The Mad Mom

Work O fArt 

I'm shamelessly addicted to this show because I happen to prefer reality shows where contestants have to do something other than catch crabs from the other contestants. 

Did you see it last night? Douche (Jaclyn) and Douchier (Miles) worked side-by-side! What an obvious combo: He coerced her to get buck naked and she always wants to get buck naked. It's plain to see the self-imagined-overarching-stringpuller is just giving her all this advice to get her closer to the finals so he can stop telling her what to do in the end and she'll fuck up and lose. 

Do you think by season's end we'll be treated to some footage of Miles and Nicole bumping sweet natural carpets? China Chow's croc tears for poor literal Mark moved me to the CORE - not! The point of that was...??? As if we bore witness to any personal rapport she had with the guy throughout the season? 

Tune in next week when Miles convinces Jax and Nicole to blow him in a complex-yet-simple grainy sepia video installation entitled, "Blow Up Dolls," or something equally inane! 

Check out this scene where Nicole attempts to explain her concept of chaos to Abdi. It should be a PSA..."This Is Your Brain On Art School." Ey-yi-yi.

Cami Secret

It's official: I'm in the wrong business. To make a profit in this day and age, you have to take a household product, add a few clips, and sell the prototype to As Seen On TV for a cool $MIL$.

Take the Cami Secret for example. It's a fucking napkin with clips attached. Can't decide if your date is cute enough for a lil' cleave reveal? Keep your options open with Cami Secret. Get a load of the heaving ta-tas in the opening scene - yowza!

Stupid Feeling Of The Week

To Be...A Hollister Boy

Each time I cruise past where Broadway meets Houston, I trip over a pair of ripped slacker white boys, clad in lifeguard shorts that skim their faint pubes, with zinc smudged across the bridge of their noses like a couple of urban surf warriors. Yep, I'm talking 'bout those HOLLISTER BOYZ. How much you think they get an hour to decorate the sidewalk like that? What do you think they take to endure it? I'm sorry, but even if I looked that good, no ration of muscle relaxers could coerce me to surrender my pecs and ass-cheeks to a relentless 8-hour stint of pinching from total strangers. Even my gays, as appreciative as they are to peek at path-to-penis indents, question the judgment of any college student who would willingly do this. How many blow jobs do you think they get offered a day? I'm taking bets - just comment below!

xx

The Mad Mom

©2010 All Rights Reserved (mostly). Or Kiss. My. Ass.

I wrote this lil' rant for momlogic this week - here's an unedited version. If you've already done me the honor of reading it, feel free to scroll past to the next round of good shit. If not, I'd be honored if you'd give it a look-see, because you just might relate:

WTF MTV?!?! A Crone's Lament.

Soooooo ... I'm deep into a nocturnal channel surf when I notice a curious title flash across the MTV bar on my viewer. It reads:

"Baby High."

Baby High?!

I immediately wondered if this was an exposé about some exotic new strain of toxin teens were floating on, or a show illustrating the delusional postpartum euphoria that actually convinces new moms that the physical process of giving birth isn't half bad. But NAH - the latter would go against MTV's target audience, right? 

Not entirely. Upon further investigation, I discovered that the special show is about girls struggling to raise children while in high school.

This is hardly akin to the MTV programming of yesteryear, back in the ancient days of yore when the weightiest MTVNews topics involved what shade Antony Price suit the members of Duran Duran would select to sport on the Video Music Awards. You know, back when MTV actually played MUSIC? 

Sure, the channel was little more than visual radio, but at that time, music was instrumental (sorry -- had to!) in how we chose to channel (shit, I'm full of puns today) our teen angst. Our generation raised our fists -- cuffed with zillions of black rubber bracelets -- and grew into a population unafraid to think outside of the proverbial "box." You know -- the people who brought you the Internet.

Now MTV only features music at the crack of dawn -- when many teens finally snap off all media to catch a few z's. And if you ask me, there's something inherently out of place in broadcasting an "AMTV 10 on Top Countdown" for music videos you barely play. It's posing -- like wearing the concert T-shirt of a band you haven't seen live. It reeks of poseur-ism.

At the risk of sounding like the old crone I've become, I beseech you: What are shows like "Baby High" (not to mention other MTV gems like "16 and Pregnant" and "Teen Mom") reflecting back to today's teens about the world and their place in it? And how large a percentage of MTV's current viewership will actually be able to relate to these shows? Is teen pregnancy the new "Hungry Like the Wolf"? Or are these shows covert scare-tactic PSAs to encourage teens to keep their junk in their Rock & Republics -- or at least slap on a rubber?

How about a lil' inspiration for the young whippersnappers that watch? Maybe reviving an alterna-rock/hip-hop playlist to forge an emotional connection through something other than depictions of babies these babies can't afford themselves?

HUH?! 

If any of you Bitches know anyone with an actual door to their office at MTV, feel free to snatch and deliver this advice, au gratis. And if they have any questions, give 'em my phone number so I can shake 'em down for a sheckle or two. 

New MA Men!

Yum! Poor Taste!

My peeps over at momlogic unearthed this gem from BuzzFeed. It's a joke, DUH. I wonder if her haunting reflection stares back at you from the mirror?

Ghetto-Parenting

The panty-bunching topic of the week is the term "Ghetto Parenting." It stems from a missive launched by Chicago Sun-Times columnist Mary Mitchell who, in lamenting the fate of two boys - got the parenting world up in arms by making the following statements about "ghetto parenting:" 

Ghetto parenting is cursing around, and at, a child.

Ghetto parenting is brawling with your man or your woman in front of your child.

Ghetto parenting is letting your child roam the streets until somebody else's mother has to tell the child to go home.

Ghetto parenting is putting your child off on friends and relatives because you want to hang out in the street.

Ghetto parenting is getting so hooked on substances that the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services has to remove your children and place them with strangers.

Mind you, one of the boys she was writing about plunged to his death off their project roof at the tender age of 5 and the brother charged with watching him at 8 just shot his aunt's boyfriend to death to keep him from choking her at a barbeque at 23. The rub? Their mom was just awarded nearly $3M for her troubles -- like raising a pack of kids who were born drug addicted and relegated to foster homes. 

Why-oh-why are people so up in arms about her use of the word "ghetto" when she's out to illustrate a grave injustice? I apologize in advance for my ignorance, but did "ghetto" become equivocal to the "N" word when I was off watching re-runs of the Cosby Show? I know, I know, generalizations suck. Obviously, not all folks who live in housing projects are negligent parents. Look, I don't particularly like the words "pussy" and "moist," but sometimes use of this brand of nomenclature is called upon to get the point across better than any other word. And does this make Elvis a racist? Questions...questions...

More Yum!

Now THAT'S an establishment I'd like to frequent! Perhaps in lieu of those no stroller signs, those anti-breeder Park Slope gastro-pubs could post one of these bad boys in the window. 

Thanks galore to Miz Jo-Jo, who posted this tasty lil' tidbit on Facebook!

Cool Down and Win! Win! Win! Perricone MD Cold Plasma!

I don't profess this site to be on par with Ulysses or anything, but I'm kinda finicky about pimping stuff out up in here. I view random product whoring like a post-voddie spec bender -- it's really hard to watch yourself walk the day after. 

But I've actually been slathering Perricone MD's Cold Plasma for a few weeks now and I'm here to tell you, it's good stuff. It goes on smooth, doesn't make you break out at all and isolates charged particles that stimulate skin's natural levels of glycosaminoglycans (shit that makes you look younger) in a highly absorbent base that gets sucked right up into your skin. 

Soooo...whydoya want some? All you've got to do is post why you want or need Cold Plasma AND the name of the band who originally recorded the song in the comment section below. The first one of youse guys who does scores a jar of Cold Plasma of their very own! The sci-minded of you who want to live forever should check out Perricone's new book Forever Young and score a free sample of Cold Plasma on the Perricone MD that blog for the low, low cost of $4.95 for shipping. 

As we say back home, what a bahhhhhgain!

That's it for now!  Peace the fuck out!

xx

The Mad Mom

©2010 All Rights Reserved. Or Kiss. My. Ass.

This woman has no ass whatsoever. Try as she might to buck the norm, she's typical Hollywood - a stick with boobs, clutching a questionable beverage while her man holds her upright.

Um wait...is that actually a tortoise shell hair clip affixed to her shirt?

Idiot Of The Century

I mourned audibly when "Lucky Louie" was unceremoniously yanked off of HBO a few years back -- and not just because I went to high school with the guy or because it was based in my hometown. 

Check out this clip...sounds familiar, doesn't it?

He did a pretty good job of portraying the parenting experience with innate realness. So I'm psyched to see Sir CK's ideas have been embraced by the male-centric FX and as of June 29th, will be parading his slightly twisted take on the world on air once again. And with a Ricky Gervais cameo, no less.

Ciao for now! The Mad Mom is poised to piss and moan more often -- come back soon, so y'all hear?

xox

Keeping up with spirited offspring when you're careening past the big 4-0 is a relentless exercise in endurance. By 10pm, I can barely spit out a monosyllable, let alone rouse my ass from the couch. As I wrote for momlogic, I was on Chelsea Handler's jock WAY before the heyday she's experiencing now, so I deemed the chance to catch her live well worth the pain of chasing shorties whist in the throes of sleep deprivation.