Posts Tagged ‘mollies rules for the socially inept’


Saturday, August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.


So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…



Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.




Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.



Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.



Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.



Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.



Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.



This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.



What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.



I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.



This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…





THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT????????? This one’s for you, Jack…

Monday, February 27th, 2012

I am old enough and wise enough to know that we all have different taste in everything from climate to automobiles, from wine to food to fashion. “That’s what makes a horserace,” some codger older than me said at some point in time somewhere. But when it comes to entertainment, like them or not, there are people whose talent is incontrovertible:

The Beatles
Meryl Streep
Laurence Olivier
Placido Domingo
Michael Jackson
Bill Cosby
Aretha Franklin

Just to name a few. In the end, we may differ on who we like or don’t, but there exists an elite group of performers, many earning millions of dollars a year, who just don’t entertain me. Make your own list. Let’s see who articulates it better…


If Frank Sinatra came back to life, walked into New York’s Loew’s Regency and heard Michael Feinstein singing “Luck Be a Lady Tonight,” he’d say, “Okay, I lied – I was in the mob,” then filet Feinstein like a brook trout. Why is it “Michael Feinstein’s American Songbook?” Did he write the songs? Did he make them famous? Maybe I’ll put some shit together in one of those 5-subject college-rule spiral notebooks and call it, “Mollie’s Lennon-McCartney Songbook. “ Can he sing? Okay enough, I guess. If I want to hear Cole Porter, there’s Ella Fitzgerald. “Puttin’ on the Ritz”? Benny Goodman, Fred Astaire, even Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle in “Young Frankenstein. “Cheek to Cheek”? I’d rather hear Ricky Ricardo. I know he’s a gay icon and rich blue-haired dowagers who still slug back Apricot Sours and Rob Roys and stain cigarette filters with their Hazel Bishop crimson red lipstick are still convinced they can get him to “play for their team,” hurling tarp-sized panties at him. Strike three. You’re out. Finally, nowhere in the Torah is it written that once a Jewish person becomes rich, famous, or otherwise successful, that he must change the pronunciation of his last name, Michael Finesteeeeeeeeeeeeeen. Amen.


I cannot be the only person who’s picked up on the fact that, other than Ross, the gay intern from Jay Leno’s show, the rest of the dregs sitting behind that table are as funny as a colonoscopy prep. Okay, Chelsea – maybe in the beginning you were feeling insecure, so you had to surround yourself with this odd mixture of these mostly homely anorexic white women and fugly men of every race and, pretty much insult them to get a cheap laugh. Don’t get me wrong – I would insult them too, especially if vodka was my favorite food group. But this is like high school, when the cute girl would go to the school dance with the fat girl and the gawky girl and the acne-girl and suddenly “cute” became “Angelina Jolie.” If you’re really confident, Chels, load that table with Chris Rock, Wanda Sykes and Larry David instead of these props with a pulse.


Perdóneme? Mark Consuelos? Mr. Kelly Ripa? An entertainer? As anyone who’s observed the ratings of” Live with Regis and Kelly” since Regis’s “demise,” despite her fame and riches, (some of which come from a TD bank commercial where she pretends to bring her loose change to a coin-counting machine which is, in fact entertaining in a most pathetic way), it’s a stretch to call her an “entertainer. In fact, after all these years, she still hasn’t convinced me. Being famous for saying, “I don’t know what that means, Rege,” is not quite the same thing as being famous for saying, “We’ll always have Paris.” I can hear her grating mouse-voice in my head right now saying, “What do you mean – ‘You’ll always have Paris’? How can you ‘have’ Paris? Isn’t that a country in Europe? Well, I guess the Germans ‘had’ Paris for a couple of years. It was the Germans, right? I get them confused with the Scottish. Was it Hitler who said that, Rege….?”


If someone is one of the world’s best-paid actors but I have to turn away from the screen every time his face is on it or suffer alternating waves of nausea and incredulity, am I truly being entertained? Sorry, but I call dibs on being creeped out by Nicholas Cage since “When Peggy Sue Got Married.” I didn’t have to wait until the IRS was after him or for him to be accused of spousal abuse or finding out he bought a Bavarian medieval castle for no apparent reason, or that he named his son “Kal-El,” or that he claims to have created his own acting method which he calls “Noveau Shamanic.” Any of the above by itself is either reprehensible and/or insane. Is this entertaining? Maybe in a very cruel, giggle-when-no-one-is-looking kind of way, like dwarf tossing or Monique’s “Fat Chance” televised beauty pageant for plus-sized women who she called “ Phat-and-Phabulous.” I just can’t look at Nicholas Cage’s face. He’s unattractive enough to have been a character actor. But he always plays the leading man. I’m not just talking about Coen Brothers leading men, who can run the gamut from George Clooney to John Turturro. He was the leading man in “Moonstruck,” and “It Could Happen To You,” and “City of Angels.” When I want anyone else to “get the girl,” even the lifers in “Con Air,” that’s a problem.


Yes, I know – she whines and says “vagina” a lot. Whining is never entertaining. Vaginas can be entertaining but certainly not by just repeating the word as if one were singing “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” I believe many of you were tricked into thinking she was a brilliant comedian when she was the girlfriend of someone who is truly funny, Jimmy Kimmel. And you used to refer to her as the “really pretty comedian,” which I suppose holds an element of truth in relative terms – when held next to Lisa Lampinelli or Heather McDonald or Corey Kahaney, I guess you can call her the “really pretty comedian.” Otherwise, she looks like every girl I went to sleep-away camp with who had a brother named Ira or Seth, an upper lip she had to bleach at 12 years old, and a habit of asking, “Do these shorts make my legs look fat?” And, 35 years later, may I say, “Yes. Yes, they do,” and “And I don’t give a shit that you don’t have to clean a bunk at home – pick up your filthy laundry until you marry some guy who hires a cleaning lady for you.” Thanks.


Leonard Cohen was old when I was 17 and I am many decades past that age. Now he’s older. He couldn’t sing when he was 70. Oh that’s right – he’s not a singer, is he? He’s a songwriter. I defy anyone reading this to name five songs written by Leonard Cohen. I can name five songs written by Carole King and she’s not looked at as anything but an old hippie with a good voice. If a song falls in a forest and no one hears it, are you still a songwriter? Often, and by only the most pretentious of human beings, I am corrected. “Leonard Cohen isn’t a songwriter! He’s a poet!” Oh. Really? Shelley was a poet. Emily Dickinson was a poet. If she were alive today it’s unlikely she’d be releasing “The Best of Emily Dickinson” CDs. “Now, for the first time on the same album – ‘I Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died’ and ‘Because I Could Not Stop For Death’ – the Remix.’” Did you know that Leonard Cohen’s last album, “Old Ideas,” was released in January 2012? Neither did anyone else.


I’ll admit. You had me fooled there for a while. You played Henry Hill’s wife in
“Goodfellas” with such authenticity and ease, I sat in my seat thinking, “Best Supporting Oscar.” But then I watched you in “Getting Gotti” and “Rizzoli and Isles” and, of course, “The Sopranos.” And I finally realized this was pretty much it. You may have been older, you may have worn serious suits and “smart” glasses on “The Sopranos,” but all I could think of every time I saw you was, “Wow – Henry Hill’s wife got her doctorate.” That, and the fact that the camera always focused on your calves and I still don’t know why. It would be like back-lighting Bobby Baccalieri’s stomach or Silvio’s hair. And here’s the thing of it – I know shrinks are supposed to sound calm and objective, but you sounded like you were on Propofol. You are not entertaining me and therefore, you are not an entertainer. You have no range. Okay – wait – that’s cold. You have the range of – well – of a range.


Okay – you have a voice. You may even have THE voice. The voters and the judges goofed big-time when they voted you off “American Idol,” but look who had the last laugh. And that’s what bothers me. Well, the first thing that bothers me is that you have those really crazy eyes. They were crazy-crazy on “Idol,” but maybe one of your managers advised you to take them down to just one-level crazy. But the other thing that bothers me is that you are an incredible entertainer yet what you are going to be remembered for is wailing, “…And I’m feeling good!” on those Weight Watchers ads. Stop! You’re thin. You’re rich. Maybe you lost the weight doing Weight Watchers, maybe you did it by eating grapefruits and steaks every other Thursday, maybe you puked after every meal. Don’t care. Just stop – stop the hawking, stop the singing duets with your “fatter” self. Stop being so elated, especially because the odds of keeping the weight off over a 5-year period is roughly – well – slimmer than you are now.


You are pretty. Beautiful, even. But Beautiful is to Entertaining as Tangy is to Bookworm. In other words, they don’t necessarily have anything to do with one another. Just because you say, “It’s time for the Quick Fire Challenge,” doesn’t make you entertaining. You were hired on “Top Chef” for the same reason the former Mrs. Billy Joel was – you’re easy on the eyes. I’m not fooled into thinking you are anything other than the pretty gift-wrap just because you say “that lime infusion gave the dish just the right bite,” or “I can still feel those chili flakes on my tongue.” Perhaps if you tap-danced while saying, “Please pack your knives and go,” I’d be mildly amused. But until then, nothing you say about food holds any weight for me. Although he’s too old for a glory patch and holds a fork like a spaz, I believe Tom Collichio because at least he’s a chef. Same reason I believe Eric Ripert. I find Gail Simmons mildly amusing, pretty much because she really believes she’s a celebrity chef even though she’s a magazine editor who really should think twice about wearing sleeveless dresses. Marrying famous apostate literary authors who have fatwahs placed on them by the Ayatollah Khomeini also makes you famous. But it still doesn’t make you entertaining.


Please note that there is a difference between “talented” and “entertaining.” There’s no question Ms. Zellwegger can act and kudos for keeping your kooky long last name. But there’s something creepy here and I know I’m not alone. I’m not sure if it’s the squinty eyes or the fact that she thought the weight she put on for both “Bridget Jones” films made her appear “whale-like,” just because she couldn’t see her thoracic vertebrae through her down parka. Amusing? For sure. Entertaining? You decide.


First, let’s change his name to Merlin for escaping all of the bad press and/or blame for the “Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark” debacle. Okay, okay – we read reams on how Julie Taymor’s “vision” was to blame but jeez – it’s not like Bono was off running Africa during rehearsals, though word has it he thinks he was. He’s been honored by NBC News for “Making a Difference” in the world. What difference would that be? Given the choice between Bono and Sonny Bono, I’ll take the latter every time. He wore furry vests and massive bell bottoms and had shaggy hair. And, a sense of humor. This U2 Bono guy — looks like it would take a lot to get him to crack a smile. Always so serious trying to save the world and humanity and mankind and such. Yes, he co-wrote the Band Aid little diddy, “Feed the World,” back in 1984 but, last time I looked, much of the world was still pretty hungry. I know he talks about Africa a lot and I know that the U2 2007 tour, Vertigo, grossed over $389 million but I don’t think much of that if that money made its way from Ireland to Swaziland, particularly with Bono’s exorbitant sunglasses bill. Bono is extremely wealthy and I know that that must be entertaining to his band members, immediate family and accountants. Unfortunately, I do not fall into any of those categories.


Wednesday, July 6th, 2011

Dear Time-Warner Service Rep:

This wasn’t what I wanted to write about this week, but following our anything but brief encounter last Sunday night, I’m afraid you are, how shall we say, my “muse”?

It was a hectic week and I needed to relax and decided to kick back and order “The King’s Speech” on Movies-On-Demand.

Not something I do too often. $4.99. I’m sure I spend more than that a day on coffee and Diet Pepsi and newspapers, but the $4.99 for Pay-Per-View, the commitment to push the little yellow triangle on the remote that says, “Accept,” has always been a problem for me.

So? I have issues. So do you. You don’t have to write about them – maybe you can’t leave your house without orange-flavored Tic-Tacs or you have to hum Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” before you unlock your front door; maybe you have to put on a sock and a shoe and not a sock and a sock, then a shoe and a shoe – trust me – the fact that I know my issues gives me a decided advantage.

But I’d seen “The King’s Speech,” and was hankering to see it again. Cell phone off. Dog sleeping. Comfy position. Can of Diet Pepsi Cherry by my side. And, after minimum hyperventilation, I hit that little yellow “Accept” triangle.

And, for a little more than 40 minutes, I was back there in the 1930s Britain– the clothes, the music, the acrid smell of war in the air, (to everyone, apparently, except heir apparent and the Royal Nazi Dunce of Windsor). And then suddenly – freeze-frame. Colin Firth, and Helena Bonham Carter in a beautiful satin understated robe that was clearly not chosen by Helena Bonham Carter.

No matter which button I hit on my remote, the frame remained frozen.

Mollie, you’re thinking – big deal. You saw the film. And even if you didn’t, big deal. All you had to do was call us and we’d have taken care of it. Wait. I haven’t stopped laughing yet. Okay. Just one more “Ha!” and I’ll respond. I did. I called you, Time-Warner. And though, finally, after approximately an hour and 38 minutes, two reps who hung up – (I’m sorry – accidentally disconnected my call), and several other inconveniences the problem was solved, I wanted to finish watching the film that night like I wanted to stick push-pins in my eyes. You “hoped you’d solved my problem,” Time-Warner. But I’m not completely satisfied…

*When I call you from my home phone and my name and number come up on your screen and you ask me my name and phone number, isn’t that just a tad kooky? And then, when I tell you my full name and number and you ask, “And who am I speaking to?” Is that a trick question? Are you writing a dossier? Isn’t that kookier than Ramona Singer’s eyes?

*After we finish the above nonsense, you know I’m me and I know I’m me, I have to verify my address, which – surprise – I know! – but this is not enough. Now you need my 16-digit account number, which you think I’ve memorized like a geometry theorem. It’s my paid bill stub, which is stuffed in a “Paid Bills” shoebox that’s about as organized as an orgy. Clearly we are not on the same page – I think I’m calling because my cable is out and YOU think I’m calling to get Pentagon clearance. So then you go for the cherry on the icing on the cake – “What is your PIN number?” Do you think that I think I have a Time-Warner Cable PIN number? Even if I believe you, do you think I know that PIN number?

Oh wait – I just remembered it – 3825 – 968! You do the math…

*Do you think I went to Time-Warner Cable School? Do you see a tool-belt around my waist? Then why do you think I want to start working when I call you? I call you because my cable isn’t working, not because I want to learn a trade. And yet before you will agree to send a service rep out, you have me unplugging my cable box, locating a coin or screwdriver to take the back off of some box, reading serial numbers smaller than rice grains to you, checking all every outlet in my house, counting lights on modems – sheesh! Look — I already worked this week. I know I did because I got my paycheck and was tired on Friday. You do it. “Well, ma’am, if the service man comes out and finds that the problem could have been solved on the phone, there will be a service charge.” Oh really? I think that for almost $150 (plus inexplicable-and-probably-made-up taxes and tariffs), for phone, broadband and cable, you can send one of those ass-crack-showing repair guys over. Leave the cable box; take the staple gun.

* When I become sufficiently outraged and ask for your supervisor, don’t tell me, “I don’t have a supervisor.” Unless your last name is Time-Warner trust me – you have a supervisor. Why not be truthful and say, “I only gave you my first name, made up my extension and badge number, so I could tell you to kiss my ass and you’ll never be able to track me down and report me. Of course I have a supervisor but I’d sooner date Seth Rogan than connect you to her. Click.” I’d still want to pull your eyelids over your knees. But at least I’d respect you.

* Finally, it’s really nice that you offered to let me re-order “The King’s Speech” for free, which only means I’ll have to sit through the first part again, but it’s the thought that counts. And you gave me a free month of HBO, which I cancelled a few years ago because I didn’t think it was worth fifteen bucks a month to watch “Bridge to Tarabethia,” “Superbad,” or “Good Luck, Chuck” even once, let alone every time I put HBO on. For a micro-second, Time-Warner, I felt like I just won something, even if the mere sight of Bill Maher makes me dry-heave.

Who cares — woohoo – I got HBO for free! For a whole month! So, thanks a heap for “Jennifer’s Body,” “Bad Boys II,” and “Rollerball.” I’d almost forgotten why I’d cancelled HBO. Just so that I don’t forget again, I wrote “The Best of Katie Morgan” and “Pornacopia II” on my fridge.

And now…

Please hold. Someone will be with you in just a moment…. Mwahahaaaa.


Tuesday, July 13th, 2010

We all have talents.  Skills. Things we’ve done or can do, have, know,  that perhaps many people don’t, can’t or haven’t even considered.  Many of us, and rightly so, are proud of our accomplishments.  You’ve served in the military?  A sincere thank you from me to you.  You volunteer at a hospital or pet shelter?  That’s something to be proud of.  You got into an Ivy League school and your parents are working poor/middle class?  A definite accomplishment.  You won a Pulitzer Prize, an Olympic gold medal, a Fulbright Scholarship?  Nice.

But how about the things you’ve done that you truly believe are major feats of performance and/or endurance and/or intelligence  that are – trust me – not?  Your friends and your family are too caring and loving to tell you.  As you should know by now, I am not.   For instance…

“I stopped smoking” –       Wow.  That means you’ll live even longer to annoy even more people, especially current smokers,  during a lifetime that could have been cut shorter if only you hadn’t.  No one cares.  Correction.  RJ Reynolds might care.  And they’d like you to reconsider.  How about this?  Every time you let those words come out of your mouth, you have to pay the person you tell what you would spend on a pack of cigs.  What’s that?  You stopped what?   I can’t hear you now.  Just the way I like it. ☺


“I’m a very fast reader.” Oh really?  After your SATs and/or MCATs and/or GREs, it really doesn’t matter.  And, if you don’t retain what you read, it never mattered.   And – no one – really – no one gives a shit.  How long did it take you to read this?


“I work at a non-profit.” –    I would have to know wtf that is before I’d be able to be impressed.  Non-profit?  That sounds like you’re not too good with a dollar.  It’s like saying I teach at a non-school.  Or I write for a non-newspaper.  It’s like non-dairy creamer – they don’t tell you what it is, just what it isn’t.  I, for one,  am non-interested.


“I recycle.” You mean, you separate your plastics from your cans, and you bring your cans and bottles back to the supermarket and you bundle your newspapers with cord and make a separate pile for magazines and…— zzzzzz – oh, I’m sorry.  I just nodded out like a junkie on a subway from just listing the ways to recycle.  When the party invitation says, “BYOB,” it doesn’t mean “Bring Your Own Bore,” in which case your dance-card would be mighty full.


“I ran the NYC marathon.”–      Tell me you ran from a mugger, or ran toward a burning house to save some people and some pets, or you ran for a bus which, if you didn’t catch, you’d have to wait 58 minutes for the next one.  These are logical reasons to run.  Toward something important or away from something threatening.   When you tell me you ran the NYC marathon, my first thought is: why did you stop in Central Park instead of continuing to run until you get to – oh, I don’t know – Wyoming? !?!?  Why so hostile, Mollie?  Well, I’ll tell you.  There is a certain smugness to runners that is hard to find in most other sports enthusiasts.   “I have to eat just to keep weight on.”  How nice. Every person who’s had to eat nothing but ice chips for a week to lose a pound would like to pummel you in the face with a gallon of Gatorade.

And your fast metabolism does not make up for how fugly you look in your stupid running shorts which, by the way, guys –  are a tad effeminate-looking.   When I see any of you stretching  on a park bench before you run, I want to run up from behind you, kick the leg that’s on the ground and watch you tumble like a tea kettle.  No one ever asks yet you love to tell us, “I have a BMI of 18.”  Guess what?  You are still going to die and if you keep offering us that unsolicited bit of information, it might not be from natural causes.  I know you love to be super-thin and bony and you lady runners – you love it when your collar bone sticks out like a coat-hook.   I’ll admit, most of you are in admirable shape;  some of you look like Jack Skellington from the “The Nightmare Before Christmas”.   Love the silver Mylar cape you get when you cross the finish line – bet it makes you feel like a super-hero.  Yes.  You are Super Baked Potato Man.   Do you check the NY Times’ list of runners and times the following Monday?  How does it feel when you see your name, the fact that you came in 4,933 in your Nike Zoom Equalon +4 running shoes  and a barefoot Kenyan man, whose villagers combined don’t make what your sneakers cost, came in first?   See you at the Verrazano Bridge start line next year and don’t just run.  Jump.


“I’m a vegan.” –  A choice, and a pretty silly one at that.  Everyone, for the time being anyway, is free to eat whatever he or she wants.  It’s when you impart the information that you’re asking for trouble.  I hear those words and the first thing I want to do is cram a standing rib roast down your throat.  Others are more tolerant.  Probably not.  Probably just less vocal.  Remember — you are a live vegan for the moment.  Tell me, just once, that ToFurkey tastes like the real thing, and that could change.


“I tan easily.” – Um, do you really think that’s an accomplishment?  Because, you know, if I eat rolls before the main course is served, I get full easily.   If I wear a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops during a blizzard, I get cold easily.  You tan easily?  In 30 years, when your neck looks like crispy chicken skin and the rest of you looks like a Louis Vuitton bag, I’m guessing that won’t be so much a feat as it will be an answer to, “Why do you look like that?”


“I know all of the dialogue from every Star Wars film.” –    Only an accomplishment when you wrote all of the dialogue of every Star Wars film.  Ask George Lucas.   “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi.  You’re my only hope.”  You know, you’re probably right.  So keep this to yourself.  Do or do not…there is no try.


“I can really hold my alcohol.”    Hold it where? What does this mean?  Does this mean you think you can chug back 5 Jagermeisters and then drive while texting and  your girlfriend’s hand or mouth where it should not be in a moving vehicle?  Does it mean you can drink half a keg of beer and still get the ping-pong ball in the beer cup?  The only people this might impress are already drunk.


“I speak five languages.”  I speak one.  Shut up.


“I know how cats think.” Oh really?  And how did you acquire this knowledge?  Did “Mittens” confide in you?  Ask her what’s so fun about batting around a feather on a long flexible plastic rod?  Maybe Whiskers can tell you what’s up with that pigeon head-bob before they pop out those hairballs.  I’d sure like to know  who came up with chasing a tin foil ball around the house for 19 hours for no reason other than to keep the humans awake.  Why do they prefer washing themselves with a sandpaper tongue, rather than luxuriating in tepid water seeped in bath oil beads?  I’ll keep going with these inane questions.  What’s that?  You only think you know how cats think, but, at best, you have an active imagination, a urine-soaked home and no friends?  Ahhh.  Thought so.


“Our family is descended from the Mayflower.” This is no more of an accomplishment than the BTK Killer being your uncle.  It’s like Princes William and Harry, and their entire line of living-off-the-goodwill-of-what-must-be-a-pretty-inebriated-country, being born into vats of money they didn’t earn. By revealing your “pedigree,”  you are telling me that you are white, and probably not a great lover of anyone other than other white anglo-saxons.  You are also telling me that you are a great lover of Miracle Whip, martinis, and madras plaid pants.  The Mayflower?  Probably was a swell calling card a few hundred years ago.  But today?  Why even mention it in 2010, especially when you have to add the disclaimer, “but we’re not prejudiced,” or “but we have nothing against people of color,” or “but we tried to pay those Native Americans for the corn, which they insisted on calling ‘maize.’”