2013 is almost hurr, so let’s take a look back at the year that was 2012.
#TeamBlaria, we did it! We made it through another year with the strength of Black Jesus (aka Oprah) and the power of snark on our side. So give yourself a high five and your frenemies a side eye because 2013 is straight coming for us and we need to get ready for all it has to offer. But! Before we start making new year resolutions we know we’re going to break in less than twelve days and before 2012 finishes packing its suitcase and driving off into the past while Vitamin C’s Graduation Song (Friends Forever) plays in the background, let’s take a look at some of my favorite best and worst moments of this year.
BEST: Usage of blueballing: Brad Pitt’s Chanel No. 5 commercial:
Y’all, I had so many questions after watching the commersh and unfortunately, this question:
Which we all know is code for “You have just received a V-vite, which is pretty similar to an Evite. Will you be attending?” did not make the cut. But these questions did: Why is he talking? Why is he wearing clothes? After watching this ad, why is it now Vadgehog Day in my pants, which is just like Groundhog Day except that instead of a groundhog going back underground after seeing its shadow, my vadge is pulling my undies back over itself like I do in the morning when the sun is shining too brightly through my blinds? The point is, Brad, this commercial was unacceptable.
The Jersey Shore cast (l. to r.): J-Woww, The Situation, Deena, Pauly, Snooki, Sammi, Ron, & Vinny.
#TeamBlaria, the end is nigh for the seven guidos and guidettes who stayeth’d in a house and swapeth’d STDS like school children tradeth sustenance from their paper sack lunches in exchange for not getting a wedgie. A’ight, maybe using legit (and mostly made up) Old English is a hair too fancy for what I’m describing. Tomorrow night, MTV’s Jersey Shore is airing its last episode. Nooooooooo! That’s right, I meant e’ery single one of them “o”s. Because what I’m feeling in regards to this show being done-zo is not “no,” as in, “Damn, I let that bitch borrow my Chapstick and she tried to be slick and put that shit in her purse like it’s hers,” but “Nooooooooo” as in, “Lawd, my wifi went down right when I clicked ‘proceed to order’ on Seamless Web, which sucks because the restie I was ordering from closes in less than one minute:”
“Lawd, please restore this Wifi, so I don’t have to eat Kashi cereal and a can of peaches for dinner for the second night in a row.”
People from Newtown, Conn. holding participating in a candlelight vigil before President Obama’s opening remarks.
Above everything else – eating right, calling my parents, going to the gym, etc. – I try to laugh every single day. Whether I’m watching fellow comics at a show or Gchatting with a buddy and one of us mentions an inside joke. The goal is to have at least one deep and hearty laugh throughout my day. But, right now, I don’t want to be funny. And not in a “why did my boyfriend tell these people at this holiday party that I’m a comedian” kind of way. Or in a “lemme see how big of a hole I can dig with a particular crowd and try and get out of it” kind of way. And, finally, not in a “why not self-sabotage my show because, heck, I haven’t done it in a while and now seems as good of a time as any to mini self-destruct” kind of way. I don’t want to be funny right now because I don’t know how to do it. I stare at the backs of dry cleaner receipts and torn envelopes that once held student loan bills – items I’d normally use to scribble down ideas and punchlines for jokes – and nothing except for little black ink dots from my pen as I tap the tip up and down on these sheets of paper. No funny to be found anywhere. Not on the page, not in my mind, not in my heart. Um, ruh roh, ’cause it’s kind of my job to be funny. Especially during times like these with the Newtown shooting.
#TeamBlaria, my office holiday party was last night and I have finally wiped off the last of my smudged mascara to talk to y’all. In my many years of attending office parties, I’ve seen the good (e’erybody getting their karaoke on), the bad (defiant people opting to dress like they’re dock workers instead of looking presentable), and the fugly (drunk women barefoot in the streets, trying to hail a cab). Point is, as work party season gears up, there are definite ways to ensure that the fugly will never happen to you if you just follow my dos and don’ts. So what are you waiting for? Read this shit.
DO: Pregame. With carbs, not booze. Traditionally, pregaming is all about getting tipsy at home before you go out, so you don’t have to buy as many overpriced drinks when you’re at the club. But here’s the good news: your office is supplying endless amounts of liquor for free! Yay! And now, here’s the bad news: NO ONE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD HAS BEEN ABLE TO NOT GO BUCKWILD OVER FREE SHIT. It’s why I have 8 keychains from Chase bank. And it’s why the average person, no matter how s/he doesn’t drink, will go cray cray sipping on free sizzurp. So please, understand the importance of pregaming with a plate of biscuits, so they can soak up the alcohol from your first couple of draaanks. That way, you won’t end up like this:
But, instead, end up be like this:
DON’T: Show up ridonkulously late and do this because hors d’oeuvres have stopped being served:
Look, I understand that you want to be fashionably late, because you don’t want it to just be you, your boo and some jabroni named Carl talking awkwardly until e’erybody else arrives. But use the common sense your mama and daddy gave you and realize that no one at the catering company has time to be heating up Pillsbury crescent rolls at 9:15pm because you want a damn pig in a blanket. The window for pigs in a blanket closes at 8:09pm. After that, it’s kale and chicken and cornbread time.
According to the Mayans, this is gonna be planet Earf next week.
#TeamBlaria, I woke up in a cold sweat today because the world is supposed to 69 all of us by 86′ing itself (I don’t know what means either. I just like numbers, so go with it). Anyway, that’s what I thought, so I Gchatted a couple of people to confirm and found out the Mayans said the world is gonna be done-zo on December 21st. Whew! The gym I just joined already processed the membership payment, so it would’ve been totes annoying to not even have the opportunity to use it as my emergency bathroom when I’m in the city. But on the flipside, WTF?! Because if I’m banking on the world flatlining on December 21st, then I’m not going to buy anybody Christmas presents; however, if the world decides to pull a J/K and not end then I’m fucked cuz I only have four days to buy e’erybody I know waffle makers because all the good shit is gone already. Whereas, if the world was to end today and then I woke up tomorrow, I’d still have thirteen days to buy waffle makers AND non-Apple mp3 players. So what I’m saying is, Mayans, don’t fuck this up for me or all you’re going to get is an 80% off:
No gift receipt included. Okay, okay. In all seriousness, the world can’t right click and send itself to the recycle bin because I need O2 pumping through lungs, so I can get some thaaangs done, y’all, like…
TEACH A WHITE PERSON HOW TO COMB MY HAIR. Does this really need some explanation? Okay, it does? Fine. Basically, I’m tired of white people looking at my hair quizzically like a a YouTube cat video that’s buffering. Like how long are you going to be stuck on 68%?:
Refresh the page aka go to the ethnic hair care aisle in Walgreens, buy an afro pick and come over to my apartment. We’ll watch reruns of Moesha and can you GENTLY pick out my ‘fro and voila! Black hair is no longer a mystery.
“I am not a feminist, but I do believe in the strength of women.” ~ Katy Perry at Billboard’s Women in Music event while accepting her Woman of Year award.
My response to this fuckery:
I mean, really?! This whole “I live my life in a way that’s in line with the fundamentals of a particular idea, yet I’m going to renounce it publicly” is beyond ridonkey kongculous. If you believe in the strength of women, you might be a feminist. If you believe that women should be treated as equals to men, then you might be a Femipanther (a Black feminist). If you believe that women should have the option to live their lives however they want to - have a career in addition to or instead of being a mother – then you might be, as I stated in a previous Blaria article, a FeminLin (someone who’s a really big fan of feminism and of Jeremy Lin). Point is, Katy’s probably a feminist, so what the hell is going in her brain balls to make her say such nonsense?
Kim Kardashian & Kris Humphries. Dennis Rodman & Carmen Electra. Jennifer Lopez & Chris Judd. What do these former couples/publicity stunts have in common? They all used the gift receipt on their relationships to trade in for a different peen or poon of equal or lesser value after less than one year of being together. And it’s not just celebs. It seems like everywhere we turn, relationships are ending as quickly as they began. Sure, plenty of times, those two people probably didn’t belong together, but a lot of times, relationships don’t have to end or be as difficult as they are if people only knew certain things. So on the eve of celebrating my one year anniversary/X-mas with mah boo, I’d thought I share some Blaria-fied tips on how my boo and I have managed not to send each other to the left (well, technically, one of us would have to go stage left; otherwise, we’d be going in the same direction, but you get the point).
DO: Fart around him once, but no more than thrice, to normalize things. Look, farting around your man is like using sick days at work. You only get a certain amount and you need to use them wisely like for a mental health day or if you’re too hungover from last night’s shenanigans. The same holds true with breaking wind. You got your “I’m not perfect; can I just live” fart when you’ve had a stressful week at work and you emotionally ate that spicy meatball sub, knowing that your body can’t handle it, the “tee-hee, that was a surprise” fart, and the “tooting like a jazz solo on the HBO show Treme because I’m sick and can’t control my bodily functions” fart. In all three instances, you’re showing your boo that you’re comfortable with yourself and not high maintenanced. He will appreciate that you’re okay with being your real self around him. But be sure not to get too comfortable with it. Like don’t maintain eye contact with your boo as you toot out your butt:
And take a sip of your orange juice like, “Yeah, there’s more where that come from. Don’t wake me up at 8am on a Saturday to make your ass some home fries.” No revenge farts allowed, y’all! There can be no evidence that you are enjoying the fart. Like you still gotta do the “oopsie” face and shit:
And let him know that you’re not going to pop on off whenever you feel good and ready.
Based on what I’ve heard – various celebrities fertility troubles – and seen – male NYC cab drivers SMH’ing at the fact that I’m sans chillrens like they just witnessed a DJ cut off Biggie’s Juicy to play Shaggy’s It Wasn’t Me – my eggs should be clutching each other in nail-biting sadness like they just watched Steel Magnolias:
As I roam the skreets – not the streets, but the “skreets” – of New York armed with a Williams Sonoma waffle batter dispenser
full of some dude’s sperm and head to the nearest doctor’s office to get said jizzum in my baby maker before the clock strikes twelve and – gasp! – it’s my thirtieth birthday.
Look, I’m not going to lie. I’ve had thoughts like, “Oh, man, a high school classmate of mine has three kids already. What’s my deal,” and “My parents would love some grandchillrens right now,” but those temporary moments of normal second-guessing are nothing compared to society’s constant Vagina Panic. Vag Pan is basically a barrage of shiitake that comes in many forms, but boils down to one question: “You have a vagina. Do you know what your doing with it,” which, of course, is a spin on the popular yet creepy evening news’ slogan “It’s 10pm. Do you know where your children are?” Except in the case of Vag Pan, the question isn’t just from some invisible announcer, but from EVERYBODY.
Memo to every other man in the world who used to his baby batter to create a human being: you can stop doing nice things like watching Reading Rainbow with your chillrens and teaching them to have proper phone number rhythm when leaving a voicemail because we’ve already found the Father of the Year to end all Father of the Years. Kim Ridley, owner of Ridley Rides, decided the best way to sale his 1977 Datson on eBay was by posting pictures of his scantily clad 20 year old daughter Lexxa posing provocatively on and near the car. And while the average person is judging this dad hella hard like he’s the annoying coworker who just took the elevator from the lobby to the second floor, Kim says, “If I felt bad about it, I wouldn’t do it.” Um, yeah, that’s how I feel after having one too many cinnamon buns and try squeezing into my too small jeans and the jeans are like, “BITCH, you know that the zipper on me is not supposed to struggle to stay together like the rickety rope bridge in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, right? For the love of Jesus, feel bad about that shit and put the Entenmann’s down.” Point is, just because you don’t feel bad doesn’t mean make it right. And this mess with Lexxa is all kinds of wrong:
If I were her and my pops came to me and was like, “Get your Pretty Woman hooker heels and Avril Lavigne hair extensions ready,” I would have kindly responded with
Then turned the alarm off on my clock radio, waited until I heard his dumb ass shuffle out of my room and down the hallway before yelling “AND YOU BETTER WAKE ME UP IN TIME FOR MY STORIES!!” That is what is was supposed to have happened.
#TeamBlaria, I don’t know if it’s just me, but it seems like people are making shit hella awk these days. And not in a “Oh, man The Office is funny” awkward way:
But in a give-me-your-mama’s-phone-number-so-I-can-cuss-her-the-hell-out kind of way. A couple of days before Hurricane Sandy hit NYC, I took mah boo to see a Broadway play and then out to dinner and lo behold what did I see seated before me as I chomped down on my grilled cheese sammich (okay, I took my man to a diner for dinner, but to be the fair, I got us front row tickets to the play, so I’m not a cheap mofo):
Your eyes are not mistaken. This is a White dude. In a Blackface. Wearing a gold chain. And black sleeves just to make sure we all get that he’s BLACK. I should mention that before sitting down, he had on a dreadlock wig, but racists totes don’t it like when their dreadlock wigs dip into their marinara sauce when they reach for a mozzarella stick, so off came the wig! What ze fuck? It’s 2012. BLACKFACE IS NOT OKAY AND YOU’RE MAKING SHIT WEIRD.