you're going to?

4. "Time in a Bottle" Jim Croce

This song is gratuitous, icky, and has a vaguely gay Ren Faire vibe that sets my teeth on edge. It's like when you have an orgasm and you're beyond done but the guy keeps messing with your clit anyway and you're like "QUIT MESSING WITH MY CLIT, VIGGO!" It's just...oogy and oversensitive. Plus, I hate songs about the fleeting nature of time (with the exception of "Dust in the Wind," which rules. You're my boy, Blue!)

3. "Far Behind" Candlebox

Man, did I hate Candlebox during their brief moment of popularity circa 1993. Sample lyric: "I didn't mean to treat you oh so bad. But I did it anyway." Dude, obviously you did mean to treat her "bad" (sic)--if you hadn't, said poor treatment wouldn't have been the conscious choice implied by the "anyway." It's a matter of semantics. And the fact that you are a total dong.

2. "All That She Wants" Ace of Base

An easy target to be sure, but there's nothing worse than phonetically-sung Swedish synth pop that isn't Abba. I would possibly crack if forced to listen to this song repeatedly. Even once makes me twitch. It doesn't help that when I was in ninth grade, I was forced to do choreographed calisthenics to this song in gym class. (Of course, when it was my turn to pick the music, I forced the other girls to do squats and lunges to "Peace Frog" by the Doors. Revenge is sweet.)

1. "Life's Been Good to Me So Far" Joe Walsh

Wow, it must suck being rich. Please whine about it some more, smegma-head.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 22, 2005 6:10 PM

 

Thanky-spanky

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I want to extend a quick but sincere thanks to everyone of you who emailed me this week. I received an astonishing volume of sweet, funny and/or complimentary messages out of the clear blue, and those are the best kind to get. Many deep rectal kisses from me. Y'all are cool.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 22, 2005 10:38 AM

 

Boo

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Being the horror aficianado I am, people have asked me if I'm planning to see Red Eye this weekend. I sure as heck am.

First of all, it's directed by Wes Craven, which automatically means it's going to make me piss myself. Jonny and I are such big Wes Craven fans that we watched Nightmare with the commentary on the other night just so we could hear his incongruously soothing voice. Secondly, Rachel McAdams (that hot bitch from Mean Girls and The Notebook) stars, and she's fun to look at. Third, the trailer tricked me into thinking it was a meet-cute romantic comedy until, you know, horrific things started happening very suddenly, like Cillian Murphy getting FREAKY EVIL EYES. I enjoy being tricked. It's been eons since a quality horror movie came out, so I'm there by default.

In other news, I'm craving cinnamon toast, enchiladas, and Sprite Remix.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 15, 2005 6:18 PM

 

Flies to honey

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Like the remedial housewife I am, I accidentally left a sack of decaying russet potatoes under the sink for months. Jon noticed a few days ago that swarms of flies were congregating in the kitchen and alighting on everything. Jonny hates flies, moreso than the average person. He bought flypaper and a sadistic fly motel-type contraption and prepared the traps. Yesterday he peeked under the sink and shouted in horror; the offending sack of rotten taters had been discovered, swarming with flies. Thar's your trouble, ma'am.

Jonny bravely rushed the foul sack out to the trash while the child and I beat a quick retreat to her bedroom, screaming and eek-ing all the way. That explains why my kitchen has smelled like rotten potatoes for literally months. Yes, I am that dense.

The whole point of my relaying this nasty yarn comes here: Last night, Jonny got really drunk on Absolut Apeach; he was swallowing whole glasses of the stuff. He wandered into the kitchen with a magazine and started swatting at every surviving fly he could find. "I have to find the queen," he slurred. "I bet she's heavy with eggs."

Maybe you had to be there.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 15, 2005 12:24 PM

 

Totally Awesome Animal Entry

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I've been innundated (okay, not exactly innundated, more like gently prodded) with requests for photos of my menagerie. May I present the Flatulent Three for your pleasure:

Agnes

This is Agnes of Dog, otherwise known as I'll Give You Something to Smile About. A sage poet named Edie Brickell once said that religion is a smile on a dog. She was right. Check out the Miss Universe grin on 'Gnes! But before you coo too delightedly, be aware that this dog was probably digging cat shit out of the litter box five minutes prior to being photographed. Her breath smells like a mass grave.

Here's Aggie in a more soulful mood. If I catch her looking this cute, I'll inevitably wrap my arms around her and yell some nonsense like "Ooh! Coyote Pretty wants a big kiss from Mama!" She suffers my delusions nobly.

Here's Agnes begging for attention as I compose some work of genius (ie; surf Google Images for celebrity nip slips.) The laundry on the floor is an anomaly. I never leave clothes on the office floor. I leave them on the basement floor, so they can get nice and moldly and reek of feline emissions. God invented warshin' machines so we could be careless with our finery.

George

I only have one picture of George to share today, but I think you'll agree that it's priceless. The face says it all. This is my rotund, snuggable, 25-lb graemlin of love. I refer to the other animals as my pets, but I unironically call George my son. God, I have to go zrrbrrt his paunch now.

Larry, aka Douchepacker

Once again, the face says it all. You can see the depths of madness in his eyes. I admit the little half-Hitler schmear on his upper lip is kind of cute. The dripping mandibles and insatiable bloodlust? Not so much.

I call this one "Shroud of Douchepacker." This is a typical Larry tactic: hiding somewhere he's certain to be found, then attacking once approached. I never expected these servicable gold Ikea curtains to become battle camouflage, but Larry is clever when it comes to unleashing hell. Once again, I'm willing to admit that he's cute, but the scars on my calves don't lie.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 11, 2005 4:49 PM

 

Galleys humor

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I received a few advance copies, aka "galleys", of the book yesterday. It was very surreal to see my ramblings in book form. I still think the front cover looks unnervingly like this, but I'm no designer, so whatevs. I hope people like it. I know I could get fucking eviscerated by the critics--I've made peace with that possibility--but I'm way more fearful of readers' responses. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm secretly glad the Fametracker forums don't exist anymore, specifically the "Publishing and Multimedia" section. The last thing I need is to read multiparagraph posts about what an inarticulate cow I am.

Eh, this book stuff is small potatoes, no? A mere hobby. It's not like writing the book caused any kind of radical unheaval in my life or my relationships with my family. Oh wait, it totally did. Right.

Last night I caught a sneak preview of The 40-Year-Old Virgin. It was up there with Anchorman in terms of hilarity. Recommended!

Quote of the day: Jonny: "I kind of want to see Ice Princess, but I don't want to say why."

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 11, 2005 10:46 AM

 

Big pimpin'

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I was on the Lori & Julia show yesterday, and like a dolt, I forgot to beseech people to tune in. You can hear me being uncharacteristically dry and professorial soon, when I post an mp3. If you'd like to hear me speak in Real! Life! go ahead and walk down the hallway to my office. I'm the chick with the Aladdin Sane mullet, wearing a cheap sundress and eating chocolate graham crackers like they're going out of style. Lori and Julia were awesome, incidentally. They were nice as fuck.

Also, my book Candy Girl is now available for pre-order on Amazon. Like, buy it now so you don't forget or something. It'll be a fun post-holiday treat to read in the tub, especially if you like graphic descriptions of cum on Plexiglass. If you hate it, you can always post obnoxious reviews attacking my personal character. I love that.

Also, yesterday Jonny suggested that Josh Saviano play him in the hypothetical movie version of Candy Girl. I plotzed laughing because, dang! Most guys who'd spent the last three weeks gyrating in leather trousers for screaming teens would be all puffed up with pride. Not my husband. He still thinks he looks like Paul Pfieffer.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 10, 2005 10:08 AM

 

Some positive things about living in Minnesota

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Since I've been doggin' on our Fair, er fair state for week upon humid week, allow me to offer a sprightly Defence of the Land o' Lakes:

1. In Minnesota, you can be invited to a church function that promises "a light supper," only to arrive and discover that in Minnesota, "a light supper" means "a gut-busting three-course meal that would bring Andre the Giant to his Greenlandish knees." This actually happened to us on Sunday. I appreciate that approach to portion control, ie; no control whatsoever. We staggered out of that church, I tell you.

2. Minnesota is so left-wing that they actually have churches for people like me.

3. Last night I was at a bar with a large group of pals and satellite pals, and people were having a sincere, non-ironic conversation about where to buy the best venison jerky, and whether bear meat is actually worth eating. (The verdict: too greasy.)

4. Apparently many people here have second homes called "cabins." Normal people, not just Richie-Rich shitheads with platinum waterslides.

5. Bars. Lots of 'em. And I don't mean taverns.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 9, 2005 10:08 AM

 

Jonny's Response to My State Fair Rant

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"See, but the whole thing about the state fair is: There's NOTHING cool to do there, and that's precisely the point. Its a little slice of rural america, which is exactly what we lack here in the city. I think Minnesotans, especially city-dwelling ones, either a) wish they were living in a small town, b) grew up in a small town and miss rural culture, or c) are fascinated by rural culture because their uncles, aunts, etc. were part of it. I grew up visiting various small towns, farms, etc. most of my childhood -- in fact, I think the BEST fair experience I ever had were the little COUNTY fairs I used to go to as a kid, which were ten times more redneck and rural than the State Fair. Try the Freeborn County Fair in Albert Lea if you wanna see some REAL fair goin'.

Its a chance to get away from hipster culture and look at COWS. I mean, I can see where that wouldn't be appealing to a lot of people, but personally, I *need* that once a year or so to remind myself that yes, there is a world outside of the Big City that isn't full of hipsters and cool stuff to do -- its full of stupid stuff, animals, tractors, idiots, bad food, crazy culture, etc -- basically small town crap. Exactly the antithesis of coolness. Which is why I find it an ENORMOUS tonic. Its hard to be cool eating a frickin' blooming onion and staring at an International Harvester tractor. And that's why its cool, NOBODY who goes there can be cool at all.

I mean, hell, COWS.

I'm guessing that in Chicago there are a lot fewer people who grew up in rural or farm-belt Illinois -- most of them are very likely native Chicagoans who were born in Chicago, lived in Chicago, die in Chicago, big city people all their lives. In minnesota, I'd bet about 50% of people in Minneapolis probably started out in some small town and moved here for the opportunity. They at very LEAST spent a lot of time in small towns growing up. Probably a lot more than Illinoisans." --Email sent by Jonny

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 4, 2005 2:00 PM

 

All's fair and I'm a whore

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The Minnesota State Fair is, inexplicably, a big fucking deal. Every year, hordes of people named Leif Johanssen and Erika Andersson and Gretschen Schmedke descend on the fairgrounds for four humid days, inhaling a humid airborne broth of carny sweat, funnel cake batter, Axe deodorant (available in X-Treme scents like "Battered Wife," "Nearly Gay," and "The Shocker"), and, of course, animal fecal matter. Our state fair is no different than your state fair, except chances are, NOBODY GIVES A WET FUCK about your state fair while our state fair is treated like some kind of monumental, unmissable event.

To wit: I lived in Illinois for 18+ years, and to this day I have no idea where the Illinois State Fair is held or if it even exists. That's because Illinois is a normal state populated by normal people who have better things to do than gawk at prizewinning sheep. And it's not like Illinois is cosmopolitan or nuthin'. Denizens of the 'Nois don't make any claim to hipness, despite what Sufjan Stevens would have you believe. Illinois is just a long, largely agricultural state that appears to be dripping off the Midwest in hot pursuit of the South. Illinoisans are just folks. Folks who don't give a shit about their state fair. Normal people, in other words.

This year will mark my third Fair as a resident of this state (I managed to dodge the bullet when Jonny and I were merely dating, though I recall excited talk of the Fair.) The first Fair I went to sucked because my then-four-year-old friendchild came along and little kids, frankly, ruin everything. It's "Look at the baby cow!" this and "Buy me some ice cream!" that and "You smell like vodka!" all  friggin' day long. Jeebus, what a trial. The second Fair was considerably more tranquil, but it was pissing rain most of the day. I did, however, see an amazing crop-art rendering of Ray Romano, which made the trip worthwhile. (I just realized after clicking on that link that the Minnesota State Fair has a total monopoly on the crop-art phenomenon. Bizarro.)

Still, I felt a nagging emptiness when I left. That was it? That's the event Minnesotans talk about all year long? I hope this year is nothing short of spectacular so I can quit drinking Haterade, jump on the bandwagon, and suck the Fair's cock like everyone else.

The reason I was inspired to write all this was that I heard a really ridiculous commercial for the Fair on the radio this morning. It was kind of a quasi-rap, only the announcer had no flow. It went like "Seed art! Seed art! Many kinds of swine! Butter sculpting! Livestock! Rah-rah-roo!" or something like that. Wow, so many things and NONE of them appealing! Give yourself a hand, Minnesota!

I am determined to embrace the Fair this year. Third time's the charm. I must be missing something. I must.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 4, 2005 10:51 AM

 

Slightly psychic

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I just felt an inexplicable urge to listen to a currently irrelevant performer on my iPod. Then I felt an inexplicable urge to check a blog. Said blog featured a new post about said irrelevant performer. Weird.

I'm craving Chinese buffet.

I sitll haven't bought a stripper pole.

I wish I had a mental filter that could block comments from people who aren't nice.

I haven't been to church in two and a half weeks.

My hair is an electric dandelion color that makes me look like the thick Dixie Chick circa 1998.

There are no cash machines in this Romania I work in.

I broke down and bought some more lipgloss yesterday.

I am not going to accept the offer to rewrite this one movie because I secretly think it's already good. Secretly.

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 3, 2005 4:12 PM

 

The High Dive

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We went to the community pool yesterday. I'm relieved to report that community pool culture hasn't changed a whit since I was 12. They still have "nachos" at the concession (orange plasticene cheese piped onto a wreck of tortilla chips), tween Lolitas in string bikinis, and incontinent toddlers slathered with Coppertone SPF 120. The air smells like popcorn and chlorine. By August, even the most Nordic Minnesotans are brown and rested from weekends on the lake; they no longer sport those shamelful fishbelly-white paunches.

In the small town where I grew up, a place with a curious economic mix of working-class Poles and Porsche-driving socs, Centennial Pool was the place to be. If you were lucky, your mom would get you a season pass and you'd spend all summer camped out poolside, flirting with your best friends' cousins. I was not very popular at the pool because I didn't have tits. I didn't have any tits. The tit situation was so grave that when I entered the water, my hot pink Ocean Pacific suit sagged all the way down to my midsection (it was made of that heavy bicycle-shorts spandex), revealing my emaciated sternum and puckered baby nips to the entire crowd. That was a dark day, and I probably deserved the humilation for insisting on purchasing a suit from the teen department at Kohls when I was clearly still child-sized. 

My husband, by contrast, was only cool at the local pool. As he puts it, "I wasn't school-cool. I was pool-cool." Girls who usually ignored him went wild for his dark native tan in the summer months. Those vacation subcultures always fuck up the hierarchy.

Anyway, I jumped off the high dive yesterday for old times' sake.  I got water in my nose upon impact and my bikini predictably went straight up my ass, but it was still fun dogpaddling to the ladder next to adrenalized nine year-olds.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 1, 2005 1:22 PM

 

A Most Delightful Mistake

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Yesterday, my older brother accidentally emailed me a series of what appeared to be professional nude photos of Eva Longoria. I embrace such serendipitous gaffes. Upon ogling these pics, I assumed they were clever fakes--I hadn't heard anything about the least-desperate Housewife posing in the altogether, and I do mean altogether. Jonny (a graphics man by trade) selflessly agreed to examine the photos and ascertain if any Photoshop wizardry had transpired. He couldn't see any signs of tampering. Also, the head in the photos definitely belongs to Eva Longoria. Where in tarnation did these pictures come from? I've seen established celebrities do tasteful nudes before, but I've never seen one "flash the hamburger," if you know what I'm saying.

You're probably all like "Who cares?" I do, fucker. I have an issue of Celebrity Skin tucked into a hidey-hole in my house, and that magazine has logged quite a few miles, as the index finger flies. Naked celebrities are the best kind of naked people. Especially when said celebrities are gunning for legitimacy, only to be knocked off the pedestal by the timely release of some ten-year-old softcore pics.

(Alleged) Eva Longoria looks real good naked, incidentally. She has that tan, boyish, perfect thing happening. I shouldn't have looked at those pictures before bed. I undressed and stared at myself contemptously, like "Why can't my thighs be the same circumference as my upper arms?" Plus, I keep reading items about that bitch pigging out on tortilla soup and craft services goodies behind the scenes, while Marcia Cross and Teri Hatcher pop Stacker 2 and stare at her enviously. I fell asleep and dreamed that I had a loose, marsupial-like pouch of flesh on my tummy. Then I gave birth to an 11-pound baby, whom I named Jeffrey. My dreams never make sense.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 28, 2005 11:46 AM

 

IMD-Beeyotch

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It is officially real.

Scanning the description, I take some issue with the word "bizarre" being used to describe Juno's rather sage decision. Still, if the word "bizarre" prompts people to see the movie in hopes of seeing some kind of grotesque baby-eating climax, so much the better!

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 27, 2005 9:46 AM

 

Deprived of a Vital Nutrient

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I am not watching nearly enough television.

I have missed the last few episodes of The Surreal Life, Blowout, The Real World: Austin, and...well, I haven't really been watching jack. TV is light therapy for me; I absorb that healthy blue glow like a vitamin supplement. Lately, though, other distractions have been taking precedence. Writing. Repeated and studious viewings of Wes Anderson movies. Watching my husband gyrate in leather pants on an outdoor stage. Supervising the installation of now-useless air conditioners (Minneapolitans can thank me for this welcome cold front, as it obviously coincides with my purchase of central air.) I've been busy. Too busy.

I must make more time for TV. TV is my friend, my nurse. As a kid, I watched episodes of Spectraman on Super 66 for hours while my parents were at work. I learned valuable lessons about giant robots and their effect on mobs of Japanese people. As a depressed college student, I eschwed Prozac and chose to medicate myself with MTV. As I watched blocks of Busta Rhymes videos and marathons of Singled Out, I realized that things could be worse. I could be Jesse Camp. Or Vaj, Montana's cuckolded boyfriend on The Real World: Boston. I could be screaming "WHORE!" on national television.
Yes, TV has taught me many things.

Once, my parents took my brother and I on vacation to a picturesque seaside town in Florida. We quickly realized our beach house had cable (we did not have cable at home) and subsequently spent the entire vacation indoors, desperately trying to catch up with our well-informed, cable-subscribing peers. This was the summer of Beavis and Butthead, and we were insatiable. Fuck the ocean.

I gotta get that early passion back, man.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 26, 2005 11:46 AM

 

Sounds like someone's got a case of the Mondays!

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If you see me out and about and my face is crumpled with fatigue and annoyance, don't assume the worst. Seems I'm allergic to reality, and even a totally deck new haircut can't salve that wound. Chances are I'll be back to my optimistic self by Wednesday. In the meantime, I'll think lovely thoughts: Fluffernutter sandwiches! MTV Yoga! Virginia Madsen's nipple!

I should be in an awesome mood, since Jonny and I saw the Beach Boys at Mystic Lake last night. Longtime readers know that Jonny and I are obsessed with the Beach Boys in an entirely sincere, non-ironic way and actually met on a Beach Boys fansite. Now, the 2005 incarnation of the Boys only contains two legitimate members: original gangsta Mike Love, and Bruce Johnston who joined the band semi-officially in the Pet Sounds era and still has an achingly boyish voice. Mike and Bruce did a fine job playing the hits for the mostly geriatric crowd last night; we got a surf medley, a car medley, and a couple of ballads. Overall, it wasn't a spiritual thing like a Brian Wilson show, but I was entertained and twitterpated in that fangirl way.

I did not need to see Bruce and Mike dance awkwardly to "Dre Day" in mock-rapper poses. Yes, that really happened. People over 60 who are entirely unfamiliar with the genre should never rap, crunk, or "throw down." Also, Mike? Your joke about "N'Stink" was slightly stale. Slightly. But I still love you, bald man.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 25, 2005 12:35 PM

 

The Pusherman

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My psy-doc, to employ an overused simile, prescribes meds like candy. On Monday I went in to get my new Adderall prescription (after a failed experiment with another more insidious drug) and he tossed a sample pack of Lexapro at me as if it were a roll of Gummi Savers. I have no intention of taking the Lexapro, as I am not at all depressed and I don't aspire to anorgasmia. The Adderall? So far, meh. The first day I felt incredibly focused and euphoric. The dry eyes, chapped lips, and shivering didn't really concern me because I was kicking ass, productivity-wise. I was completing tasks, y'all! But today, I feel achy, tired, kind of tweaky in a meth-addict sort of way, and worst of all, my appetite has vanished I've eaten maybe twice in the last 48 hours, and both meals were technically snacks. Bye-bye, nice fat ass. I'm nosediving into Nicole Richie territory. I'll force myself to eat if I have to. I like having breasts and enough padding to protect my internal organs.

The nice stuff about this junk is that it wears off by nightfall, so I go to bed feeling like a normal girl, perhaps even a bit randier than usual thanks to the residual stimulant in my bloodstream. I don't think there is a solution to adult ADD, frankly. For every quirk the speed supresses, there's always a few that slip under the radar. My head is much quieter now, but I still space out every few minutes. I can finish a job, but I still find myself fighting distractions midtask. I still fidget. I'd up my dosage, except I don't want to, like, DIE. I hate drugs, believe it or not. I'm way more of a booze person. Alcohol temporarily controls depression, social anxiety, sexual inhibition, even OCD. It's a magical elixer! Don't tell me a couple of High Lifes are more dangerous than the amphetamines I'm legally popping right now. Hell, rub High Life on a baby's gums and peace is restored in the house. It's a charming and harmless potion. I mean, *hic*, a harming and charmless postion.Wai, wai, wait... 

We shall see if I remain on the Adderall. If I don't, yeah, you can have some.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 21, 2005 3:41 PM

 

Hello, Birdie

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Thursday is the opening night of the New Hope Outdoor Theater's production of Bye Bye, Birdie. This is notable information because my husband Jonny plays the titular cad, fictional '60s rocker Conrad Birdie. I have been watching rehearsals of this epic staging and I can assure you it is better than Cats. Way better. Also, you won't get molested by Rumpleteazer backstage. Jonny has a hot voice and he totally has the requisite pelvic-swivel down pat.

Unfortunately, the close attention I've paid to this production means that I've unwittingly memorized the entire fucking libretto. Want to hear my one-person rendition of "Telephone Hour"? How about my touching take on "One Last Kiss"? Jonny and I have both taken to singing "Kids" in loud, Paul Lynde voices whenever there's a lull in conversation. "Keeeeeeeeyads! I don't know what's wrong with these kids to-day!"

If you're unfamiliar with Birdie, I suggest you rent the movie version with Ann-Margret, who was eerily Lohan-esque in her youth. Ann-Margret is supposed to be playing an innocent small-town teen, but you can tell by the gleam in her eyes that she's all whore. ALL WHORE. Beneath those chaste capri pants, that carrot-colored snatch is pleading for rock star cock. You can just tell.

I hope the New Hope Outdoor Theater mounts a production of Oklahoma next year, as is rumored. Because I'm going to audition. I was born to play Ado Annie, the town bicycle. Plus, my dad played Will many years ago, so I'm an Oklahoma legacy! Now I just need voice lessons. Months of voice lessons.

The latest R&B song lyric that's cracking my ass up: "Don't you wish your girlfriend was RAW like me?" The delivery is just so desperate and pompous that you know the guy being taunted is secretly thinking "No."

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 19, 2005 12:21 PM

 

Ghetto Cooling System

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There is no heatwave that an icy-cold sprinkler and a pitcher of red Kool-Aid can't effectively combat. Ahhh.

We're finally getting air conditioning on Monday, but I think I might secretly miss the low-cost alternative we've been rockin'.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 16, 2005 7:30 PM

 

Breaking News

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1. My dog pilfered, unwrapped (without much finesse) and ate an entire roll of cherry Rolaids a couple of days ago. If you live in my neighborhood, you may have noticed that pink diarrhea now runs in the streets like a biblical plague. I'm sorry.

2. Taco John's (the Heartland's best quasi-Mexican chain) is still better than Taco Bell. Have you ever glanced at a standard burrito and thought to yourself, "That would be way better with some tater tots stuffed inside?" Look no further. "But wait," you say. "John isn't a Mexican name and this doesn't really taste like Mexican food..." SILENCE! You'll eat your tot-engorged burrito like all the other children in Iowa and you'll like it!

3. It's Thursday again, already. Well blow me down!

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 14, 2005 12:11 PM

 

The Douchepacker at Rest

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He thinks he's cute, but he's so not.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 10, 2005 3:20 PM

 

Mah New Bikini! TEE HEE!

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First whippets, now wardrobe: Reddi-Whip is a versatile tool!

P.S. Notice that I painted my hallway the color of Kraft Dinner. TEE-RASH!

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 10, 2005 3:17 PM

 

Little Grace Gives Grandma a Tragedy Boner!

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"Are you blogging about that preemie doll?" Jonny just asked me, peering into the office.

"Yes," I replied honestly.

"That preemie doll" is a cuddly collectible advertised in the Enquirer this week (the issue with Garner and Affleck marrying on the cover, smug in the knowledge that their lantern-jawed bastard will be born into legitimacy.) The doll is called "May God Bless You, Little Grace," and it's an eerily lifelike premature infant, complete with wrinkled vinyl visage, hospital bracelet and tiny knit cap. Preemies are an extremely popular subgenre in the tragedy porn industry; women of a certain age and temperament seem to think that there's nothing cuter than an underweight baby with life-threatening health problems.

This isn't the first preemie doll I've seen advertised in a white trash rag, but it's definitely the funniest. Here's why: Underneath the large and gratuitous photo of ailing Baby Grace, there's some fine print. IIt reads: "Part of the proceeds of the sale of 'May God Bless You, Little Grace' will go toward the prevention of premature births."

So...you're aiding in the prevention of the very condition you're fetishizing?

Interesting.

It's like if there was a porn video called "Sopping Wet Black Pussy" and all the proceeds went to the KKK.

P.S. We did some whippets behind the supermarket last night. I've officially trumped last week's Garbage Beer Binge in terms of ultra-trashitude.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 9, 2005 7:11 PM

 

Bus Stories

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This morning on the 14R, a guy holding a stuffed flamingo got on and promptly plopped down next to me, even though there were other seats available. He then proceeded to wave the flamingo in front of my face as if I were a infant at Sears Portrait Studio and he was trying to provoke a smile. I remained stoic. He waved the flamingo some more. Finally, I laughed. He put the flamingo down, with a proud expression that clearly said: my work is done here. He didn't bother me for the remainder of the ride.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 8, 2005 10:59 AM

 

Mommy Blog Alert!

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I know you visit the Pussy Ranch because you've come to rely on me for sick, offensive content, gratuitious use of the word "cunt," slobbering descriptions of Virginia Madsen's highly lickable areolae in the movie Candyman, and straightforward, no-bullshit reviews of pickles. (Gedneys are still the best--piquant, zingy, and steeped in just enough dill.)

That said, I have to blog something sappy: My buddy Allison at long last brought forth a baby boy from her fruitful loins. Mom and son are trapped at the hospital for the time being because Wee Man is jaundiced. But that's OK, because jaundice is totally happening right now. Look at Lindsay Lohan!

It's so weird that a mere eight and a half months ago at our Vegas wedding, we didn't know Allison was preggers. And now? Instant mommy! I'm totally twitterpated for her and her husbo, and of course, I selfishly can't wait to hold the boy and inhale his Baby Scent, which is third only to New Mercedes Scent and Stripper Scent in the pantheon of awesome smells. I love other people's babies.

Speaking of babies, did you know that newborn kangaroos kind of look like pussy?Me neither.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 6, 2005 2:36 PM

 

"Why?"

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I was cleaning the living room and listening to "Big Poppa" today (possibly the only song ever to glorify eggs, cheese and Welch's Grape) and I had to note the Best Lyric Ever.

Biggie: "You got a gun up in your waist, please don't shoot up the place."

Puffy: "Why?"

WHY? Good question, Puff. Unsheathing a gat and firing on hundreds of innocent bystanders is always a sound decision. Why, indeed? Gunplay livens up any soiree! Loosen up, Biggie!

But then Big replies "''Cause I see some ladies tonight who should be havin' my baby."

Fair enough. Puff, don't murder any women until they've successfully conceived, enabled gestation and delivered Biggie's offspring. After all these fecund women have carried out their urgent task, feel free to pull out your firearm of choice and put some holes in the wall. But if you notice any other women with baby-making potential, put the deuce-deuce down, m'kay?

Puffy and Biggie, y'all were crazy!

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 4, 2005 1:30 PM

 

The King of Bums

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Note to self: Never again allow yourself to get so wasted that you fish a half-full can of Budweiser out of a PUBLIC GARBAGE CAN and drink it in front of your horrified companions.

(It was still cold and delicious.)

Today, I have to figure out how to exorcise The Stench from my basement. There's this kid nobody wanted to sit near when I was in first grade because he smelled like a rotten cheeseburger soaked in ammonia. That exact smell has begun permeating my rec room. I have no idea where it's coming from, but I will find it. I'm going to rent one of those ultrapowered carpet cleaners that you have to be licensed to operate in certain Atlantic states. Meanwhile, my bonus girl is watching Saturday morning cartoons down there, ignoring the Stench with the practiced concentration of a child who's learned to ignore lots of things. I swear I can smell it all the way up here, and keep in mind, my olfactory nerves have been all but numbed by constant exposure to three stank pets and public garbage cans stocked with cool, delicious Budweiser.

Posted by Diablo Cody at July 2, 2005 9:58 AM

 

Allergic to Minnesota

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Perhaps I'm particularly sensitive after having spent four dizzying days in the land of sun, frolic, and $12 vodka martinis with olives the size of regulation volleyballs. All I know is that right now, Minneapolis is looking uglier than a Koosa's ass. (Or a Koosa's face, for that matter. Did anyone actually own a Koosa, or were they designed exclusively for blind children?)

The Minneapolis skyline reminds me of a neurotic's thumbnail: short, jagged, hard to look at. Clouds the color of dryer lint, the unofficial screensaver of June '05, are a fitting backdrop. There are a lot of wonderful reasons to live here, but I'm blanking on the specifics. I think I need another night out in Nordeast!

Right now I'm listening to "Who Made Who" by AC/DC, which is probably the best song off the Maximum Overdrive soundtrack. (Are there other songs on the Maximum Overdrive soundtrack, or is it just 45 minutes of "Who Made Who" with highway noise overdubs?) Strip club imprinting makes it impossible for me to listen to the 4/4 pyrotechnics of drummer Phil Rudd without writhing in my chair. I'm finally getting a stripper pole for my house, which means I'll be bitching about my broken femur in no time. You guys can send me flowers, OK?

Did you hear that? I'm finally getting a stripper pole for my house. Something must have changed in my life, but what?

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 30, 2005 3:56 PM

 

I'm still here, I swear.

Filed under: Imported

I'll blog soon. I apologize for the lengthy absence.

In the meantime, here's a tantalizing blind item: Which douchelike black-and-white cat BIT MY FUCKING NOSE last night as I was drifting off to sleep, leaving a swollen toothmark on the bridge of said nose and inspiring unspeakable rage in the victim?

Guess who! Don't sue!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 29, 2005 8:14 AM

 

Fuckin' Russia!

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The Rainbow grocery store in my neighborhood is like Russia. There's a pervasive air of desperation, pathos, and general clamoring for spoiled foodstuffs. They only keep three checkout lanes open at any one time, even during peak shopping hours, and the lines snake all the way back to the deli case. I frequent this store because it's a stone's throw from the bricks n' mortar Pussy Ranch, but my patience is dwindling. I bought a donut there this morning and the frosting had calcified into an impentrable saccharine mantle that crunched. Frosting should not crunch.

Enough bourgeoius angst: I had a blast last night with the imcomparable NordEast Blog Lit Club. They got me drunk, they gave me presents(!) and they enabled my strip club jones by taking me to the Deuce Deuce for the latter half of the evening. (A lithe brunette peeling off her Spandex  to "We Are All On Drugs" was a highlight.) All in all, it was a wonderful time and I shall be forever grateful. And judging by the way I feel this morning, forever hungover. WORTH IT.

Tonight I leave for L.A. (movie business fun!) and I'm scared witless or shitless or some variation thereof. Traveling alone is weird. The last time I went to L.A. alone, I was meeting Jonny for the first time. Now I'm returning as Mrs. Jonny. I'm going to miss him the first couple of days, but he's joining me on Friday, at which point we will set up camp at the Rainbow and reemerge on Sunday. Aging hair metal dudes + mobsters + '70s ambiance= fun.

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 22, 2005 2:00 PM

 

POSTIN' RECORD, BITCHSNIFFERS!

Filed under: Imported

Crush on Michael Showalter persists. Zach Braff exiled to D-list of masturbation fantasies. Just kidding, I never think about celebrities when I masturbate, or any boy besides my husband, for that matter. I think about AMATEURS, baby. The loosey-goosey garage sale blondes with the frayed Wranglers and the Caesarean scars. The gals who, in the space of 45 minutes, graduate from "I've never done this" to "Plug my ass, both of y'all!" Women with acne and underbites. Women with hot tub lung and honeymoon cystitis. Bitches.

I got a video camera for my birthday. Now I just need to find some amateurs. I can't put myself in such a film, because I'm afraid Bill Cosby will appear, point to my jiggling haunches, and make some pithy comment about pudding. I need lean, mean, scrawny AMATEURS with a genuine desire to MAKE IT in Codywood. I will promise them 14k gold, elaborate feasts at Red Lobster, and the finest foreign-made espadrilles Payless has to offer. They will be shaved in the dank, reeking downstairs bathroom that we never use. They can borrow my clothes for the shoot. I'll make them fit with pins and chewing gum.

I really need to get one of those electric knives my dad used to have. I love the sound they make. GRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNGH! Who wants pot roast?

I'm laughing so hard I'm crying right now. Going nuts is like vacation!

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 17, 2005 3:01 PM

 

Can't stop posting. Manic phase. New meds on Tuesday.

Filed under: Imported

Remember when you were a kid and the community pool would host "adult swim"? And the lifeguard would officiously blow his whistle and all the kids would have to scramble out of the pool? And then the adults, clad in their frumpy L.L. Bean SlimSuits and sagging Chicago Blackhawks trunks would rise, groaning, from their towels and chaises and slowly migrate into the pool like parched hippopatami? And once the adults got into the pool and immersed their huge, sun-scorched bodies in the chlorinated water, they didn't actually do anything? Sure, a couple of them would swim laps, but very slowly, as if they craved the monotony of lap swimming without the cardiovascular benefits? And most of them just bobbed there, staring vacously into the late afternoon sun? And all the displaced children watched enviously from the fringe, dripping wet, neglected, wondering why Adult Swim existed in the first place when the adults clearly didn't deserve the pool and didn't enjoy it and none of them even bothered to attempt a can-opener off the high dive? And it seemed like having a swimming session for adults exclusively seemed as counterproductive and pointless as having a cheese-tasting party for children? Because adults don't appreciate pools and kids don't appreciate fine cheeses, and nobody enjoys themself?

Yeah. I remember that.

They should have "Child Swim," where all the adults have to haul their office-flattened asses out of the pool and their brown, shrieking progeny can enjoy the piss-tainted waters in peace.

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 17, 2005 2:46 PM

 

Katie Holmes and the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake

Filed under: Imported

(For those of you without kindergarteners underfoot, here is the book I am so coyly referencing in the title of this post. That's comedy.)

Seriously, bluck.

Katie Holmes' sweet, sweet mams are wasted on a scrote-groper like Cruise. Have you seen The Gift? She has stealth boobies*, my favorite kind!.

*Stealth boobies: noun. Breasts that look modest and unremarkable in clothing, but are revealed to be surprisingly large when bared. Usage: "Scarlett Johanssen whipped out some major stealth boobies in A Love Song For Bobby Long. I had no idea they were that big." There is also such a thing as reverse stealth boobies, a term which applies to breasts that look much smaller once the bra is removed. Also known as "cheating."

See? Look at that. Who knew?

I mean, I guess it's possible that they're madly in love and deserve well-wishes and blah-de-bloo, but I just feel weird about all this. Plus, the Eiffel Tower is so played out. All the cool people are getting engaged in Turkey.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 17, 2005 2:25 PM

 

Douchepacker

Filed under: Imported

"Yeah, it's me. Diablo's cat. No, not the incredibly fat one. He's somewhere face down in a bowl of coagulated Fancy Feast. Me, I'm actually svelte by comparison, though the vet described me as 'somewhat obese' during my last checkup. Fuck that vet. Fuck everyone. 

 Try to pet me. Seriously, try it. I'll bite your fucking face off and chew it like a baguette. In fact, when Diablo tried to remove me from this desk so she could write, I meowed shrilly, swatted at her with my ineffective clawless paw and sank my teeth into her tender wrist. Diablo regrets the last four years she's spent feeding and sheltering me, seeing as I turned out to be a total douche and all. But that's okay because that guy she married thinks I'm really cute. I've got him totally snowed. I let him carry me around like a doll (if Diablo tried that, she'd need a blood transfusion within moments). I even sleep on his naked body at night, purring raptly in a sick bestial charade of human lovemaking. Yes, Jon will make sure that bitch never 'accidentally' gets rid of me. Haw! Now I'm off to lick my own anus, bully the dog, and groom myself compulsively. Jon will be home soon and I want my paunch to look its whitest."

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 17, 2005 1:32 PM

 

Hyuk!

Filed under: Imported

Okay, that is not a "farmer tan" on that shot of me below. That freak irregularity on my left arm is some kind of technical glitch. I would never tan in cap sleeves, people. I don't wear a Victorian bathing costume to the beach to protect my frail dermis from The Fun'f Opreffive Heat. Give me a modicum of credit.

I had a kickass birthday, possibly the best I've had in years. I accidentally got chocolate cake on  my new whorish satin camisole, but there's something kind of endearing about that, isn't it? Whenever a baby trashes its first birthday cake, everyone acts like it's the cutest thing since the Olsens got their boobies. So therefore, it should be equally--if not more--adorable when a 27 year-old drunk ex-stripper smears birthday cake on her intimate apparel. I AM BETTER THAN A BABY, PEOPLE. I CAN TALK AND GIVE BLOW JOBS AND DO ALL KINDS OF THINGS THAT BABIES ARE TOO DENSE TO MASTER.

I got delightful gifts from Jonny, of course, plus a bottle of "Voovay Clickot" champagne delivered special from my awesome manager. I'll be popping that open as soon as I sober up from last night.

Ranch Experiment!: I'm growing out my pubic hair. I want to finally try getting waxed and I heard it needs to be pretty long to get a decent grip. I will be doing the wax myself (do not doubt my courage and fortitude) and I promise to document the process with photos of my howling, tearstained face. Meanwhile, I'm displeased with my new pubes. They're unruly and they're black. I've read so many issues of Playboy that I forgot that most people have dark kinky pubes, not the perfectly uniform strips of  bleached golden cornsilk seen on porn stars and titty models. Nobody has that naturally, do they?

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 15, 2005 1:32 PM

 

27

Filed under: Imported

Tomorrow is my birthday. I find that after age 21 and the obligatory tequila-soaked campus bacchanal, having a birthday is like watching the odometer roll over to 50,000 in your Corolla. You observe the milestone with interest. You're grateful the car's made it this far, but you don't feel the need to tie streamers to the antenna or anything.

Jon, however, treats each one of my birthdays as if I've just been expelled from my mother's womb on a wave of primordial slime. It's nice! I want to get a sign for our curb that says: "CAUTION: DEF HUSBAND." Because he's so def. He's deffer than the Lep.

So as of tomorrow, I'm a 27 year-old non-gravid Earth female. Ten years ago I was...I don't know. I have no memory of my 17th birthday, though I do remember my 18th vividly. I'm sure I was a very unpleasant teenager. I remember peacocking around in skimpy outfits, drinking, using extremely offensive language, pretending to ass-bang my male friends whenever they bent over and...wait, I haven't changed at all!

(Yes, that is an extremely obese cat lurking behind me. Yes, we've tried altering his diet. No, I don't know why he's that fat. Yes, he's happy. No, he can't effectively clean himself, but the other cat helps out in that regard. Yes, he's ultra-snuggly. Yes, we call him "Jabba the Gutt," "Ham Parsons," "SuShi Fats" (don't ask) and Tummaroo." I love him.)

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 13, 2005 9:07 PM

 

Cue the Ohio Players