Bret Michaels... now with less photoshop

So my roommate has this friend who takes pictures at bars and events for a company called "Darkrom Demons," and guess who just happened to be at one of these parties? Mr. Rock of Love himself, Bret Michaels. So, if you ever wondered what he looks like without all the bronzer and the special lighting... here you go!

Horrifying discovery!

Robyn + updo + glasses= Sarah Palin.

Which of course resulted in my walking around trying to talk in that Fargo accent, which of course sounded exactly like an Irish brogue.

It could be useful as a halloween costume. Oh my god! Speaking of halloween costumes... I heard recently that last year, some dude copied my Sylvia Plath costume (with the oven on my head) that I did two years ago. Can I sue? I haven't decided what it's going to be this year. Jen thinks I should definitely do Sarah Palin and carry around a baby, a gun and a coathanger. I'm still trying to figure out how to do Frances Farmer without losing an eye from the icepick...

Robyn's Commercial Mystery Hour

Ok, so every time that Boost Mobile commercial comes on (you know, the one with the three guys rapping?)- which is often because apparently they sponsor the FearNet, and we watch a lot of horror movies here at The Maxi Pad- I freak out about the last guy in the commercial with the incredibly bizarre, plasticky looking face.

So, eventually (as in yesterday), I look him up. Because I need a closer look at his face. I google "'That dude' Boost Mobile commercial"- and find out that he is in fact Mickey Avalon, and he actually does stuff other than commercials for cell phone companies. Stuff which includes the "My Dick" song....

Which was the inspiration for my favorite thing ever, Margaret Cho's "My Puss" song. Which I think I've already posted here like, 50,000 times. It's that glorious.

See how everything comes full circle? Now, with that success (?) under my belt, I decided I was ready to discover the identity of my old nemesis, the "free credit report dot com" guy (I'm feeling very Nancy Drew this morning)...

I've had nightmares. I've gone four days without being able to get that "F-R-E-E that spells free, credit report dot com baby" song out of my head. I hate his smug face and his lies (truly- like, jen signed up, and it's free at first, but then they charge you 14 bucks a month and when you try to cancel it you can't get a hold of anyone, and they stick you with a virus that charges you twice). I hate the fact that nothing I can do will stop him from singing those awful songs. I think sometimes that if I just give up and go to the stupid website that it'll stop. You know, like when some drunk dude starts trying to convince you that you and he are totally soul mates, and eventually you just say "Yeah, ok, fine, we're soulmates, whatever." so he'll shut up and move on to bothering the next chick? It won't work like that! There is nothing I can do! Nothing will stop this man from torturing me with his horrid jingles! But still... I'm curious.

So I look him up. As it turns out, his name is Eric Violette, and he doesn't even sing the songs- it's dubbed over! It's like the fucking Beijing Olympics thing! Like, apparently, they thought this guy was so awesome looking/ such an awesome actor, and that the other guy was such a good singer, that they combined them. What the cock is that shit?

Also, I have found his myspace, and, unsurprisingly, he does not seem to have much to say about life, other than that which involves getting free credit reports.
http://www.myspace.com/eric_violette

Mysteries solved.

Who has time for this?

Ok, so--- in the course of a trip to the powder room just now, I noticed that the label on my underwear says "Do not iron."

Does this warning need to be there? I mean- are there people going around ironing thongs? I mean, shit, it's not like I do anything, but I sure as hell don't have time to iron my damned underwear. And would anyone notice if I did? I have like, four things that require ironing, and I pretty much never wear them because of that. Sheesh.

New discovery!

You know how there are all those movies where John Cusack freaks out in the rain? I get it now. Totally. Getting caught in the rain makes everything appear 80,000 times more terrible than it really actually is. Because in addition to whatever minor thing that went wrong, you are also wet.

Case in point #1

Like, two weeks ago, I was running late for class so I took a cab. I get to the class, only to find that it's been canceled. When I go back outside, only to find that it is now pouring rain outside. So I called Jen to see if she could give me a ride home, because it just seemed like a waste to either spend 10 more dollars, or take an hour on public transportation. Jen suggests we go shopping. "Good idea!" I say... so I get on the red line for Monroe. At this point, I am rather disheveled looking. Some dude starts staring at me, so I give him a dirty look because I'm not in the most pleasant of moods. Then he points to my shirt. Which has somehow been arranged so that my right breast is popping out of it. Yay! So now I'm a subway flasher! Finally I get to the stop and start looking around the various stores. Unfortunately, there is like, truly, nothing I want, or like once I put it on. On the way home, it is still pouring rain, and the heel of my shoe gets caught in a subway grate, and I trip and fall and my shoes are filled with water and I have to stand in my stocking feet while Jen attempts to pry my shoe loose from said grate. Not the best time ever.

And seriously, like, since then, I have been in a constant state of hyper-irritation with life, the universe and everything in it. Which brings us to last night, when I finally had a nervous breakdown in the middle of Dominick's.

Case in point #2:

I had planned to meet some friends at the Darkroom for Panic. It was going to be a swell time. If there is any appropriate cure for being inordinately irritated by life, it is to get inordinately dressed up, go out, and dance and drink way too much. So I put on a cute dress, I do my hair and my make-up, and run downstairs. It's raining. So I go back upstairs to get an umbrella. Then I run across the street to use the ATM. The ATM tells me that my card was lost or stolen. Which was just not true- I had it in my hand! Then I go and try another ATM, and another, and another. No luck. I go back upstairs. I grab a huge ziplock bag o' change, with plans to go to Dominick's to use their Coinstar machine, and also attempt to try my card again in the check out aisle. As I walk over there, it starts pouring. The Coinstar machine, unfortunately, is closed down at 10:00. It is 10:30. I hate life. The manager will not start it back up for me. They will not cash my paycheck, and my card is still not working. Meanwhile, I figure that they probably think I'm a hooker. I am wearing a very short black dress with knee high boots and gold leggings- which is a totally cute outfit for like, going out to a bar, but generally inappropriate for the supermarket. This makes me hate them more, the stupid judgemental bastards. I am wet and I am angry. I say, and I quote:

"Oh my god! I can't have anything!"

I was that girl. I can't fucking believe it. I have never been that girl. My eyes started leaking. Leaking! And I was wearing a shitload of eye makeup, which I discovered later was not in fact waterproof. I walked home, reasonably sure that all passerby were assuming that I was a hooker who had just gotten into a fight with her pimp. So I went home, I cleaned the eye makeup off of my face, and watched Jane Eyre, and fell asleep on the couch with my shoes on.

Now, like, had it not been raining (and also if I'd have had something to eat that day other than a cookie and lots of coffee), I'm quite sure I would not have really given a crap. But rain exacerbates everything.

Today, I find it all unbelievably hilarious, but I literally cannot tell you how stupidly agitated I was last night. I'm thinking I may need some emergency Valium.