Pink is the new naked

Death is hard. It makes everyone involved feel incredibly uncomfortable. My friend’s grandfather passed away. I didn’t know what to do, so I ended up posting a comment on MySpace.

Rolling On The Floor Mourning.

Then I put him in my Top 8. In lieu of flowers.

Hairdo high times logic problems

I don’t have cellulite.

But I do believe in giving to cellulite charities.

Thanks for the A.D.D.

This is what you get when you add someone you don’t know. Something great. That’s what.

Thanks for the friend request. Wait, we don’t actually know each other do we? If we do excuse my lack of recognition. Are you into punk rock and exploitation movies?

I heart turns of phrase

Oh how delightful to name Donald Trump’s future spawn Jesus Christ.

And yes, I did ask Don LaFontaine to record my new voicemail greeting.

In more pressing news, if you caught me at Sputnik on Wednesday, I want to reiterate. No matter how many times a man says it, skullfucking just gets more and more romantic every time I hear it. Especially in that one De Beers commercial. Skullfuck her again like the very first time. De Beers.

Speaking of the future, a director who forgot to tell me he was married told me what may be the best line of a script ever written.

“Welcome to the ’90s, motherfucker.”

That will now be in everything I write from this point forward.

Thinking about kittens, hearts and rainbows

I will be on Maxim Radio on Sirius on Monday talking about getting organized. I’ll see if I can segue into my personal pet cause: organizational tips for your vagina.

Check it out yourself. The segment’s at noon.

The quote I didn’t use from Michael Musto regarding “Showgirls” which basically sums up my philosophy of life is: “We are all Tony Moss.” It’s true. And in the words of Tony Moss, “What are these? Watermelons? This is a stage, babe. It’s not a patch.” Funny story. That’s exactly what the admissions officer from Harvard said to me when I got waitlisted.

Do you ever just say completely the wrong thing? I was candy striping at this hospital for lepers and this one guy’s right arm completely falls off, and I said, “You like to show off, don’t you?” The instant I said it, I wished I could take it back.

I’m only doing Scientology until I can get in shape. I can quit any time I want.

I’m not so much a starfucker as I am a starspooner. I just want to cuddle with Moby.

Is there such a thing as a pity gang bang?

Or, did it just feel that way?

How do you tell someone that you just had the worst sex of your life? Better luck next time? Was it bad for you, too? Or “Get back in the confession booth, Father, this is highly inappropriate?”

I came out to my parents this weekend. I’m not gay, but I just felt like it was time for a big announcement.