Archive for the ‘Larfs’ Category

Some vids have all the suck

June 14, 2010

That’s not true.  I love this video.  I love this song.  I do, however, have some things to say about it, and nothing makes me happier than creating a numbered list.


1.  Red tennis shoes, or maybe deck shoes, on a grown up, presumably straight man.  Even allowing for the fashion clusterfuck that was the eighties, the mind still boggles.

2.  Someone–a director, a manager, a camera guy–decided that despite the lyrics providing the perfect opportunity for a video with a storyline, four straight minutes of Rod Stewart dancing was the way to go.  We can only assume that person had never seen Rod dance.  The jogging in place at 1:58 is a particularly sexy move.

Rod Nylund

Rod Nylund

3.  The hair–is it a mullet?  The mole, which may have its own mullet, but I can’t tell because the video has such low resolution.  The wardrobe choices that decompensate as the video wears on; at one point the man put on a pastel pantsuit that made him look distinctly like Rose Nylund.  And yet, he marries supermodels on a regular basis.

4.  This song contains one of my favorite romantic lines:
You’re just a dream
And as real as it seems I ain’t that lucky.
This may at least partially explain the supermodel wives.

5.  The paint spatters.  The A-Ha “Take On Me” video effects.  The closeups of his bangs.  This is what videography students base their “Video Effects of the 80s” projects on.

6.  A long time ago, you [read: old people like me] would purchase a computer called a Commodore 64, so named because it came with only 64 KB of memory.  Wrap your brain around that shit:  an entire setup–monitor, keyboard, printers, wires–all for 64 KB of memory.  Needless to say, the computers did very little except read floppy disks which held at most about 1.4 MB.  As a point of reference, it would take about three 5 1/2 inch floppies just to hold the mp3 of the song in the video.  Back in those days, there was a program about a little stick dude named Alfredo who couldn’t win for losing.  No matter what he tried to do, he failed, usually spectacularly and heartbreakingly close to achieving his goal.  One of these little sessions was called “Alfredo’s Lost Cause” and the version I had was set to an 8-bit soundtrack of “Some Guys Have All the Luck”.  And that, my friends, is how to make a short story long.

Bonus track:
For reasons that are still shrouded in mystery to me today, as a teenager me and one of my friends were obsessed with Rod Stewart.  We listened to the albums, we giggled and joked, we even went to see him live (I was on painkillers from a dental procedure and freaked out when a giant soccer ball full of confetti exploded above my head).  At some point during this awkward adolescent phase I penned what I still consider to be a fine limerick about Rod Stewart:

There once was a fellow named Rod
Who had a very very nice bod
His legs made me sigh
But his hair made me cry
Because it was so very odd.
© 14-year-old tiffanized

I read this out loud in class.  On an unrelated note, I lost my virginity at a relatively late age.


Things I’m likely to buy whilst drunk

May 3, 2010

Today I got an e-mail from my friends over at  Well, “friends” is a liberal term; I bought some crap from them at some point (possibly while drunk, or at least buzzed) and apparently gave them permission to beg me to buy more crap from them in the future.  I doubt they’re concerned about how my divorce is turning out (fine, thanks) or are planning to invite me to their son’s wedding (I wouldn’t go anyway, so there).  I wouldn’t add them on Facebook since I’ve never met them in real life or on a Twilight blog.  They aren’t my friends, is what I’m saying.

I feel like this has gotten off to a defensive and weird start.  The marketing department at has me on a list to which they sent a mass e-mail about their new product, THE WORLD’S LARGEST GUMMY BEAR.  I’m not yelling, they just caps-locked it right through their product description.  I understand why, though.  Check this bastard out:

Five pounds. Bigger than a football. I've given birth to smaller things than this.

I read the e-mail three times.  Who would buy this thing?  I’m going to go ahead and make the assumption that anyone with thirty spare bucks laying around has no need for a giant, sticky, 12,000 calorie anything. Thirty bucks is a night out at Applebee’s.  Thirty bucks is a big bottle of Patrón for you plus a tiny bottle of Patrón that you can photograph your baby holding and hope child services never finds the picture.  Thirty bucks is a pair of last season’s Anne Klein pumps.  Why would someone drop thirty bucks on a single piece of candy?

If that someone was, say, me, and that someone was, say, drunk, this question would be moot.  I have no ability to turn down something I want while intoxicated.  Irish men, deep fried snack cakes, free puppies, I will invite them all into my life without question after three Stellas.  With the advent of internet shopping, iPhones, and single-click purchase features on shopping apps, I find that on Mondays more often than not the UPS man introduces me to some item I found irresistible while straddling a barstool at Buffalo Wild Wings on Friday night.

I’ve found that these purchases occur in two major ways, the DARE and the WANT.   The DARE is how I ended up with my most recent purchase, the GeMagic Deluxe Kit.  How else was I going to make my What What Pants?

The DARE conversation goes something like this:
ME:  Yes they do make those.  I totally saw it in an infomercial.
THEM: No way do they make a dog bark translator.
ME, pulling out iPhone: Wanna bet?
THEM:  Holy shit.
ME:  Told you.
THEM:  I dare you to buy it.
ME:  I totally bought it.

I love a good dare.  When I play Truth or Dare–which doesn’t happen as often in the life of a thirty-something divorcee as you’d hope it would–I always pick dare.  I’ll do just about anything.  It’s ridiculous, and the more drunk I am, the more ridiculous stuff I’ll do.  It’s honestly a miracle I’ve never been arrested for public nudity or trespassing yet.

The WANT is usually a visceral, infantile drive to purchase something because I have to have it. The WANT purchases are usually made when I’m alone, and my inner monologue goes something like this:
ME:  I want that.
ME:  You don’t need it.
ME:  But I want it.
ME:  You can’t afford it.
ME:  But I want it.
ME:  You can’t fill your life with material things.
ME:  Watch me.  Or you.  Whatever.  I’m fucking buying it.

Actual things I’ve bought while drunk:

Not one, but TWO sets of Twilight trading cards. In my defense, the second set was signed by Peter Facinelli, so it’s NORMAL.
NKOTB’s “The Block”. There are no explanations for this one. I didn’t just download it either, I bought the actual damn CD.
I watched this on television in 1985. Twenty five years later and four beers in, I decided I needed perpetual access to it. Ringo Starr is in it. Yeah.
Twilight vehicle window decal. If I’d been drunk when I’d received it, it would probably be on my car right now.
2003 Volvo XC90 on eBay. Fortunately I didn’t meet the Reserve Price, or I’d be wheeling around in this bitch right now.

Things I found in my history that I must have passed out or gotten distracted before I managed to buy them:

Autographed photo of Don Knotts shaking hands with Andy Griffith on the set of “Matlock”. Obviously, I probably should actually own this.
Dog socks with little suspenders to help them stay put. I can’t decide if this is adorable or sad.

Wow. They weren't cheap, either. I think that my low Visa limit gets the credit for me not buying these shoes.

I hate Christmas music

December 14, 2009

Except for these songs. WordPress has provided this nifty player, so you can listen by just clicking the little arrow. Or not, since you’ve probably heard each of these songs several times today if you’ve left your house, or turned on your television, or spent more than two minutes awake and not wearing noise-cancelling headphones.

“Last Christmas” by Wham!

Yeah, we're totally straight.

Easily my favorite Christmas song.  Firstly, you have to love a musical act that finds it necessary to include punctuation in their name. Wham!, Panic! at the Disco, . . . And You Will Know Us By the Trail of the Dead–these are all my people. Secondly, the lyrics make it sound like maybe someone carried around a year-long grudge after their crappy gift was returned. Last Christmas/I gave you my heart/but the very next day/you gave it away. Was that a gold-plated heart on a cheap chain that you bought at the Gold Connection kiosk at the mall? Because I would have returned that garbage too. Thirdly, I imagine George Michael singing this to a guy, which makes me feel really progressive.

“Feliz Navidad” by Jose Feliciano

I don’t know the words to this song.  I’m under the impression that “feliz navidad” is the Spanish equivalent to “Merry Christmas”, but I like having the rest of it shrouded in mystery.   I’m worried that if I Google the lyrics I might find out that Spiro Agnew is not actually mentioned, and this will RUIN CHRISTMAS FOREVER.

“Mele Kalikimaka” by Bing Crosby

Last year I had to have a root canal a week before Christmas.  This sucked in a way that I can only describe as falling somewhere between “flat tire in an ice storm” and “sitting on a public toilet seat you thought was fairly clean but realizing too late that it was wet”.  I decided I wasn’t going in bareback for this event, so I coughed up the thirty bucks for the N2O.  I highly recommend this.  In fact, if you have a dental care regimen that is keeping you away from procedures requiring nitrous oxide, you may want to stop doing that.  I had a high old time on this stuff.  I was in the chair for two and a half hours, during which time “Mele Kalikimaka” played three times.  True to its reputation as laughing gas, the nitrous oxide elevated the mildly enjoyable song to absolute hilarity for me, and the dentist had to stop every time it came on so I could degiggle myself.  At one point, the entire staff came in to watch me, I was so entertaining.  Really, stop brushing.  The N2O is worth the pain and dental bills.

“Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt

What on Eartha Kitt . . . ?

Once upon a time, there was a miraculous claymation program called “The PJs”, subtitled, “The Last Funny Thing Eddie Murphy Ever Did”.  Every now and again, Thurgood Stubbs would break out a ridiculous statement of surprise or exasperation, my favorite of which was, “What on Eartha Kitt?!?”  At the time I didn’t know who Eartha Kitt was, but I assumed based on her name that she was a giant woman whose girth rivaled that of the planet.  Later I was introduced to the tiny goddess who sat right down at a White House luncheon and had the balls to tell Ladybird Johnson that her husband was fucking up in Vietnam.  Eartha died last Christmas, but she did “Santa Baby” in a way that Madonna and Marilyn only wished they could.

“All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey

Normally, Mariah Carey at the microphone sends me running for the earplugs, but she owns this song.  Also, this song is pivotal in “Love Actually”, my favorite Christmas movie that’s not really a Christmas movie, even though Carey didn’t sing the version on the soundtrack.  It makes me want to show up at some guy’s door with a boombox and a series of posterboards telling him I will love him until he’s a rotted corpse, but I’m guessing that move doesn’t work in reverse.

“Do They Know It’s Christmas” by Band Aid

When I was nine or ten years old, it was en vogue for bands to do massive concerts and put out compilation records for charity.  Live Aid, Farm Aid, Band Aid.  Pick a noun and add “Aid” to the end and you’ve got an instant 80s fundraiser. This song is like “We are the World: Christmas Edition.”  The participating artists reads like an eighties who’s who:  Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, Culture Club, George Michael, Kool and the Gang, Sting, Phil Collins, Jody Watley, Bananarama.   Actually, I don’t love this song as much as I love to hate it.  The lyrics are steeped in privilege:  “Well tonight thank God it’s them instead of you.”  Yes, this is the point of altruism, to feel superior to people dying of hunger and disease.  Who approved that line?  I’m looking at you, Bob Geldof.

“Christmas in Hollis” by Run-D.M.C.

This song has it all:  illin’ and chillin’, a morality story about returning dropped wallets, collard greens.  I thought I was a real badass with this song.  My budding white girl brain thought I was getting a peek into the holiday customs of African American families.  I felt quite diverse.  Since then I’ve experienced several Christmases with black members of my own family, only to find out they do pretty much the same boring crap that white people do; discovering this was worse than finding out about Santa.

“Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” by U2

This is the first song I knew was a U2 song, and I decided right then and there that I would spend at least one Christmas with a man begging me to come back to him.  This has yet to happen.

“I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” by Gayla Peevey

The only song on earth that could make me overlook the painful grammatical inaccuracy of "rhinoceroses".

You love this song too.  I know you do, because only two kinds of people say they don’t love this song:
1.  Liars
2.  Robots

So which one are you, huh?  Liar or robot?  That’s what I thought.  Besides, this song resulted in an actual hippo being purchased, which blows my mind.  Immediately following this post I’m sitting down to pen the lyrics and music for “I Want a Gorgeous Young Guy to Move Into My House and Clean it All Day Until I Come Home at Which Time I Want Him to Pleasure Me and Feed Me Tasty Things”.

“Blue Christmas” by Porky Pig

The first time I heard this I had to pull over, I was laughing so hard.  Since then, I’ve become somewhat immune to its LOL-inducing abilities, but come to my house in a week and I guarantee you’ll find me full of tequila, splattered with chocolate and powdered sugar, giggling through mouthfuls of Muddy Buddies while this song plays on a loop in the background.  Not because of Christmas, it’s just what I do every Monday night.

“You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” by Thurl Ravenscroft

You're as charming as an Orc

Holy shit.  I just found out the name of the guy who sang this song.  He sounds like a World of Warcraft character.  This is based completely on my uninformed bias, since I don’t follow World of Warcraft and have no idea what the character names are like.  Bonus: the song is completely constructed of insults you can use year-round.  “I wouldn’t touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole” is my personal favorite.

That’s it.  All the Christmas songs I can tolerate.  Basically, you’ve just been subjected to an elaborate public compilation of my holiday mix tape.  Merry Christmas.

The letter that will keep me from becoming President of the USA

December 3, 2009

In the ongoing and not very interesting but for some reason all consuming story of my pee money–which, by the way, is still wrapped tight in paper towels and a Ziploc baggie–I’ve written a letter to the U.S. Treasury to ask what to do with it. Of course, my actual plan is to toss the cash into my next load of laundry, but I want to see what response if any I get from our fine government. I was bewildered to see that there is no e-mail address to send inquiries for damaged money; I didn’t realize that anyone still functioned without electronic communications. Determined as I am, I dusted off Microsoft Word and tapped out this highly professional missive:

November 25, 2009

Chief, Office of Compliance
Bureau of Engraving and Printing
Currency Residue Request
14th & C Streets, S.W.
Room – 321A
Washington, D.C. 20228

RE: Damaged Currency

Dear Sirs and/or Madams:

This is a little embarrassing. Yesterday, I had an accident that resulted in me urinating on a five (5) dollar bill. The accident was of the “money fell in the toilet” variety rather than the “I wet my pants” variety.

My question is, does urinating on paper currency render it “damaged”? Without going into the gory details of its retrieval from the toilet, I did rinse the bill thoroughly and it shows no signs (staining, water damage) of its ordeal. But considering the ick factor here, I would feel better knowing your opinion of how I should proceed with the cash. Money laundering jokes aside, can I throw it in the washing machine? Should I send it to you for replacement?

Until I hear back, I will keep the money quarantined in a zipper sealed sandwich bag.

Thank you for your time,

Tiffany ******

P.S. I tried to find the answer to my question on your website, but could only find this address and a telephone number. If you have time, could you explain why there is no e-mail address for your department? I am admittedly biased toward “modern” technology, but even my grandmother has an e-mail address, though she doesn’t know how to check her inbox, bless her heart.

Now I wait.  I anticipate at least six to eleven weeks, being that this is the United States government I’m waiting on.  I tried to walk the line between “boring letter that gets ignored” and “letter that gets my name put on a government watch list”.  I’m guessing I might even see this again should I try to run for public office in the future, but I’m sure it will pale in comparison to all my naked photos and drunken Tweets floating around out there.

I saw this video about Howie Mandel washing all of his money.  Smart dude.

I just died a little inside

October 4, 2009

On the other hand, I just gained a thousand self-esteem points, because I know I look hotter than that on the pole.

I’m going to be a slut for Halloween

September 2, 2009

I’m starting my search for an amazing Halloween costume.  My original plan had been to go as “Honeymoon Bella” but some bitches at TwiCon beat me to it and I’ve had to start from scratch.  Apparently, the Halloween Industrial Complex has decided that I’m going to be a slut for Halloween.  If you have a vagina, they’ve also decided that you will be a slut for Halloween.  There are infinite variations of this theme, but they all come back to the same thing.

Exhibit A:  The Firefighter


The revered firefighter.  It should call up images of rescued babies and kittens, not thigh high hooker boots.  The image on the left is of a firefighter costume, the one on the right is of a slut in a plastic hat.

Exhibit B: The Football Player

Okay, I’ll concede that the male football player is pretty sexy, even though he is inexplicably barefoot.  But at least he gets to have a whole shirt.   Bonus points if you noticed the number on both jerseys.

Exhibit C:  The Referee


A close relative to the slutball player, this may be the most blatant double standard of the post.  I think with this one, it is the high-heeled Chucks that pushed my ass over the edge.

Exhibit D:  The Hobo


When I first saw this, I was terrified that I’d stumbled across a slutty clown; I’m not usually afraid of clowns, but for this I was willing to make an exception.  The reality is that these are hobos, or at least one of them is.  The other is a hoboslut, a term I swore I’d never use again.   I don’t know what the hobos look like where you’re from, but around here, they almost never sport a keyhole cutout in their flannel.

Exhibit E:  The Hogwarts Student


I don’t know what offends me most:  the bastardization of a beloved literary series, the sluttification of the female costume, or the fact that the female Hogwarts model is supposed to be plus-sized.  If she is plus-sized, then I am too large to be seen with the naked eye.

Exhibit F:  The M&M


Come on.  The female costume isn’t even shaped like an M&M, unless you count those freaky disfigured ones you run across every so often (I never eat those–it just seems wrong).

Exhibit G:  The American Indian


I’m not even going to get started on the cultural inaccuracies here, because I don’t have time and I’m not an expert on Native Americans.  The guy on the left may look stupid, but the poor woman on the right is called “Pocahottie”.  I couldn’t make this shit up.

Exhibit H:  The Soldier


No wonder there’s been so much hullabaloo about women in the military.  I would imagine they do have trouble fighting like men if they’re wearing hot pants and knee boots.  That’s not the standard issue uniform for a female soldier, you say?  That’s right, that’s the slut uniform.  You understand the confusion–the site had the costume on the right labeled “Soldier”.

Exhibit I:  The Nutcracker


Okay, which of you sick fuckers has the nutcracker fetish?  Wait . . . Rule #57 of blogging: don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.  But a nutcracker?  You’re defiling the very sanctity of the most capitalistic of our religious holidays with a slutty toy in a weird hat.  Too far, costume people.  Too far.

Costumes can be found at:

These ad agencies need to hire teenage boys

August 10, 2009

If ad agencies kept fifteen year old boys on their payroll, they’d immediately realize the problems inherent in this sort of ad campaign:

All I could think was “blue balls”.  I had to rewind the TiVo machine just to find out what product it was for.  Apparently they have a whole campaign around the blue balls.

You see how a teenage boy could have nipped this shit in the bud–the idea would have never made it past the white board stage, what with all the giggling and guffawing and Beavis-and-Buttheading that would have been going on.

Then there’s this, which blows my mind every time:

At least Hardee’s did it on purpose, though hearing that creepy guy say “Creamy Balls” and an old woman say “Happy Holes” has permanently altered my soul.  If you can handle Morgan Freeman’s doppelganger uttering the phrase, “The A-hole tastes funny”, click this link.