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Last night/this morning (what? Neither of us like doing real work), the ridiculously hilarious negiplease and I wrote the most brilliant play in the history of ever. It started, like all good things do, with Posh and Becks.



For those of you not in the know, Madame Tussauds has an exhibit featuring Posh and Becks as Joseph and Mary in their nativity scene, with a host of other entertaining supporting players. I've been obsessing over this story, as I want Posh and Becks figurines for my nativity set.

We then wondered what really went down that night and the rest, as the kids say, is history.

The Cast

Joseph: David Beckham
Mary: Victoria Posh Spice Beckham
Angel: Kylie Minogue
Wise Man 1: George W. Bush
Wise Man 2: The Duke of Edinburgh
Wise Man 3: Tony Blair
Shepherd 1: Samuel L. Jackson
Shepherd 2: Hugh Grant
Shepherd 3: Graham Norton

( Away in a manger, no crib for his bed, the little lord Jesus lay down his sweet head )

What the hell is going on today, people?

Ol' Dirty Bastard Died. I don't even know what to say, except that I hope his thirteen children all get financially taken care of, and not just the three that he called his favorites.

Star Jones got married.

Dick Cheney's heart is acting up again. Is it 2000 again?

I saw a woman wearing white jeans after Labor Day. And, really, white jeans after 1984 is just not something that we need to be vibing, all right?

CVS was out of Diet Coke. Granted, the walk to the grocery store was approximately one extra minute, but still, in what world is that normal?!

I'm really, really confused.

Last week, in my politics class, I had to do an oral presentation and hand in an outline with my thesis, sources, etc.

My professor handed it back tonight and said, with a chuckle, "Very thorough. You're very similar to my daughter."

Unsure whether or not that was a good or bad thing, I decided to hope for the best and said thank you.

"Yeah," he added, "she's one of those overachieving types. I bet you're bossy."

He chuckled again and went along his merry way, leaving me to wonder if I give off some sort of bossy vibe.

After class, over a cup of coffee, I explained the situation to my friend Nicole. "Bossy! Can you believe it? Bossy. I'm not bossy."

She had suddenly become engrossed in taking the wrapper off of her bottle of Diet Pepsi. "Oh, no," she said, not looking up, "you're not."

It was becoming obvious that my professor was onto something and I decided to seek confirmation from the one person who wouldn't lie to me. No, not my parents, they lie to me all the time. I meant Adam.

"Am I bossy?"

"What?"

"Am I bossy?"

"No, you're not bossy. Not bossy at all. You're..."

Here, he paused for a long time and I was convinced after a while that he had hung up. Finally, he finished, "You're very definite."

Hmph.

I suppose you've all figured out since you've been reading my journal that I'm not one for relaxation. The laid-back, serene kind of life drives me mad. And I do everything very fast, I walk fast, work fast, talk fast, think fast.

All things considered, it's hardly surprising that I'm so comfortable in my little Northeastern bubble.

I've been this way since childhood-highly organized and uptight. My parents used to be mystified by my fondness for putting various items in shopping bags scattered across the house when I was a toddler. They were even more mystified by my penchant for dressing up like Dorothy Gale while doing it, but that is neither here nor there.

I knew what was in every bag, be it napkins, toys, boxes of cereal or small appliances. My parents would ask where the remote was, and I'd toddle upstairs to the Bloomingdales bag I kept it in, and I would bring it down to them.

My parents thought this was simply hilarious and used it as a party trick to show people who came over (my repetoire also included saying the Pledge of Allegiance and counting to twenty in Italian). My aunt Lourdes actively participated in this ritual and gave me all of her shopping bags to put things in.

And my father, in some sort of misguided attempt to instill independence in me, would ask me to organize his desk or sock drawer or his notebooks.

(This bizarre behavior is a big reason why people should not be allowed to have children before they turn 25. Allowing your three year old daughter to do work? I ask you.)

I took on my new responsibilities with gusto and, eventually, started organizing my mother's pens while she did her translation work and folded socks while watching MTV (I had a crazy crush on Bruce Springsteen) and color coordinating bottles of nail polish.

And nobody ever thought this was strange.

Once you become used to your own systematic way of organizing things, it becomes hard to deal with people who fuck things up people who don't organize things the same way. Let me provide you with a few quick examples:

Example One

Mallory sits at a table, coloring a poster in kindergarten. A girl named JoJo sits down and the teacher asks Mallory to share her poster with JoJo. JoJo does not color in the lines

Mallory: Um
JoJo: Oh, look, green! (Scribbles frantically)
Mallory: (Cries}

Example Two

Mallory is organizing change from her piggybank. Her brother James, one at the time, crawls over

Mallory: James-
James: (Moves a pile of pennies)
Mallory: JAMES WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOING?! (Cries}

Example Three

Mallory is doing a group project in fifth grade

Carol: Can I write on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Jill: Can I glue the pictures on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Carol: Can I color-
Mallory: No.

Perhaps bossy is a good descriptor after all.

I discussed this with my father today and he laughed it off saying. The following discussion is verbatim and rather disturbing.

Papa Dukes: Your mother and I didn't know what the hell we were doing with you. You seemed smart enough, we decided to let you try it all out by yourself.
Mallory: And you turned me into an obsessive compulsive freak.
Papa Dukes: That's why we kept having kids, we're determined to get it right at one point. Well, that and we figured there was too much happiness here for just the two of us, so we figured the next logical step was to have us a critter.
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: Boy, that takes me back to when you were fifteen. Somebody would ask you to pass the pepper, and you'd burst into tears.
Mallory: I'm hanging up.
Papa Dukes: "I don't want to hand you the pepper, don't you get it? God! Nobody understaaaaaaands me!"
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: And then you'd slam the door.
(Dial tone)

The man inserts Raising Arizona quotes into everyday conversation. I'm lucky I wound up this normal. After all, it's not about admitting your flaws, it's about finding the appropriate persons to place the blame on. In this case, it all rests on my bizarro parents.

It's been an utterly insane week for the denizens of Hollywood, no? This much concentrated hilarity could ultimately be harmful to the environment, so it only comes along once in a while.

I guess we should begin with Britney's wedding. Or faux wedding, whatever the case may be, it's not like she knows the difference, meth colors your perception of reality. Springing a surprise ceremony on guests and making lil sis Jamie Lynne cry. Pimp sweatsuits. Chicken fingers. Phil Collins cds. Four (!) wardrobe changes after the ceremony. Kevin carrying the bride out of a club, presumably because she couldn’t do it herself. Kevin crying when he saw Britney in her “Wicked” lingerie. Allegations of a faux wedding. Rumors that Kevin correctly used the word “wed” in a People magazine interview. It’s like watching somebody’s acid trip, you simply cannot make this stuff up.

Lynne is either a)drinking herself into a coma or b)Trying her best to get Britney's money her daughter out of a bad situation.

( I bet she's already suggested an anullment. )

In preparation for the release of Shall We Dance?, Jennifer Lopez appeared on Diane Sawyer's show for an interview with Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon. Jennifer Lopez on Diana Sawyer was a thing of utter brilliance. For starters, she had about fourteen pounds of makeup on. Her mascara alone probably weighed more than her husband does. She also insisted on being lit differently from Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon and the camera lens was Vaslined like wo. And she still looked like she could be Susan Sarandon’s older sister, despite Susan being twenty years her senior. She acted like a dizzy ass, basically, calling herself “Bronxy” and claiming not to have used the word flutterbug in an interview, despite the interview being on tape. Whatevah, Jen. The highpoint of the interview, though, had to be Richard Gere asking Jen about Marc Anthony’s kids. When she responded that he did, indeed, have other kids, Richard asked how old they are. Y’all, deer in headlights does not even describe. She had no clue and you could almost see her trying to remember what her assistant told her about these weird kid before she answered.

( J. Lo don't know nothin' about babies )

Gwyneth Paltrow is the new spokesmodel for the Damiani jewelry line that her ex lovah Brad Pitt designs wedding bands for. Brilliant.
( Chris Martin Must Be Thrilled )

50 Cent tries to prolong his fifteen minutes of fame with a semi-autobiographical movie role, much in the manner of his boytoy mentor Eminem.

( Surely I can't be alone in thinking that Mad Marshall is a bit jellus? )

All of this, plus:

Star Jones takes tack to a whole new level, asking for people to sponsor her wedding to her dapper darling. I guess she needs to save all of her money to pay her fiancé to go along with this charade.

And the return of America's Next Top Model! The very first episode of ANTM had no HotNigel (Pout) and, criminally, no Janice (Boo!) but lots of drama. There was the eating disorder fight between Eva The Diva and Amy-who, I’m sorry, was 90 pounds soaking wet, she was being awfully generous with claiming to be 115. There was J. Alexander in pigtails and a pink do-rag laughing at the wannabes. There was almost a dance-off. There was a bar fight, with glasses being thrown and a girl screaming “Bitch poured beer on my weave!”. It? Was awesome.

In conclusion, this week? Was the the most awesome week ever.