Christmas Carols For Creeps

All I Want For Christmas Is Your Two Front Teeth

The Last Noel, Because I Have Brought About The Apocalypse

Away In A Stranger

Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer Wants To Sell You Some Crystal Meth

Here Comes Santa Claus

Jingle Balls

Carol Of the Penis

Oh Come Let Us Adore Me

The Hallelujah Chorus, But, You Know, With Balls

I can't wait for the rape scene.

I just got this casting notice in my email:


"A travel show pilot called "Two Birds Travel." The auditions are this coming Saturday, December 15th.

E-mail a headshot at this address: REDACTED. Looking for two girls, all ethnicities, age 25 - 35. There is pay involved.

Two Birds Travel

Thelma and Louise meets Anthony Bourdain dressed in a wardrobe borrowed from Carrie Bradshaw in this travel show about two friends in search of the best a city has to offer.

From hole-in-the-wall bars to haute cuisine, backstage at rock concerts to roller-skating to the oldies, this innovative series highlights the cutting edge in food, drink, fashion and adventure. With their finger on the pulse and friends in all the right places, these two chicks are the kind of birds you hope to get seated next to at the dinner table.

Our pilot episode takes us to Los Angeles where the girls learn to fly courtesy of De La Guarda, drink Belgian ale, enjoy a guitar lesson with Morcheeba's Ross Godfried and shop in some of L.A.'s coolest, unknown stores. From Echo Park to Little Tokyo to Malibu and back again, these birds are your ultimate guides to uncovering the hippest in what's going down."

Okay, um, I see the Sex and the City and the Anthony Bourdain, but what about the Thelma and Louise?

I think they might want to add on that the job requires you to almost get raped, shoot a dude, blow up a truck, and then decide to carry out a wordless suicide pact at the end.

Please re-write.

Thanks!

I can't believe I didn't hear about this.

According to BoxOfficeMojo.com, the movie Transformers took in $319,071,806 at the box office this year. I don't think that can be right, because that means that, figuring an average ticket price of ten dollars, about 30 million people killed themselves in movie theaters this year because it is the worst movie ever and the only rational response to having to watch it is immediate self-inflicted horrible death.

Goodbye forever.

Your pal,
Wendy

Ugh

Oh dear, it looks like the strike is going to go on and on.

I'm sad about it, and angry, but there's also something sort of absurd and funny about the way it's playing out.

The kind of people who run the studios are so unbelievably rich, and so unbelievably out of touch, that their posturing has a weird, funny element to it, as if someone shipped in some 1920s robber barons to negotiate with people who actually live right now.

Most of my interaction with studio execs have been with lower-level guys. They wear suits, and one gets the feeling that they have to have their assistants log them into their AOL accounts that they signed up for back in 1997.

In one memorable meeting, we were discussing strategies for the NBC website, and one of them said to me, 'Ok, Wendy, now what would make people come to NBC.com instead of, say, CBS.com?"

And I said, and I think I'm right, the internet isn't about INSTEAD, it's about IN ADDITION TO. People who are on the internet all day (ahem, me) can visit a seemingly infinite number of sites, and visit them again and again, and the problem with how old media conceives of the internet is that they think of it like TV in 1985. Like, I'll either watch Webster OR Facts Of Life, but not both. (P.S., Facts Of Life all the way.)

I think to a large degree this kind of misunderstanding about the web is what will kill old media outright if they aren't careful. As everyone has already whispered, eventually writers will be able to take their products directly to the web, launch it through one of the major video providers (like iTunes) and then release one-a-week. People will use their Apple TV or other device to sling it onto their big screens, and that'll be it. And bye bye big studios. Of course, that means that the Apples of the world would become the new studios (here comes the new boss...), but at least the studios would understand the internet.

The reason the instead/in addition to model really matters, though, is because once you remove the time element from viewing (even a dvr can only record a couple things at once, and getting a dvd takes effort, whereas the internet is always there) then the competition model that the networks have operated on goes right out the window. In essence, then, networks will have to make ONLY good shows, because they will no longer be able to be the strongest just at a certain time, but strong compared to the entire field out there.

As it stands now, I think the moguls are banking on the writers being as clueless as they are about online content. They may spend most of their days fighting endangered tigers that their assistants smuggled into the country for them, and dining on solid-gold steaks, but the rest of us losers are wasting our time reading Perez Hilton and watching Funny or Die and hating ourselves for knowing who Julia Allison and Jakob lodwick EVEN ARE. It's hilarious that networks are saying that internet streams of shows "promote" the shows when they air on TV. If anything, it's the opposite. Or, you know, not yet, but it will be.

The networks aren't being victimized by greedy writers, they're lucky the writers aren't walking away entirely. Remember radio guys? Yeah, that's you.

I Hate It When I Get Teased About My Serial Killing

Based on this headline today on the BBC:

Canada Chides Japan About Sex Slaves

Here are a few other headlines in a similar vein:

U.S. Ribs Germany About Holocaust

France Gently Mocks Cambodia For Killing Fields

Pope Says "Oh No You Didn't" To Rwandan Genocide

Australia Zooms Thailand About Tsunami Preparedness

Rwandan Genocide Says "Oh Yes We Did" to Pope

Choosing Your Wedding Dress Color

This is a little excerpt from the wedding chapter in my book.

Unsure about what color your wedding dress should be?

Use the handy chart below!

(click to enlarge)

Inappropriate Secret Santa Gifts

I submitted this list for an upcoming Radar list. Not sure which, if any, of mine were included. I'm also not getting credited there, so since like five people read this blog, I'm posting my full submission here. Please to enjoy!

Inappropriate Secret Santa Gifts

Hi! Please meet Jeremy Piven. He’s going to spend the rest of your life with you.

Handmade paper-clip swastikas.

A gentle desk-side tea-bagging.

Rats

Um, you’re not fired. That’s your fucking Christmas present.

Shrimp scampi

A tiny baby Jesus figurine carved from a stick of butter, toast points.

Nuggets

Do you like snakes? No? Oh. Um, don’t go home.

Searing loneliness.

A gift certificate for five dollars worth of brain surgery

Lumps

Soft moaning

A complimentary night at the Ritz-Carlton hotel, secreted away inside the fat rolls of a person with poor personal hygiene.

An Apple laptop! Just kidding.

A box that if you open it, you’ll get a million dollars, but someone that you’ve never met before will die. Oh, you opened it? Well, now I am going to give it to someone that you’ve never met before. That’s right. Now you are going to die. Merry Christmas, dead guy. Look, I’m sorry. I was kidding. Stop crying. You aren’t going to die. That was just a box I found in the supply closet. You’re fired.

Iraq

A molar

Chridney, the talking Christmas kidney

An alpaca farm

Cocaine

Ointment

A pap smear on Santa’s Sleigh

Chest hair extensions

Someone else’s breast implants

Thyroid disease

Season tickets to your gun show

Notebook paper margins

A sack full of wishes, a pocket full of dreams!

An abortion

A Christmas card you received from your insurance company

Your yarmulke

An iPod loaded with 80gb of your mother reciting your failures over and over again.

Tampons

Jessica Alba’s first novel

Gasoline

A lifetime membership in Oprah’s Boob Club, if you know what I mean! I mean you can touch her boobs. Touch them or you are a racist.

Awkward silence

A hasty marriage proposal

A Cat-scan

Secondhand smoke

A prostitute

Secondhand smoke from a prostitute

A Cat-scan from a prostitute

Hey, I got you some cat toys for your cats. Oh, you don’t have cats? Weird, you seem like the kind of girl who would have a lot of cats. It also seems like you’re a virgin who cries a lot.

Lunchables.

Your very own coke pants.

A Weight Watchers membership

You know that poem you sent me, the one you wrote in college about that guy you met when you were studying abroad in Prague? Well, I forwarded it to everyone in the office! Merry Christmas!

Regis

Christmas Chrabs

Rendition to Saudi Arabia

Secondhand fuck-swing

A howler monkey

A soap dispenser, freshly ripped from the bathroom wall

I spent a little more than we were supposed to, but I took out a contract on your life.

A videotape of every shower you’ve taken in December.

I’ve kidnapped your baby so that you can have a more peaceful Christmas

Sneak up behind co-worker, taser him, shout “It’s a Christmas miracle!”

An orgasm

Ryan Seacrest

Some Little Bunny Is Enjoying The Strike!

From Page Six:

November 26, 2007 -- JEFFREY Zucker, the brilliant NBC Universal CEO whose company is rumored to be for sale, has paid $12.3 million for beloved singer/socialite Kitty Carlisle Hart's 11-room apartment, according to city records. The Post's Braden Keil reports the East 64th Street co-op where Hart resided until her death last April at age 96 includes five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a maid's room, coffered ceilings and five fireplaces. Zucker and his wife, Caryn, previously owned a larger Central Park West duplex they sold last year for $15 million.

Oh Dear

Gross:


REAL LIFE PRINCESS BRIDES

This reminds me of a friend of a friend who got married at Disneyworld and her invitation was on, like, a royal scroll with ribbons and shit.

Oh, and she and the guy she was marrying were (or claimed to be) both virgins. You just know that life is never gonna meet that girl's expectations. It is gonna fuck her up when she realizes that candlesticks can't talk and forests aren't aren't filled with magical dwarves and that her husband is totally gay.

So You're a Feminist...Isn't That Cute?

Do you want to experience that feeling of laughing and also being totally fucking terrified all at once?

Well, you're welcome:

GO HERE

Be sure to peruse his other blog entries. I think I'm in LOVE.

Are You Too Dead To Read My Book?

So, I had to get a Facebook account. Well, I didn't HAVE to, but I have to, you know, network to try to sell my book, and basically act like a douche and try to get people to notice it. Today I'm going to go over to Cedars Sinai and walk around and be like, "Oh you have cancer? Maybe reading this book will cheer you up. Wait, are you terminal? Oh, the book doesn't come out until January, sooo..."

I think I might be kinda old for Facebook, especially because I always look about ten years older than I am. When I was twelve and I went to the mall with my mom, I went out to the parking lot to get something out of the car, and someone asked me if I could move my car. I was like "I can't move the car, I'm twelve," and they just rolled their eyes like, how fucking sad that this twenty two year old with a VW van is trying to pretend that she's twelve.

Okay, I have to go to Cedars maternity ward and get babies to buy my book and move their cars.

The All-You -Can -Eat Tampon Buffet In The Sky: A Remembrance

Everyone, even the smallest among us, deserves an obituary.

This weekend, my family's old dog Buster passed away.

I think every family has at least one pet like Buster. He was ornery, and fat, and he always smelled really weird. He ate candy wrappers, tampons and, once, an entire stick of butter.

He bit a few people, and rather than have him put to sleep, we just kept him away from strangers and never, ever tried to take food away from him. When my sister had kids, we debated whether he might eat the babies. When my parents shaved him for the summer months, he looked like a velvet sausage.

Still, we loved him, and he was a loyal little guy. When he wasn't busy biting us, he was barking at every single noise in the street lest burglars break in and steal his sticks of butter.

Still the real love of Buster's life was our other dog, Zooey. While the rest of us felt a mixture of love and loathing for the velvet sausage, Zooey loved him unconditionally. When they were put in separate cages at the kennel, Zooey chewed through her cage to be with him.

In the last few months, when my mom was taking the two dogs somewhere in the car and Buster, his back legs crippled, could barely get up, Zooey hopped in, then turned and took Buster's leash in her teeth and pulled him in.

I guess if you can get out of here knowing that one person, and I'm counting Zooey here, really loved you, then you did okay.

Rest in peace, Buster. We love you. And I hear that that in the afterlife, they have an all-you-can-eat tampon buffet.

Come On Down To Onion's!

So, I was walking the pickets this morning at a lame hour (the early shift starts at six), and I was trying to give fliers to all the cool awesome people going to work at CBS (btw, crossing the picket lines in a fucking jaguar, scowling, makes you a superdildo, period), and I'd give them all a big smile and ask them to read our little pamphlet on why we're striking. And I meant to think this:

"Wow, I'm being really perky, like a waitress at Chili's."

But instead, I thought:

"Wow, I'm being really perky, like a waitress at Onion's."

There is no such restaurant as Onion's, and Onion's is the single worst idea for a restaurant ever. All of the food is onion-based, even the desserts, and there's a giant talking onion that welcomes you when you walk in the door.

Also, why does the restaurant Chili's have an apostrophe in the name? What is it posessing? When you walk in, are you then actually owned by a chili?

In conclusion, I should never wake up at 5 a.m., because I have LOST MY MIND.

Now, Onion's is a horrible idea, but my great idea for a restaurant is called Pudding Canyon. It's a restaurant with four big canyons dug in the ground, each filled with a different kind of pudding -- chocolate, vanilla, butterscotch and cherry. You can either buy pudding by weight or time. That's to say, you can either weigh in on the giant scale in the middle of the canyons where everyone can see you, and then pay at the end after you've eaten your fill by weighing in again and paying the difference, or you can pay by amount of time you want to spend in the canyons.

You have to wear a special clear plastic pudding-bathing suit. In between flavors, you must be hosed down in the hosing pit.

The commercial has the following jingle:

Butterscotch, vanilla, chocolate and cherry
Forty percent less drownings since January
Pudding Canyon
You're drowning in it!

Now that, my friends, is a great fucking idea for a restaurant.

If you want to read something much smarter this morning, please visit my friend Stella Kevlar's blog HERE

Also, I gots a new McSweeney's up today:

HERE

kthxbai

Pwoject Wunway

I love some Project Runway. When I was working on the short-lived Megan Mullally show, Jeff and I wrote and directed this Project Runway parody, and we got to meet Santino and Jeffrey. It was one of the gayest and happiest days of my short gay life. Please to view:

History Girls

So, I finally saw that British play "History Boys" last night here in LA. If you haven't seen it, there's an older teacher in it who takes the boys around on his motor bike and grabs their balls while they are riding, and everybody in the play thinks it's hilarious. At the end of the play, the old teacher dies in a tragic motorbike accident, and everybody's really sad.

My big thought coming out of it was that if the play was called "History Girls" and the old male teacher had been touching teenage girls' vaginas, he would have died when some girl's father came to the school and shot him with a gun. And the lesson would have been, "Don't touch teenagers in the vagina."

Instead, the lesson was about the subjectivity of history, and that touching teenagers' balls is ok if you look like Santa.