Steele Yourself

Uncategorized

Had it with Hoobjoobery?  Ready for the perfect specimen of masculinity?  Then let me remind you of the fine qualities of my erstwhile beloved, Steele.  He has everything- the golden calves of a man who is unafraid to lounge naked beneath the Italian sun because his body is more taut than Beelzebub’s bedspread.  He has a great personal fortune, about which he cares nothing apart than it is needed to keep his stylist on 24 hour alert to tend to his unstudied appearance.  He loves to travel and weep at romcoms.  He loves cheese and wolf puppies.

Oh, Steele and I have had some times.  We rode elephants in Thrissur, we sunned in Ibiza.  Why he even took me to visit the Holy Father.  (By the by, if that crumply gentleman had held his cup any lower, I would have thrown a quarter into it!)

He is an adventurer with teeth of lunar brilliance and excellently cut jackets.  There is no downside, this man has no flaw. In addition to be handsome, courteous, and able to balance a ball on the end of his nose, he has the good manners to not be overly reflective. When his pretty eyes close dreamily on my pillow, thinking of nothing more than the wax on his ivory Rolls, I do not wish I had some anxious poindexter in his place, more capable at pointing out the ills in society than giving me the what-for.

 

I am sure you are all wondering what life must be like in this gilded lane. While Steele will always remain my model of the ideal boyfriend and sailing companion, Lambchop is not one to be tied down to any man, and so I let him loose on the world of woman to add even more to his perfections.

Unfuckable Friday

Uncategorized,

All this talk of ugly people over the past few days has left us with a bad taste. Banana. Blech!

I’m glad we’ve established that ugly people have lives too, and potentially even problems, so let us move on once again to the attractive. We at Vomitola have bagged and tagged our share of the handsome over the years, and we have decided that there are two main attractive male archetypes.

After one particularly lackluster showing back in the 90s, we coined the term “Hoobjoob.”

The sensitivity! The hair! The aimlessness! Ah yes, the Hoobjoob is the bane of the modern woman’s existence. So promising at first, these specimens inevitably disappoint via complete lack of follow through. Maybe you somehow managed to bed one of them, probably by tripping and falling on him. Then the nightmare begins: the rambling texts and gchats and lame Facebook comments, the inability to make actual plans, despite copious amounts of flinchy but ongoing attention. What is this? We start to wonder, is it me? Could I be less than desirable in some way? Why is he not interested in banging, but interested enough to keep pestering me?

A trusty girlfriend can easily provide the answer: “Ah, you’ve got a Hoobjoob on your hands!” And then you can blithely change this person’s name in your phone and never speak of him again. There is no other solution.

If you give us a genius grant, maybe we can actually ascertain the reasons for Hoobjoobery in the modern male. Is it toxic exposure to hair products? A particularly damaging episode of “Full House” viewed in childhood? You thought you were getting John Stamos, but beneath the hair lurks all the social skills of Dave Coulier!

Anyway, we can’t be actually arsed to do this research unless you give us enough money and a dissection kit. If you’ve been Hoobjoobed, move on, guilt free. It’s not you, it’s Hoobjoob.

Coming soon: Part II: The Steele.

The Ugly Truth

Uncategorized, ,

Mary clearly had her intern up all afternoon scouring the internet when said intern should have been highlighting the fringe on Mary’s water dog.  How she does let normal business run amok when she is on a quest!  I took a gander at the ugly people wikipedia, and it appears nothing more than a dating association for Italians.  I could barely restrain a giggle.  Ugly Italians?  I should sooner see Intelligent Oklahomaoans.  Or Moderate Republicans.

Moving on to Ugly People Problems, I was thrown into uncertainty.  There do seem to be a lot of complaints, and yet, they all seem to relate to unpleasant quantities of hair or missplacement of features. Just as a warm, gloaty feeling began to settle upon my person, I chanced upon a very disturbing factoid.  Apparently, it is common for ugly people to take an interest in a handsome celebrity, and then envy the partner of that celebrity!

Suddenly I was plunged into an abyss, recalling my torment when my precious Baby Goose packed his things and took up with that cradle robbing asp.  Can it be that these unfortunates, the hideous, the hirsute among us could actually relate to what I felt??  That they also might have prowled the outskirts of a Paris film set looking for a good place to hide a body? Would they, too, have sent to her home one hundred tiny boxes filled with mouse tails, just to spy her look of fearful dread from a tree branch across the street?  It may be, it may be so.

What if we have other things in common?!  I don’t know if I can handle having my world view so shaken on a Wednesday.  I better have a lie down.  Perhaps Mary’s sadly dull-looking water dog will keep me company.

Life Is a Problem

Uncategorized,

Lambchop passionately advocated for respect for the problems of the beautiful yesterday, and while I leaped in the air and applauded, daintily, I felt like there might be even more pathos lurking beneath the surface. Sure, people underestimate just how hard it is to be ravishing, the drudgery and responsibility of showing up each day with one’s DNA assembled just so, but ugly people cannot be without their issues. Or can they? We are not FOX News, so I set out to see the other side.

My first hurdle was finding an ugly person. As a rule, I don’t know any. I wandered around, ransacking supply closets, looking for one hiding. I realized that creative agencies don’t hire ugly people, so I was woofing up the wrong ugly tree. I decided to go under cover in order to attract the right demographic. I put on a Liz Lemon shirt, librarian glasses, and wandered around with unwashed hair and yesterday’s makeup remnants. People kept asking what I’d done with my ‘do, telling me I looked great. This wasn’t working.

So I did what any modern child does and took it to the internet. I present you, Lambchop, with irrefutable evidence that ugly people DO have problems!

All studies begin and end with Wikipedia, so here you go: The World Association of Ugly People “attempts to make society more aware of ugly people’s problems.” More aware. Interesting. They assume we are already at least a smidge aware! Presumptuous.

But I did you even one better than Wikipedia. I Googled! Some social scientist at Tumblr has collected the definitive research on the problems of the ugly. Entitled ugly people problems, this person’s dissertation attempts to prove that ugly people do, in fact, have lives too, and thus problems. If A = B and B = C then A = a wasteland of an existence.

Quod erat demonstrandum.

Hot Probs

Uncategorized,

I was off on a cruise last week with dear, old Ron Jeremy, for it is dreadfully gloomy in New York right now.  Apart from a spot of bad fish, it was a rollick.  So what have I missed?  Mary informs me that two of the dampest teens in existence have a philosophical point to make:  Hot girls have problems, too.  Casting these nasal-piped puffins aside (done!), I really have to disagree with the message here.  It is not in dispute that beautiful people have problems.  Heavy is the head that wears the crown!

Truly, the attractive among us are the *only* ones who have any substantial problems.  We worry about diseases we might get, the ones that poors have.  We worry that our shag carpet is just the wrong shade of ecru, and it might be bringing us down.  We are frightfully concerned about whether anyone truly loves us, or whether it is all just an illusion brought on by our celestial allure.  To be so exceptional is to be very lonely.  Everyone else is stuck in a tractor beam on their miserable chins and gaping nostrils in the mirror, and never actually get around to any real trouble. Like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, ugly people are at the very bottom, and do not have the sense to be plagued with hunger and loneliness.  How I envy the simplicity of their self loathing, which revolves right around the facial area.  Ugly people are delighted to have cancer because at least they will slim down and not look so sweaty.  It is a condition you and I could not possibly comprehend, mired as we are in hob-knobbing, and misting our undereyes with diamond cream.  The PM of France knows exactly what we like.

So please do not tell us about the problems of the excessively handsome.  We are too well acquainted.  Ugly people do not have any problems.  Apart from being ugly, of course.

The Ron Jeremy Moment

Uncategorized,

A few years ago, I found myself vomiting profusely for reasons unknown but likely related to a child picking up random stuff on the ground and then sticking her fingers in my mouth. It was the kind of endless anguish that left me atoning and bargaining. As I clutched the toilet bowl, heaving, I even tried positive psychology, which shows you how desperate I was.

I realized that while this was bad, it could be worse. Yes, I could be projectile vomiting while being simultaneously fucked in the ass by Ron Jeremy. I don’t know why my mind wandered there, but I actually felt better for a second. Word to the wise: it can *always* be worse.

Then a few months later, I ran across an excerpt from Ron Jeremy’s autobiography. Remind me to save up for the whole enchilada some day, it seems like a thing.

I read in horror, mouth slack, as he spun a yarn about shooting a scene on a boat with a lead actress so seasick that she was leaning over the rail vomiting.

Even Ron found this off-putting, but the show must go on: “If you’ve never had the chance to fuck a woman while she’s vomiting over the side of a ship, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Dreams really do come true. People are professionals. There you have it.

This vomit/fuck scenario became my personal yardstick (har har) for abject terribility. Is it a Ron Jeremy moment? We hope we never find out, but life typically imitates art. Especially today. Once you’ve looked over that rail, where do you go next? Well, according to Ron, back to shore to recover and fake some orgasm reaction shots. I’m still weighing my options.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak

Uncategorized

Now that we’re rejecting everything in the material world that is not aesthetically or sensually pleasing, we’re doing a lot of reevaluation around here at House of Vomitola. We cast a critical eye on all aspects of our lives. Do our turbans protect us from the assaults of the workaday world? Are our sunnies shielding us appropriately from the unkempt and otherwise unappealing?

I was personally sent for a tailspin the other day when it turned out you can have good things, but not too much of a good thing. I awoke with the most frightful headache, and careful reflection led me to diagnose myself first with brain cancer, then glamour fatigue, then exhaustion and dehydration. I was getting ready to call the Mayo Clinic when my house cleaner suggested that it might be…a hangover. WHAT?

I stumbled out to meet the day, unclear as to how Champagne Wednesday could be at fault for my condition. How could Armand de Brignac hurt me? I decided to go to work, as it is perfectly acceptable to be useless there. I still work because I need that “me time.” An underling asked why I was cradling my head on a velvet pillow while reclining on my Persian carpet. What was the occasion for the festive indulgence? Well, it was WEDNESDAY. What else does one do?

Vomitola Buys the Farm

Uncategorized

Against Lambchop’s bitter protestation, I got a farm on eBay in a fit of tipsy impulse. While I was at it, I got an uninhabited island off the coast of Panama, but I’ll deal with that later. I also considered buying that town from The Hunger Games and filming complicated Twilight fanfic reenactments in it.

So. The farm. It’s…well…farmy. Not what I expected at all. No one showed up to greet me with a cheese plate! The animals smell quite strange. I really did not want to know where filet mignon comes from after all.

Apparently there are people out there in America who can’t have nice things. I was absolutely stricken to find this out. Did you know that to farm, you have to do work? There is dirt. Flies. It’s not all tumbles in the hay loft. And hay is ouchy anyway.

As a result of my little lifestyle experiment, I came to the painful realization that if I can’t have nice things, I don’t want to have any things. If I can’t have bespoke custom measured thousand thread count sheets, spun from 24 carat gold, I don’t want to sleep. If I can’t have European white truffles grated onto my tongue, I don’t want to eat. If I can’t glance at the hour on a Patek Philippe Supercomplication, time should stop.

I think I’m a Buddhist now.

Pointy or Pointless: Are There Limits to the Satisfactions of Pampering?

Uncategorized,

Should our delicate limbs trudge through a sorghum field when we might repose at table, our heads covered in white linen as we savor the tiny life of the ortolan?  “What songs were in its wee heart?”, we may wonder as we swallow it whole.

Cottages and mason jars, we may be dirty, but we are not *filthy*.  Those who are bored with the finer things simply lack imagination.  When was the last time you had a sliver of carpaccio served to you upon the eyelid of a dwarf as you lay prone upon your shiatsu pillar?  You have neglected yourself far too long.  Did you know that for a paltry sum, you could be shot into space, to float in a private celestial womb?  Surely, the pressures of being “you” merit a brief spot of weightlessness.  I bet you have not even given yourself the consideration of booking passage on the ship that is even now tracing the route of the Titanic.  It is about time the Arctic had its comeuppance, and it is a lucky party indeed that will wear tiny hats and feast on marrow farci, roasted squab, and Maynard’s glaze.  To say nothing of the fresh shavings of iceberg tinkling in highball glasses.  It really is just *better*.  To say that we are jaded by finery is to admit that we have overlooked the limitless nature of pleasure, we have overlooked our very selves.  To fail to properly esteem oneself is the worst of crimes, and can only be righted by shooting something silken-furred right this instant, and sporting the entire carcass for a smock.  I have always wanted a bunny’s tail to wave from my bosom.  It says “adieu, adieu!”

Pointy or Pointless: Is Luxury as Dead as My Ermine Socks?

Uncategorized,

so soft

I am in such ill spirits today that I actually cursed my chiropractor out of my office.  Then Felipe, my manservant, came by with my artisan volcanic water mister, and I threw a Manolo at him. I missed, so I threw my iPhone with slightly better results. Remind me to cancel my trainer, that was a lot of work.

When Mark Zuckerberg popped up on OneChat (that’s just for us 1%, got to keep the electrons unsullied) and asked if I wanted to catch a ride on his plane to Coachella, all I could do was roll my eyes. I have paddled around in enough infinity pools at sprawling villas for the last month.

I don’t know what it is lately, but I just can’t muster enthusiasm for my normal routine. I could seriously strangle myself with this Hermès desk runner. I am wondering if it’s time to return to my primal roots and buy a rustic little farm somewhere? Just think, I could get my feet in the grass and not even care if I ruined my diamond pedicure. The very thought is exhilarating. I could learn to make pie from scratch. I could can food instead of people and make the cutest jar labels with handmade paper.

I think my first order of business will be to have a search team assemble a selection of fine strapping farm hands, and this will naturally unfold from there. Back to nature, as naked and simple as the day we were born!