2005 Waste of My Time Awards

Twenty-five comments about the 2005 American Music Awards:

1. Mariah Carey hurts my head.
2. Lindsay Lohan should go back to doing nothing.
3. Kenny Chesney and Will Smith were sitting together. Are they an item now?
4. Cyndi Lauper is amazing. Take Bono's World Peace for the Mothership Prize away and give it to her.
5. Gwen Stefani. Give me a break.
6. "R. Kelly couldn't be here tonight, because he is trapped in a closet. We accept this award on his behalf."
7. Babyface? More like Oldmanbutt.
8. Serena Williams is 13 feet tall.
9. Shakira? More like Shitkira.
10. Why is Nicole Ritchie the special Utah correspondent? Come to think of it, why is there a special Utah correspondent?
11. First and foremost, God doesn't give a shit that you, Will Smith, thanks you. He's busy causing trouble in other lands, far, far away. And here, too. (See No. 2)
12. Get Will Smith off the motherfucking stage. He's not Bono. He's not even Cyndi Lauper. He's an asshole. Go thank God or something.
13. Missy Elliott on crutches. Let the hilarity ensue.
14. Who's this guy hosting? Oh, why it's Cedric the Un-entertaining.
15. Gretchen Wilson looks like my old Polish cleaning lady. That lady knew how to be Polish. And eat raw garlic.
16. "Unfortunately, The Black Eyed Peas couldn't be here tonight. They're stuck in a Best Buy commerical. We accept this award on their behalf."
17. The Eurythmics are awesome. Take Cyndi's award away and give it to Annie and Dave. Sweet bands are made of these.
18. Kay Jewelers and Babyface are presenting the greatest moments in American Music Awards history. Do they realize no one cares?
19. Who is that alien John Stamos is standing next to? Catherine someone. Catherine the Alien.
20. Oh, look! Macy Gray is standing on her own! She's been practicing.
21. Backstreet's back! And no! It's NOT alright!
22. Paris Hilton is presenting with the plumber from "Desperate Housewives." He's hot. She's not.
23. Kelly Rowland of Destiny's Child fame should stop talking. She's not the one we paid to listen to all these years, and she's not the one we tuned in for tonight.
24. I'd usually say after a shitty 54-hour awards show, "Well at least Joan Rivers was funny." But this time, no Joan Rivers.
25. The letter I just wrote out in longhand on my personal stationary:

Dear Dick Clark,
After you get out of your coma because you're 392 years old, hire Joan Rivers. She's better than the 423 days of music and awards I just watched. Have fun in the hospital. Peek-a-boo! ICU!
Get it? ICU? Intensive Care Unit? More like Intensive Coma Unit for you, Dick, huh? Haha! Just kidding Dick.
Best wishes,
Benjamin Siegel

Thank you, and good night. We'll see you next year!

The Beating of Hillary Duff's Head

As I watched -- I mean suffered through -- the American Music Awards tonight, I could help but to notice a few things. But first, here's my interpretation of Hillary Duff's single, "Beat Of My Heart." The chorus goes like this:

The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
Here we go again
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart
The beat of my heart

She's going places with songwriting like that. She's going to hell.

YOU WIN A HAIRPIECE! YOU WIN A HAIRPIECE! YOU WIN A HAIRPIECE!

A joke, if you will so indulge me.

Q: What does Oprah say to her best friend Gail and live-in friend Steadman when they're arguing over who the better soulmate is? Oh, and Oprah's getting her hair done at the time.
A: "Weave me out of it!"

Thank you, folks. I'm here all hour.

Dating Is The New Not-Dating

I should be paid for coming up with this stuff. My latest idea for a TV show:

Intimidate, the show where a lovely young lady must endure a knife-wielding bastard through rounds of scare tactics and horrible fake designer fashions. If she can stand the test of the blind date from hell -- if she can indeed survive non-stop indimidation -- then she wins a second date (which will invariably end with a murder). Coming soon to the NBCBSABCWBMSFOX superchannel, between Geraldo's new mustache-athon and Oprah's latest weave.

Oops I Puked My Pants v.2

Update: Okay, so he's been at his table playing chess now for three-point-no-seconds and is now back in the loo. That's 15 times. I'm not leaving my seat until he leaves. I hope he's not a homeless fetishistic chronic bathroom-using tapeworm victim.

I just can't STAND his kind.

Oops I Puked My Pants

I'm sitting in this here coffee shop in this here city not so devoid of hotties, and one boy who doesn't draw my attention for the right reasons has been on my mind for the last two hours.

I've been here since 7 p.m., it's not 9:19 p.m. and he's gone to the bathroom 14 times. He's in there for about a minute or two at a time, walks out, wait until one or two more customers uses it, then goes back for another round.

He's either got really bad indigestion (maybe he ordered the quiche) or tapeworm. I'm not a doctor, but from where I'm sitting -- a cool 15, 20 feet away I'd say -- I can safely say it's quiche or tapeworm. Take my word for it.

Right now, he's waiting for another go-around, and he's listening in on whoever's in there. Do we have a fetish on our hands? (Well, his hands, not ours.)

....

......

Um, excuse me. I had to vomit in my mouth.